A fallen boxer.
A woman with a broken dream.
A competion...
Adonis Creed kicks ass. He's famous for it. As one of the brightest up-and-coming stars on the MMA scene, he's an absolute beast in the cage...and out. Everything he's trained for has broug...
𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐲𝐧𝐧 𝐀𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐨𝐞 ( At The InterContinental Los Angeles Downtown )
At first, I couldn't even register who Mr. Adonis was. Then understanding dawns, and a red-hot bolt of lightning streaks through me. He wants you in his hotel room. Do you want him? Do you want to do this? A part of me is already doing him ten ways until Sunday in my mind while another part won't move from this stupid chair.
"Your friends can come with us," the blond man adds in an easy voice, and he signals to the stunned trio.
I'm relieved. I think. Sheesh, I don't even know what I feel.
"Avery, come on, it's Adonis Tate!" Cassidy hauls me up by force and urges me to follow the men, and my mind starts racing at full speed because I don't know what I'm going to do when I see him. My heart is pumping adrenaline like crazy as we're led out of the championship, to the hotel across the street, then up the elevator to the "P."
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A spike of nervousness ripples through me as the elevator pings at the top floor, and I feel exactly how I used to when I competed. It's been a rollercoaster ride just imagining this man's body inside the mine, and I'm suddenly close to the peak where it could be a reality. My stomach clenches from the thought of how exhilarating the downhill could be. A one-night stand, here I come...
"Please tell me you're not going to do this guy," Kyle tells me, his face scrunched in worry as the doors roll open. "This is not you, Gracie. You're far more responsible than this."
Am I?
Am I?
Because tonight I feel crazy. Crazy with lust and adrenaline and two sexy dimples.
"I'm just going to talk to him," I tell my friend, but even I'm not sure of what I'm doing.
We follow the two men into the first part of the enormous suite. "Your friends can wait here," Riley says, motioning to the gigantic black granite bar. "Please help yourselves to a drink."
As my friends flock to the shiny new bottles of alcohol, an unmistakable squeal escapes Cassidy, and Pete motions me to follow him. We cross the suite and go into the master bedroom, and I spot him sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed. His hair is wet, and he holds a gel pack to his jaw. The visual of such a primal male nursing a wound after he repeatedly broke man after man with his fists is somehow fabulously sexy to me.
Two Asian women kneel on the bed behind him, each of them rubbing a shoulder. A white towel is draped around his hips, and rivulets of water still cling to his skin. Three empty bottles of Gatorade have been tossed on the floor, and he has another in his hand. He slaps the gel pack on the table and downs the last of the Gatorade. Blue as his eyes, the liquid drains in one swig, and then he tosses it aside.
I'm mesmerized as his ripped muscles clench and relax under the woman's fingers. I know massage is normal after intense exercise, but I don't know, and can't understand, how watching him get one affects me.
I know the human form. I revere it. It was my church for six years when I decided a new career for me was in order when I realized I wouldn't be sprinting again. And now, my fingers itch at my sides with wanting to probe his body, push, and release, get deep into every muscle.
"Did you enjoy the fight?" He watches me with a little cocky smile, his eyes glimmering, like he knows I loved it.
