Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Our cocks bumped against each other, aching and needy. Lotto wrapped a hand around my length and squeezed. I moaned into his mouth and returned the favor. His eyes locked on mine as we stroked each other then he wrapped his leg around mine and tugged me even closer. His hot breath caressed my face as he worked me.
I would never get tired of feeling and seeing Lotto. Especially when he grunted and moaned my name, jerking and twisting his hand exactly how I liked. He swiped his thumb along the tip of my cock and teased my slit, and I bucked into his hand and kissed him again. Needier, hungrier—like I couldn’t get enough.
We stroked each other until we were both trembling and gasping. Lotto’s eyes were dark pools that pulled me in. His name slipped from my lips as I came. His face blurred with the pleasure that racked my body. His hot cum splashed against my bare chest when he followed. The room was hot and sticky with our shared love.
Even as he cleaned us up, Lotto was all softness and care. When he was done, he pulled me into an embrace.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Which part?”
“Whatever you want to tell me.”
I grunted but didn’t elaborate. There was plenty on my mind. Our loss, our piece-of-shit “benefactor,” my hand, my worries for the upcoming fights. It felt like vocalizing them would make it real. Like some kind of bad omen, which was the last thing we needed right now.
Lotto played with the ends of my hair. Silence enveloped us for a few minutes before I finally answered.
“Not yet. When I’m ready.”
“I’ll be here.”
I knew that I could trust that.
Because Lotto was with me through the good and the bad.
And right now, things seemed pretty fucking bad.
Chapter
Twelve
FRANKIE
Inever wanted to step foot in California again.
Bad luck after bad luck followed us the entire trip. First the loss, then another. The rental van broke down and cost an arm and a leg to fix. Sure, Lucien paid for it because he was contractually obligated, but he wasn’t contractually obligated to shut the fuck up, so that meant I had to hear all about how Smiley’s “couldn’t beat a team of middle school girls with a fucking handicap.”
“I’m not seeing a return on my investments,” Lucien hissed last night over the phone.
“Take those investments and shove them up your ass,” I shot back. “It wouldn’t be the only thing stuck up there.”
That earned me a slap on the shoulder from Ari, but it was worth it.
I opened Smiley’s an hour early so I could get some time on the bags since I couldn’t use the cage matches to channel my anger anymore. The others wouldn’t even spar me anymore because of worries about my head. But they didn’t need to worry about that. They needed to worry about my head exploding because of Lucien’s shit demands.
It had barely been ten minutes when the bell above the front door chimed. I held the punching bag still with a taped-up hand. Who the fuck was here already?
“We’re closed. Can’t you read a sign?”
“Even for me?”
I turned toward the door. River came over with a hand up in greeting, a grin on his face. His black hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and he wore jeans and a plain T-shirt that hugged the muscles of his chest. River was sexy as fuck and had the swagger to prove it. And why wouldn’t he? Out of our twelve matches so far, he’d only lost two. He was at the top of the leaderboard, and the man with a target on his back.
“Practice isn’t for another hour. Come back later.”
“Sick of seeing my face or something?” he cracked.
“Yeah, actually. I’m sick of all of you motherfuckers right now.”
“I can see that, but give the poor bag a break, would you?” River set his hand next to mine on the bag. His grin slipped into something more serious. “We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Bones.”
That surprised me. I’d expected him to ask about his contract or when we could kick Lucien’s ass to the curb.
“What about him?”
“You didn’t notice him holding his right hand during his matches?”
I narrowed my eyes. Of course I had. I’d noticed the second he’d stepped out of the ring during our first loss. He must have tweaked something—a muscle or a nerve or whatever—but he hadn’t come to me, and he hadn’t broken anything. With how much shit he gave me about my injury, I trusted him enough to know his own limits.
“What about it?” I demanded.
River slapped the bag with his palm. “Bench him.”
“Are you insane?”
“He needs to be benched before he fucks himself up. I already fucked up his shoulder at Heathens Hollow, and it’s the same arm. He’s on borrowed time.”