Coming November 28th
Exclusive iBooks pre order:
At a boxing gym in Chicago, Mary Monahan accidentally knocks out the most handsome man sheâs ever met. After she wakes him up with a few slaps and some smelling salts, the very first thing he does is ask her out for ribs and beer. His name is Jimmy. He looks like a Gillette model. And heâs just too hunky to resist.
Jimmy âThe Falconâ Falconi is mystified that Mary has absolutely no idea who he is. Mystified and refreshed. He is, after all, not your everyday NFL quarterback. He shops at Costco, has a soft spot for Pinterest, and is in the midst of an epic losing streak.
Jimmy falls for Mary fast and hard, the way he does everythingâballs out and like itâs fourth and long. And he realizes heâs finally met his match. That stamina heâs so proud of? Doesnât stand a chance against her Kegels.
But what they donât know is sheâs also his new physical therapist, recently hired by the Bears to work on his rotator cuffâŠand groin injury. If she canât help him, heâll be traded faster than they can say âoffensive penetration.â
In spite of the thousands of internet memes featuring Jimmyâs face with captions like: âHEY GIRL, WANT TO TOUCH MY BALLS?â Mary finds herself falling for him and his unrelenting desire to make her his.
Until a toddler shows up at Jimmyâs door.
And throws their lives into total chaos.
***
To the reader: Contents includes love, sweetness, naughtiness, honey, champagne, and an HEA. Safe.
Jimmy âThe Falconâ Falconi is mystified that Mary has absolutely no idea who he is. Mystified and refreshed. He is, after all, not your everyday NFL quarterback. He shops at Costco, has a soft spot for Pinterest, and is in the midst of an epic losing streak.
Jimmy falls for Mary fast and hard, the way he does everythingâballs out and like itâs fourth and long. And he realizes heâs finally met his match. That stamina heâs so proud of? Doesnât stand a chance against her Kegels.
But what they donât know is sheâs also his new physical therapist, recently hired by the Bears to work on his rotator cuffâŠand groin injury. If she canât help him, heâll be traded faster than they can say âoffensive penetration.â
In spite of the thousands of internet memes featuring Jimmyâs face with captions like: âHEY GIRL, WANT TO TOUCH MY BALLS?â Mary finds herself falling for him and his unrelenting desire to make her his.
Until a toddler shows up at Jimmyâs door.
And throws their lives into total chaos.
***
To the reader: Contents includes love, sweetness, naughtiness, honey, champagne, and an HEA. Safe.
Chapter 1
Jimmy
Sheâs got a hell of a left hook, and her jab is no joke either. Itâs hard to tell what she really looks like, with the big blue rubber mouth guard between her teeth and the black padded headgear covering her jaw and cheeks. But I know this: I want to get my hands on that body. Her tight pink tee is low cut and skin tight, and across her breasts are the words: âNOBODYâS PUSSYCAT.â
A cold draft blows in from the window, making goosebumps ripple up her arms. A thin stream of sweat runs down into her cleavage, and then I watch her nipples tighten. Christ. With little bounces, she heads back to her corner and bends over for her water bottle. Stretchy black leggings and no panty line.
Fuuuuuck.
The buzzer dings and we square up. She holds her gloves up to her face, ready to go. Theyâre bubblegum pink with white cuffs; the girliest weapons Iâve ever seen.
But never mind the gloves. Itâs those eyes that have me. Shit, those eyes. This crazy deep green. Packersâ green. Jetsâ green. Green like cash. Green that could make a guy go right out of his mind.
Pow goes a jab into my stomach and I double over, tasting my Gatorade from an hour ago. Before I can breathe, before I can even get up my gloves to slow her down, she pelts me hard with a cross to my sternum that knocks the wind straight out of me. I gasp for air and stagger back into the ropes.
âJesus Christ,â I moan. âWho are you?â
Her eyes light up in this smile. This beautiful fucking smile that I feel way down inside. Then she bounces on her toes and smacks her gloves together out in front of her. Whap, whap. âIâm Mary!â she says around her mouth guard. âAnd youâre slow!â
Cute. But, yeahâŠno. Nobody talks to me like that. Nobody. I hurl myself off the ropes, colliding with her in the center of the ring, skin against skin now. I press into her sexy shoulder with my bicep, feeling the sweat between us. She nails me in the gut again; a solid, low-slung straight, and I think, I canâ t hit a girl, can I?
No. Fuck, no.
So I stretch my arm between us, the padding of my glove holding her steady right below her collarbone. She swings for me but Iâm a foot taller and she doesnât stand a chance. âJerk!â
Obviously.
But on the upside, now I can really get a good look at her the way I want to; close up, but not so close that sheâs pummeling me. Her legs are solid and I can even see that little curve of her hipbones barely showing through her leggings. I let my eyes follow the line of sweat to her inner thighs, to that wet, hot place where everything comes together. Fuck. I want my hands on that place. I want to feel the softness and the strength. I want to know the taste of that sweat. The way that softness gives under my tongue.
Ding goes the buzzer. I push her away, padded knuckles to her shoulder. She spins and gets into her corner, so I do the same.
I grab my water bottle and squirt it into my mouth, watching her all the time. Sheâs fucking beautiful, this one. Fucking gorgeous. The woman of dreams. Of fantasies.
From a pink Nalgene, she takes one big gulp, two, and a little water dribbles down her lips, rolling in drops down her throat. Her eyes stay right on mine. Her chest heaves. Her eyes flash. Her lips tighten. And thatâs when it happens. She peels off her T-shirt and tosses it to the floor so that the only word showing is PUSSY.
Ding.
Her body is fucking perfect. I mean perfect. I moan into my mouth guard and I look her up and down. Lean but not thin. Sexy and strong. A fighterâs body. A womanâs body. A body strong enough to take everything I want to give it. And then some.
She turns to set down her water bottle, bending at the waist. And thatâs when I see it. The tattoo. Itâs a ribbon of black lace that runs in a beautiful, feminine line down her back from right shoulder to left hip, curving down into her pants. Tough as hell, pretty as can be. And with the sexiest tattoo I've ever seen in my life.
Stick a motherfucking fork in me. Iâm done.
âNice ink,â I tell her as we square up again.
âThanks,â she says, leaning in to my shoulder.
âIâve never seen one like it.â I hook my arm around her again and pull her in. I smell something familiar. I canât place it. She slips free and moves behind me. For one second, all I can hear is her shoes on the mats.
âI rebelled when I turned 30. It was either this or a tramp stamp.â
âOf what?â I pivot so my face is close against hers.
âFloat like a butterfly, sting like a bee.â She smiles tight around the mouth guard. Her glove comes through the air, cutting through the noise of the gym. Whooosh.
I get my right hand up just in time to block her with my glove. The impact rolls down my forearm like Iâm nothing but Jell-O.
She lets another jab fly but misses meâbarelyâand I slip around behind her. The hair at the nape of her neck is curly and wet, and a long dark braid runs down her back. That strip of wet fabric at the top of her pants, dark with sweat. âWhy are we fighting?â I growl as I get closer. âWhy arenât we out drinking? Making trouble? Fucking around? Let me take you out.â
She spins to face me, her eyes wide open, surprised. âYou wanna drink with me?â
âHell yes, I do. And a lot of other things.â
âYou want me? Fight me.â She fires her bubblegum pink cannons at my stomach with a one-two combination that makes me feel like Iâm nothing but a 283-pound heavy bag.
I try to get in a left cross, but sheâs way faster than I am and comes up from under with a hook straight out of Manila.
That one got me in my brainpan, in my marrow. âFuck that,â I snarl.
âAtta boy!â
No way. Nobody atta boys me. Iâm Jimmy Goddamned Falconi. Iâm nobodyâs boy. Never.
âAtta girl.â I nudge her in the shoulder with my chest.
Around her guard, she says, âYou fight like youâre in molasses. But youâre strong. You some kind of athlete?â
At first, Iâm about to laugh. For about one second, I think I might be on Candid Camera or something. I mean, I canât walk to the bathroom on an airplane without someone asking me to sign a cocktail napkin. I canât get through Costco without someone asking me to sign their shopping list. Some kind of athlete?
Iâm Jimmy âThe Falconâ Falconi. Quarterback for the Chicago Goddamned Bears. Iâm somebody.
But thereâs zero recognition in her eyes. No flicker of the fangirl. No sign sheâs playing it cool either. To her, Iâm just a guy getting his ass kicked by a girl in pink gloves.
âHello?â She presses into my chin with a slow uppercut from the right.
I snap out of it. I donât even know how to answer her. I play quarterback for the Bears. Ever heard of them? Or maybe, Ever heard of football? Americaâs Game? Fuck. I wouldnât even know how to start. Iâve never had to explain it. People just know. âYeah, I like to work out.â
âThen act like it,â she says, all piss and vinegar, and puts her guard back in her mouth. Wham comes that jab into my gut. Pow goes the straight to my pecs. I loop one arm around her and pull her body in close, hooking the back of her neck with the crook of my elbow. I pull her closer, tighter, both arms around her, to get a feel for herâŠbut also to give myself a goddamned break.
She struggles a little, trying to squirm free, but I see the smile on her face, the crinkle of the skin at her eyes.
I pull her head closer to mine. I must be twice her weight; no way is she going to get free now. We are the welterweight and the super heavyweight. Wrong class totally. But then she wedges her forehead in against my chest. I watch her wind up, her biceps flexing, and, boom-boom-boom.
Every time she connects, I lose a little more air and groan, âFuck-fuck-fuck!â
âAtta boy!â
Fuck. That.
So I keep her pinned and she starts fighting harder, which makes me want to hang on to her more. I press my nose against her head. In her thick brown hair, I can smell her shampoo, her conditioner. Coconut.
While Iâm distracted by that smell, thinking of sunscreen and ukulele music and drinks with umbrellas and her on a beach, she slips out from under my arms and pops up in my face.
Well, shit.
âWhat, you chicken? Gonna hit me back? Or do you want to dance around for an hour or two? Because I can totally do that. I just have to go home to feed the dog.â Whap-whap go her padded fists.
Oh no, no way. No way am I going to let a pretty little thing talk to me like that. I sniff hard and man up.
I give her a jab. A hook. A cross.
And she blocks me every damned time. Blocks me like sheâs fought me before, or like sheâs known all along what Iâll do when it comes down to it.
Fucking wax-on-wax off, one-two-three.
Pow-pow go her gloves into my side, and fuck. I think I feel those it in my spleen. Enough. Enough. Anger boils up through me like cheap vodka after a long night.
Iâm Jimmy Falconi. And Iâm gonna make this girl know my name.
I crack my neck side to side and get serious. I suck air through the holes in my mouth guard and get my fists up. I edge her into the corner and those eyes flash at me. Sheâs sweating hard and her mascara is smudged. Her hair is mussed and her skin is slick. It makes her look dangerous. Angry. Iâd like to smudge that mascara a little more. In bed. Immediately.
But first, Iâm going to show her whoâs boss.
The more she works herself up, the hotter she gets. Thatâs when something catches my eye. Thereâs something written on the white cuffs of her gloves. All fuzzy, written in black marker:
On the right glove: HERE COMESâŠ
On the left:âŠTROUBLE!
Whomp.
She nails me in the jaw with a haymaker, and my molars shake. âCome the fuck on,â I growl back at her, with my glove pressed to the side of my face.
She smacks her gloves together, and lowers her chin. âAre we sparring or chatting? Hit me!â Bounce, bounce, bounce. Butterfly, bee. Whap, whap, whap. âIâm not going to break!â
I work my jaw open and closed a few times thinking, Okay. Fine. Fine. I didnât think it was going to go like this, but I can roll with a hostile defense, sure. Wouldnât be the first time. I give her the old elevator stareâup, down, up againâand get stuck on her belly button for a little too long. But then I get a game plan together. I figure I can hit her in the stomach. Not too hard, not hard enough to hurt her, but hard enough to let her know whoâs in charge here.
Which would be me. Me, pussycat. Me.
Nudging the edge of her shoulder with my glove, I drive her backwards. Our eyes lock and I get thisâŠthisâŠprickle all through me.
This woman.
This one. Right here.
I want her. So fucking bad.
The fucking gym with its ten phones playing mariachi goes silent. The guys by the cooler egging her on go silent. Itâs just her and me and the sweat dripping between us. Soft skin, sparkling eyes. She smells like a summer day and sheâs looking at me in a way that no woman has ever looked at me. Ever.
Like sheâs gonna own me and she knows it.
Which is bullshit.
She gives me a little lift of her chin and tightens her lips around the guard. She wipes her nose with her glove and then lowers her head. âCome on! You going to fight or are you just going to screw around?â
With my left hand, I jab her softly in the stomach. With the right, a play-hook to the jaw. I raise her chin on my glove so her eyes come up to mine. Then I pull her close, my arm around the back of her neck again. âYou wanna screw around?â I say into her ear.
Bam, another hit to the stomach. âI havenât even gotten started,â she answers.
Fuck it.
She wants to play? Fucking fine. I'll play. I'll play hard. I square up. But she gives me this eye. This champion eye. A winnerâs eye. Cocky like no eyes I've ever seen before. Tom Brady doesnât have anything on this kind of cocky right here. My luck, this girlâs some UFC champion. Christ.
But I can take her. Yeah, I sure fucking can.
Probably.
I decide on a straight jab; a no-fail straight jab that I plan just hard enough to send her reeling but not hurt her, not actually injure her. I know the punch. It works in bar fights and brawls on the field. An all-American move. As I wind up, everything slows down. Iâm 6â6â, 283 pounds, and I throw a football for a living. When I wind up, I wind up. As I do, she ducks, fast as fucking lightning. Greased. Elegant. Lethal. So as my arm is powering through the air, as my momentum gets caught behind 12-ounce training gloves, she pops back up like a goddamned whack-a-mole.
Those eyes flash again and she smiles so hard I can see her dimples.
Dimples. Oh, fuck.
I watch her shoulder tighten, her tricep pucker, and thatâs when she lets me have it for real.
The punch comes from left to right, blocking out my view of everything. I donât see the Mexican flag on the wall. I donât see the graffiti mural over the windows. Nope. The universe turns bubblegum pink.
It doesnât hurt, not at first, and as Iâm flying backwards, airborne, I have just enough time to think to myself, I wonder if this is what a knockout punch feels likeâŠ
Before everything flickers to black.
Jimmy
Sheâs got a hell of a left hook, and her jab is no joke either. Itâs hard to tell what she really looks like, with the big blue rubber mouth guard between her teeth and the black padded headgear covering her jaw and cheeks. But I know this: I want to get my hands on that body. Her tight pink tee is low cut and skin tight, and across her breasts are the words: âNOBODYâS PUSSYCAT.â
A cold draft blows in from the window, making goosebumps ripple up her arms. A thin stream of sweat runs down into her cleavage, and then I watch her nipples tighten. Christ. With little bounces, she heads back to her corner and bends over for her water bottle. Stretchy black leggings and no panty line.
Fuuuuuck.
The buzzer dings and we square up. She holds her gloves up to her face, ready to go. Theyâre bubblegum pink with white cuffs; the girliest weapons Iâve ever seen.
But never mind the gloves. Itâs those eyes that have me. Shit, those eyes. This crazy deep green. Packersâ green. Jetsâ green. Green like cash. Green that could make a guy go right out of his mind.
Pow goes a jab into my stomach and I double over, tasting my Gatorade from an hour ago. Before I can breathe, before I can even get up my gloves to slow her down, she pelts me hard with a cross to my sternum that knocks the wind straight out of me. I gasp for air and stagger back into the ropes.
âJesus Christ,â I moan. âWho are you?â
Her eyes light up in this smile. This beautiful fucking smile that I feel way down inside. Then she bounces on her toes and smacks her gloves together out in front of her. Whap, whap. âIâm Mary!â she says around her mouth guard. âAnd youâre slow!â
Cute. But, yeahâŠno. Nobody talks to me like that. Nobody. I hurl myself off the ropes, colliding with her in the center of the ring, skin against skin now. I press into her sexy shoulder with my bicep, feeling the sweat between us. She nails me in the gut again; a solid, low-slung straight, and I think, I canâ t hit a girl, can I?
No. Fuck, no.
So I stretch my arm between us, the padding of my glove holding her steady right below her collarbone. She swings for me but Iâm a foot taller and she doesnât stand a chance. âJerk!â
Obviously.
But on the upside, now I can really get a good look at her the way I want to; close up, but not so close that sheâs pummeling me. Her legs are solid and I can even see that little curve of her hipbones barely showing through her leggings. I let my eyes follow the line of sweat to her inner thighs, to that wet, hot place where everything comes together. Fuck. I want my hands on that place. I want to feel the softness and the strength. I want to know the taste of that sweat. The way that softness gives under my tongue.
Ding goes the buzzer. I push her away, padded knuckles to her shoulder. She spins and gets into her corner, so I do the same.
I grab my water bottle and squirt it into my mouth, watching her all the time. Sheâs fucking beautiful, this one. Fucking gorgeous. The woman of dreams. Of fantasies.
From a pink Nalgene, she takes one big gulp, two, and a little water dribbles down her lips, rolling in drops down her throat. Her eyes stay right on mine. Her chest heaves. Her eyes flash. Her lips tighten. And thatâs when it happens. She peels off her T-shirt and tosses it to the floor so that the only word showing is PUSSY.
Ding.
Her body is fucking perfect. I mean perfect. I moan into my mouth guard and I look her up and down. Lean but not thin. Sexy and strong. A fighterâs body. A womanâs body. A body strong enough to take everything I want to give it. And then some.
She turns to set down her water bottle, bending at the waist. And thatâs when I see it. The tattoo. Itâs a ribbon of black lace that runs in a beautiful, feminine line down her back from right shoulder to left hip, curving down into her pants. Tough as hell, pretty as can be. And with the sexiest tattoo I've ever seen in my life.
Stick a motherfucking fork in me. Iâm done.
âNice ink,â I tell her as we square up again.
âThanks,â she says, leaning in to my shoulder.
âIâve never seen one like it.â I hook my arm around her again and pull her in. I smell something familiar. I canât place it. She slips free and moves behind me. For one second, all I can hear is her shoes on the mats.
âI rebelled when I turned 30. It was either this or a tramp stamp.â
âOf what?â I pivot so my face is close against hers.
âFloat like a butterfly, sting like a bee.â She smiles tight around the mouth guard. Her glove comes through the air, cutting through the noise of the gym. Whooosh.
I get my right hand up just in time to block her with my glove. The impact rolls down my forearm like Iâm nothing but Jell-O.
She lets another jab fly but misses meâbarelyâand I slip around behind her. The hair at the nape of her neck is curly and wet, and a long dark braid runs down her back. That strip of wet fabric at the top of her pants, dark with sweat. âWhy are we fighting?â I growl as I get closer. âWhy arenât we out drinking? Making trouble? Fucking around? Let me take you out.â
She spins to face me, her eyes wide open, surprised. âYou wanna drink with me?â
âHell yes, I do. And a lot of other things.â
âYou want me? Fight me.â She fires her bubblegum pink cannons at my stomach with a one-two combination that makes me feel like Iâm nothing but a 283-pound heavy bag.
I try to get in a left cross, but sheâs way faster than I am and comes up from under with a hook straight out of Manila.
That one got me in my brainpan, in my marrow. âFuck that,â I snarl.
âAtta boy!â
No way. Nobody atta boys me. Iâm Jimmy Goddamned Falconi. Iâm nobodyâs boy. Never.
âAtta girl.â I nudge her in the shoulder with my chest.
Around her guard, she says, âYou fight like youâre in molasses. But youâre strong. You some kind of athlete?â
At first, Iâm about to laugh. For about one second, I think I might be on Candid Camera or something. I mean, I canât walk to the bathroom on an airplane without someone asking me to sign a cocktail napkin. I canât get through Costco without someone asking me to sign their shopping list. Some kind of athlete?
Iâm Jimmy âThe Falconâ Falconi. Quarterback for the Chicago Goddamned Bears. Iâm somebody.
But thereâs zero recognition in her eyes. No flicker of the fangirl. No sign sheâs playing it cool either. To her, Iâm just a guy getting his ass kicked by a girl in pink gloves.
âHello?â She presses into my chin with a slow uppercut from the right.
I snap out of it. I donât even know how to answer her. I play quarterback for the Bears. Ever heard of them? Or maybe, Ever heard of football? Americaâs Game? Fuck. I wouldnât even know how to start. Iâve never had to explain it. People just know. âYeah, I like to work out.â
âThen act like it,â she says, all piss and vinegar, and puts her guard back in her mouth. Wham comes that jab into my gut. Pow goes the straight to my pecs. I loop one arm around her and pull her body in close, hooking the back of her neck with the crook of my elbow. I pull her closer, tighter, both arms around her, to get a feel for herâŠbut also to give myself a goddamned break.
She struggles a little, trying to squirm free, but I see the smile on her face, the crinkle of the skin at her eyes.
I pull her head closer to mine. I must be twice her weight; no way is she going to get free now. We are the welterweight and the super heavyweight. Wrong class totally. But then she wedges her forehead in against my chest. I watch her wind up, her biceps flexing, and, boom-boom-boom.
Every time she connects, I lose a little more air and groan, âFuck-fuck-fuck!â
âAtta boy!â
Fuck. That.
So I keep her pinned and she starts fighting harder, which makes me want to hang on to her more. I press my nose against her head. In her thick brown hair, I can smell her shampoo, her conditioner. Coconut.
While Iâm distracted by that smell, thinking of sunscreen and ukulele music and drinks with umbrellas and her on a beach, she slips out from under my arms and pops up in my face.
Well, shit.
âWhat, you chicken? Gonna hit me back? Or do you want to dance around for an hour or two? Because I can totally do that. I just have to go home to feed the dog.â Whap-whap go her padded fists.
Oh no, no way. No way am I going to let a pretty little thing talk to me like that. I sniff hard and man up.
I give her a jab. A hook. A cross.
And she blocks me every damned time. Blocks me like sheâs fought me before, or like sheâs known all along what Iâll do when it comes down to it.
Fucking wax-on-wax off, one-two-three.
Pow-pow go her gloves into my side, and fuck. I think I feel those it in my spleen. Enough. Enough. Anger boils up through me like cheap vodka after a long night.
Iâm Jimmy Falconi. And Iâm gonna make this girl know my name.
I crack my neck side to side and get serious. I suck air through the holes in my mouth guard and get my fists up. I edge her into the corner and those eyes flash at me. Sheâs sweating hard and her mascara is smudged. Her hair is mussed and her skin is slick. It makes her look dangerous. Angry. Iâd like to smudge that mascara a little more. In bed. Immediately.
But first, Iâm going to show her whoâs boss.
The more she works herself up, the hotter she gets. Thatâs when something catches my eye. Thereâs something written on the white cuffs of her gloves. All fuzzy, written in black marker:
On the right glove: HERE COMESâŠ
On the left:âŠTROUBLE!
Whomp.
She nails me in the jaw with a haymaker, and my molars shake. âCome the fuck on,â I growl back at her, with my glove pressed to the side of my face.
She smacks her gloves together, and lowers her chin. âAre we sparring or chatting? Hit me!â Bounce, bounce, bounce. Butterfly, bee. Whap, whap, whap. âIâm not going to break!â
I work my jaw open and closed a few times thinking, Okay. Fine. Fine. I didnât think it was going to go like this, but I can roll with a hostile defense, sure. Wouldnât be the first time. I give her the old elevator stareâup, down, up againâand get stuck on her belly button for a little too long. But then I get a game plan together. I figure I can hit her in the stomach. Not too hard, not hard enough to hurt her, but hard enough to let her know whoâs in charge here.
Which would be me. Me, pussycat. Me.
Nudging the edge of her shoulder with my glove, I drive her backwards. Our eyes lock and I get thisâŠthisâŠprickle all through me.
This woman.
This one. Right here.
I want her. So fucking bad.
The fucking gym with its ten phones playing mariachi goes silent. The guys by the cooler egging her on go silent. Itâs just her and me and the sweat dripping between us. Soft skin, sparkling eyes. She smells like a summer day and sheâs looking at me in a way that no woman has ever looked at me. Ever.
Like sheâs gonna own me and she knows it.
Which is bullshit.
She gives me a little lift of her chin and tightens her lips around the guard. She wipes her nose with her glove and then lowers her head. âCome on! You going to fight or are you just going to screw around?â
With my left hand, I jab her softly in the stomach. With the right, a play-hook to the jaw. I raise her chin on my glove so her eyes come up to mine. Then I pull her close, my arm around the back of her neck again. âYou wanna screw around?â I say into her ear.
Bam, another hit to the stomach. âI havenât even gotten started,â she answers.
Fuck it.
She wants to play? Fucking fine. I'll play. I'll play hard. I square up. But she gives me this eye. This champion eye. A winnerâs eye. Cocky like no eyes I've ever seen before. Tom Brady doesnât have anything on this kind of cocky right here. My luck, this girlâs some UFC champion. Christ.
But I can take her. Yeah, I sure fucking can.
Probably.
I decide on a straight jab; a no-fail straight jab that I plan just hard enough to send her reeling but not hurt her, not actually injure her. I know the punch. It works in bar fights and brawls on the field. An all-American move. As I wind up, everything slows down. Iâm 6â6â, 283 pounds, and I throw a football for a living. When I wind up, I wind up. As I do, she ducks, fast as fucking lightning. Greased. Elegant. Lethal. So as my arm is powering through the air, as my momentum gets caught behind 12-ounce training gloves, she pops back up like a goddamned whack-a-mole.
Those eyes flash again and she smiles so hard I can see her dimples.
Dimples. Oh, fuck.
I watch her shoulder tighten, her tricep pucker, and thatâs when she lets me have it for real.
The punch comes from left to right, blocking out my view of everything. I donât see the Mexican flag on the wall. I donât see the graffiti mural over the windows. Nope. The universe turns bubblegum pink.
It doesnât hurt, not at first, and as Iâm flying backwards, airborne, I have just enough time to think to myself, I wonder if this is what a knockout punch feels likeâŠ
Before everything flickers to black.
Nicola Rendell writes dirty, funny, erotic romance. She likes a stiff drink and a well-frosted cake. She is at an unnamed Ivy and prefers to remain mostly anonymous for professional reasons. She has a PhD in English and an MFA in Creative Writing from schools that shall not be named here. She loves to cook, sew, and play the piano. She realizes that her hobbies might make her sound like an old lady and sheâs totally okay with that. She lives with her husband and her dogs. She is from Taos, New Mexico.
Author Links
No comments:
Post a Comment