Fighting Solitude (On The Ropes #3)(37)

I shook my hand out, inspecting it to make sure I hadn’t injured anything. “Maybe. But I bet Flint receives those signed contracts first thing in the morning.”

Cutting my eyes across the room, I found Liv standing right where I’d left her. Her expression was unreadable, but her stiff posture looked positively pissed. Great. A lecture about keeping my shit together was on the horizon.

“I think it’s best for everyone if I take off. Text me if a shitstorm starts to brew over this.”

Till’s eyes swung to Liv. “Christ. You’re in trouble.”

I chuckled. “Yep.”

“Well, at least she can’t withhold sex.” He cupped me on the shoulder then shoved me in her direction. “Give him hell!” he yelled to her, but her hard stare never left mine.

Shit.

When I reached her, I shoved my hands in my pockets and rocked onto my toes. “You know this is all because you made me wear the suit.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“My body was being suffocated. Eventually, it cut off the blood flow to my brain.” I shrugged, and her nostrils flared. “I can’t be held responsible for any of that. If anything, I deserve an apology from you.” I quirked a teasing smile.

When she didn’t reply, I sighed.

“Can you at least bitch at me in the car?”




Liv fumed while we waited just inside the building for our driver to pull around our car.

Whatever. She’d get over it. I was freaking stoked.

The title match was on.

Assuming Davenport had a sack at all, which was seriously in question, he’d be signing the contracts in the morning. The announcement to the press would quickly follow, and then I’d have had the legal right and obligation to beat the f*cking shit out of him.

Flexing my hand out, I basked in the sweet ache of my knuckles.

“You could have broken it again,” Liv said without looking at me.

“I didn’t.”

“You would have been out for months. No fights. And whatever hopes we had of getting another title shot would be gone. Do you have any idea of how bad that could have been in there?”

My lips tipped up in a smirk. “We? You getting a title shot too?”

“Yes. We. What part of this have you missed over the last fourteen years? I’m in this with you. Every match. Every opponent. I’m there. Just because I’m not in the ring doesn’t mean your choices don’t affect me.”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry, Liv. Your paycheck is safe.”

The words had barely cleared my mouth when a f*cking bee stung me.

I started to swat it away when Liv shrieked, “Shit!” Shaking her hand out, she continued to curse in Spanish as she danced a tight circle around me.

“Did you just punch me?” I questioned in all seriousness.

“I think I broke my hand,” she yelled. “Why were you flexed?”

“Christ, Rocky. I just leveled Davenport. I’m a little amped. Are you okay?” I snagged her hand to inspect it.

“Oh God, is it broken? It really f*cking hurts,” she whined, and her face scrunched adorably.

“Maybe you should learn to control your shit. What the hell were you punching me for?”

Taking my time, massaging up and down her forearm, I continued to check her hand. It was fine, but I didn’t release it. I hated that she was in pain, but I loved the way she peered up at me as if I could take it all away.

“Don’t start with me, Quarry. I’m the one who gets to be mad here.”

“Why? Because that prick decided to show up talking shit the day he found out we’d been scheduled for a rematch?”

Her eyes grew wide. “They scheduled a rematch?” she breathed.

I’d spent the night lusting over her as she’d pranced around the ballroom. Thoughts of taking her on every horizontal surface had filled my mind for the majority of the evening. But right then, as she stared up at me with a mixture of surprise and elation, all because I was going to get something I truly wanted in life, a warmth I hadn’t felt in years washed over me.

“No, Rocky. We’re getting a rematch.”

Her eyes flashed between mine as she silently held my gaze. Pride and affirmation filled my chest from her unspoken praise.

God. This woman.

She was so f*cking beautiful.

Guiding her injured hand to my chest, I fought the urge to kiss her.

She was close. It wouldn’t have taken much.

I could have gripped her neck and tilted her head back. Leaning down, I could have brushed my lips against hers. She would have gasped, unsure of what to make of it. But, even in her confusion, her nipples would have swelled. Her breathing would have sped in what she would claim was nerves, but we’d both know that it was pure and erotic desire. Her feet would shuffle forward until those round breasts were compressed against my abs. Her hands would immediately snake around my waist for balance just before her eyes fluttered shut in invitation.

I wouldn’t kiss her yet. No. I’d simply watch her face soften and her lips part in anticipation. Sliding my free hand up her side, I’d whisper my breath across her mouth, denying us both the contact we so desperately needed. Goose bumps would pebble her otherwise smooth skin as I made my way up to cup her jaw. Then I’d graze my thumb over her plump bottom lip until her tongue peeked out to dampen it. With a deep breath, I’d fill my lungs with the intoxicating mixture of champagne and Liv James—holding it impossibly long for no other reason than it had once been hers. I’d continue to ghost my lips over hers, torturing us both, until her eyes finally opened, dark with need. She would whisper my name as a question, and then and only then, when I was positive she was drenched, primed, and ablaze, would I crush my mouth over hers for the first time.