Read IRISH: a Bad Boy Fighter Romance Online
Authors: Olivia Hawthorne,Olivia Long
IRISH: a Bad Boy Fighter Romance
Table of Contents
IRISH
The Novel
Olivia Long
Copyright © IRISH, The Novel 2016
by Olivia Long
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ORIGINALLY
published as a ten part serial called Bad Boy Irish by Olivia Hawthorne. This is the full serial plus over 7000 words of bonus material, so enjoy their dirty, beautiful story from front to back.
CONTAINS
filthy talking, some situational violence and dirty descriptions of sex that will most likely make you warm from your head to your toes and need to be alone with you and your favorite toy.
Never miss a thing!
Sign up for my mailing list to stay informed of new releases.
Please add the email address
[email protected]
to your safe list so I don’t end up in the spam folder.
Chapter One
Lennon
I could barely stand him from the moment I laid eyes on him.
I should rephrase that.
I could barely stand how my body responded to him from the first moment I first
saw him.
Knox O’Connor, Irish fighter, badass, heart breaker and total prick.
How I ended up marrying him was almost laughable.
How I ended up falling in love with him was nothing to laugh at.
He had my body, he had my heart, but could I ever trust a man like him to not break me?
***
I’d been working all week, even on my days off because the new girl my boss hired crapped out at the last minute and he’d begged me to come in.
So Saturday night, I should have been at home in fuzzy socks curled up with a book and a cup of tea, but I was at O’Malley’s Sports Bar slinging drinks and dealing the shit that came along with a job like that. It was the tenth day in a row and even the horny drunks being overly generous with their tips weren’t making up for it.
If my boss hadn’t needed me so desperately I would have told him to shove it. But George O’Malley was a good man and almost like a father to me ever since I’d handed him my resume four years ago. My hands had been shaking and my voice had trembled as I’d done my best to sell my skills…or lack thereof.
Me being a small town girl in the big city had meant I’d been terrified of everything, including my own shadow. George had taken me under his wing and taught me everything there was to know about tending bar in an Irish sports pub.
He had a daughter my age, but she was in medical school whereas I was drifting and directionless and the perfect bartender for his legendary establishment.
I’d met them all, NFL players, NHL goalies, NBA ballers, when they were in town they had to pop into O’Malley’s. It was a good luck tradition, one that mainly benefited the old man but hey, whatever worked.
For the most part, I loved my job, every night but that night…that night I was ready to flip the fuck out by the time I ran into Knox.
“Sweetheart, hey! Over here,” a man with a deep melodious Irish lilt called to me across the bar.
I cringed and hunched my back, ignoring the ignoramus and continuing to wipe down the beer glasses I was working on.
“Come on, kitty, kitty,” the same man said in his rich, throaty voice. I had to admit, it kinda set the hair on my arms on alert as my skin prickled with goose bumps. It was a voice thick with sex and and belonged to a man used to getting what he wanted.
I finally whirled around, eyes flaming and my cheeks burning and spat out, “What the hell do you want?”
“There ye go, sweetheart, that’s better,” he said, making my body burn with more than anger. His green eyes sparkled with cocky confidence; his reddish blonde hair pulled back into a loose knot, and his gorgeous face was lightly stubbled along the strong jawline.
But his body, my god his was solid muscle. I was used to being around men in peak physical form, but he was almost otherworldly. A ripped, toned, tattooed, fighting god of the arena.
“So what can I…” my voice trailed off as he stared at me, his intense eyes holding me in place like a bug on a pin.
“Cat got yer tongue, sweetie?” he laughed. “If you wouldn’t mind, be a dear and bring me and the lads a few pints of whatever ol George has on tap these days. Don’t want them drinking the good stuff on me dime, right?”
He winked at me on the last sentence and I felt my throat clench tight. I nodded like an imbecile and watched him walk away.
I had to admire the way his tight ass was packed into his even tighter jeans and the way his long, muscled legs carried him across the bar with an air of cockiness hanging over him made it difficult to break away. The crowd subconsciously parted to let him pass through and more than a few eyes trailed hungrily after him as he walked though, including my own.
“Fuck me,” I exhaled under my breath and finished wiping down the last couple glasses.
“Hey
sweetheart
, is that what I gotta call ya to get a drink?” a gruff older man with a thick mustache and a bald head yelled in my direction.
“Hold your horses, I’m busy,” I replied, glad to have a bit of myself back. It was weird how that Irish muscled idiot had made me feel so stuttering and uncertain.
Surely it had just been that moment and not him at all. I’d been exhausted and imagining things. That’s what it must have been.
“You gonna go help him?” George asked me gruffly as he strode behind the bar.
“Since when do I wait tables?” I replied archly. “I’m a bartender, remember?”
“Just do what I tell ya,” George growled and I jumped back out of his way.
Somebody pissed in his Cornflakes today, he wasn’t usually so grumpy. Especially not to me.
I glanced over to where the Irishman was sitting and forced the little bubble of excitement back down into my chest.
I was tired, he was cute but I didn’t get excited over men. Not like that, and not men like him. It was fatigue that had made me react like I did. I convinced myself of this fact as I drew a few pints off the tap.
I walked though the bar balancing my tray full of drinks without allowing myself to think about the man with the
voice
and the
muscles
.
Of course I recognized him, but I couldn’t recall his name.
And I had to focus on the guy sitting to his left or I might fall under his spell again. For surely it wasn’t fatigue, but something strange that made me feel this giddy just being that close to him.
“There ye are, sweetheart,” he said in that deep, sing-song accented voice. Immediately my knees felt weaker and I felt a heavy thud in my chest where my heart did a cartoon-like flip-flop.
“Your pints, as you asked,” I said and set them on the table one by one, avoiding his gaze.
“George never told me he had table service,” grumbled one of the guys sitting with the Irishman.
“We don’t,” I said saucily with my brow arched just to get the point across.
“Shit, I gotta be Knox fucking O’Connor to get anything around here?” the same guy continues to bitch.
“Seems like it, lads,” the Irishman who I now know is named Knox smirked with a smug grin on his face.
“George
told
me to do it,” I glared at him, letting him know I wasn’t doing this for him. But who was I trying to convince? Myself?
Knox lifted a couple pints off the tray for me and I set down the rest.
As I turned to leave he snaked his hand out lighting fast and grabbed my arm. I whirled back and stared down at him, his skin on mine like fire. It burned and promised so much more if I just willed that hand to move over my body.
“Here’s a little something for your trouble, kitten,” Knox said with that beautiful voice of his. He slipped something into my apron and winked. “There’s a lot more than that comin’ to ya if you keep smiling and bringing the drinks too.”
With that he slapped my ass and turned his back to me, said something that the table apparently found uproariously funny because they all howled with laughter as I scurried back behind the bar with my face flaming.
I pulled the money out of my apron pocket when I was back in my safety zone and gasped when I realized it was a five hundred dollar bill.
I let my eyes dart across the room to Knox’s table and let myself drink in the sight of him for just a moment before I dove back into my work serving piss warm beer to drunk sports addicts.
My arm still burned where Knox had grabbed it though, and I wondered who the hell he was. And how did he have that effect on me?
Chapter Two
Knox
My head was pounding when I woke and rolled across the bed to get up and take a piss.
I heard a low groan and hit a hard lump under the blankets.
Shit, I thought I’d sent her home after…fek, I didn’t even know what we’d gotten up to last night.
“Sweetheart, wake up,” I said and pushed the lump under the blankets. “Hey, you, get up.”
She wiggled up out of the sea of covers and blinked at me like a hung over owl.
“What time is it?” she croaked and rubbed her mascara streaked eyes.
“I don’t know, but ye hafta leave,” I said and pulled the blankets off her.
She grumbled and hugged herself as if to shield her body from my sight. She needn’t have bothered, I only had one thing to do with me cock right then, and that was piss.
She’d hopefully be gone by the time I got back.
It hit me when I was shaking off who she was. The girl from the front desk at the hotel I was in.
God dammit
, I thought as I looked at my bleary eyed face in the mirror, what did Jacob, my trainer, always say about shitting where I ate. He said don’t do it. And I’d just fucking done it. Now I’d have to buy a house, anything to not come back to the apartment here at the hotel.
She was gone when I sauntered out in my naked glory. Thank god, now I could cozy back under the covers, have a quick wank and get a few more hours of shuteye before getting up to train.
Jake also always told me not to. He was gonna fucking kill me if he caught wind of this.
I slid back into bed, closed my eyes and gripped my shaft, tugged it a couple times distractedly and then got down to business.
I couldn’t remember a damn thing about last night, and by the feel of things, I hadn’t managed to come. God damned whiskey dick, made me feel like I could fuck like a rock star but in reality it meant having to finish myself off when I pissed out the booze.
I started to stroke in earnest, tried to pull an image of last night’s broad, her tits, her mouth, anything, but I drew a blank.
