One Round With You

One Round With You

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WpMetadataReadMaduroConcluída sáb, jun 20, 20267h 39m
"Stop apologising." So I did. Then I apologised for stopping. I'm the girl who eats lunch alone and tells herself she chose it. A girl who's never been kissed, who hides behind books and oversized jumpers and a smile that says please don't look at me. Malakai Vashko looks at me anyway. Six foot seven, Russian, with knuckles that never heal and eyes the colour of something cold and far away. He fights men twice his size for money and walks out of rooms without explaining himself to anyone, and his enemies have learned not to come for him. They come for the people standing next to him instead. He told me he didn't need a friend, and to stop looking at him like he might be one. I should have listened. But I'd already caught him trying to buy flowers for someone who couldn't receive them anymore, and something in me understood him before my brain caught up. He hides with silence and fists. I hide with silence and books. I didn't fix him and he didn't save me, but the night I grabbed an underground boxer by the hoodie outside a corner shop and told him to stop, something started that neither of us knew how to end. "I don't do this," he told me. "I don't let people in." He still doesn't smile. But he stayed. ------------------ ⚠️ Mature themes: violence, dark content. No explicit sexual content.
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Close your eyes. Breathe in. Feel the air turn thick, heavy with cigar smoke and expensive cologne. You can almost taste the whiskey on his tongue, can't you? General Marcus "Reign" Blackwell is power wrapped in ink and royal blood. He commands armies, breaks enemies, and fucks whoever he wants-until he sees *her*. Dr. Aaliyah Monroe. Quiet. Brilliant. Curvy African-American goddess who codes weapons in the dark. Shy smiles. Soft voice. Vanilla skin that glows under fluorescent lights. One breath of her scent and the untouchable general unravels. He dreams of her every night. Strokes himself raw imagining her thighs wrapped around him. Watches her sway to R&B in her apartment through shadows he shouldn't cross. Calls her *dove*, *tiny momma*, *my wife*-long before she ever says yes. She thinks it's temporary. He knows it's forever. He kneels for her. Begs for her. Cries for her. Marks himself with her initials while she sleeps. And when she finally rides him-slow, commanding, glasses slipping down her nose-he sobs her name like prayer. This isn't love. This is obsession carved into worship. This is a man who would burn the world just to hear her giggle and boop his nose. But when the first fight comes... When she needs space and he needs her closer than air... Will his dove fly away?

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