MMA Fighter's Obsession Read online

  CONTENTS

  MMA Fighter’s Obsession

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  About the Author

  MMA FIGHTER’S OBSESSION

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 182

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2020 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  MMA FIGHTER’S OBSESSION

  He’s never lost a fight and now this forty-two year old alpha male is set to go out with a bang on Fight Island in the Caribbean.

  I’m meant to be giving him an interview, but it’s just so hard to focus, with the way he’s looking at me. I think I’ve made the possessive older man angry at first.

  But is there something more going on? And how the heck am I even letting myself think like this when Liam is also my dad’s best friend? I had a crush on him once, tall and steel-haired and muscular. But there’s no way he wants an inexperienced eighteen year old girl like me, is there?

  I dream about him claiming me like the primal savage he is.

  I’m just a wannabe writer trying to decide what to do with my life, but this millionaire, confident cage fighter knows exactly what he wants and exactly how to take it.

  But this silver fox might create a rift in my family.

  He and my dad grew up together and I just know he’s going to go berserk when he learns about the irrepressible passion and heat between us.

  Are we destined to crash and burn? Can a naive younger woman really be with an accomplished, savage older man? Will I ever fulfill my dreams of being a writer?

  And just what the hell is Dad going to say when he learns what happened with his best friend in the sultry sun of the Caribbean?

  *MMA FIGHTER’S OBSESSION is an OTT insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Liam

  I stand at the window of the private jet and look down on the glistening Caribbean Sea, the water shining for miles and miles around. I shift my gaze to the island in the center of it all, just about making out the bespoke buildings constructed by Juggernaut Fighting Championship earlier in the year especially for this event, the biggest one they’ve ever held.

  It’s the organization’s ten-year anniversary and my last fight. I hold a record of forty-one wins and zero losses, and there’s something poetic about the idea of going out with forty-two wins, the same number as my age.

  “Incredible,” Caesar Dempsey, my couch, mutters from beside me. The short, grizzled-looking man’s lips twitch into a smile, and he turns to me with light shimmering in his pale green eyes. “Do you remember how small this organization was when we started fighting with them?”

  “I do,” I mutter.

  “You were a decent fighter then, Liam, but now you’re goddamn unstoppable. There’s never been a fighter with your record, not in MMA. In boxing, perhaps, but in mixed martial arts, so much more can go wrong.”

  I roll my eyes, smirking. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Coach.”

  He grins. “Maybe. I’m just proud of you. An undefeated career. A sportswear business. Enough money that you can settle down, find a lady, start a family …”

  I wander to the plush leather chair of the private jet and drop down, feeling the material sink under my immense weight. I’m currently two hundred and seventy pounds, but after cutting water this evening for weigh-ins tomorrow morning, I’ll be two hundred and sixty of pure, lean muscle, my body like a hulking bear ready to do vicious, violent things.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I say. “We’ve still got to get through this Markus motherfucker.”

  Coach nods as the seriousness of his task fills his expression. He strolls to the bar and rests his elbow against it, musing silently. Behind his eyes, I can see our game plan repeating as he mentally scours it for holes, imperfections, anything that might blot my legacy and bring me my first loss.

  Through the other door, I can hear my training partners and other coaches talking loudly, their excitement fueling the cabin as the pilot politely asks us all to take our seats and strap ourselves in.

  We’ve arrived at Fight Island, the nickname we’ve given to the Caribbean paradise where JFC has decided to host their ten-year blowout.

  The main event consists of yours truly, the most dominant heavyweight in the history of the sport, against Markus “The Answer” Kowalski. He’s a twenty-two year old supposed wild man on a ten-fight winning streak, having ended his last nine fights in gruesome knockout.

  He’s earned his title shot against me, but his hopes are going to break and shatter, like busted bone when he steps into the cage with me, when he looks across and the realization that he’s been locked in with a beast thunders through him.

  “How are you feeling?” Caesar asks, as we both strap ourselves in.

  “Good,” I tell him. “Loose. Focused.”

  “Are you sure you want to do the media this afternoon?” he asks. “You’re the heavyweight champion of the world, Liam. This organization needs you a hell of a lot more than you need them. They know how much money you make with your other businesses, too. There’s no need to put yourself through that crap.”

  “I know,” I mutter. “But I promised an old friend I’d do an exclusive one-on-one interview.”

  “Annabelle Young?” Caesar asks. “She’s your best friend’s wife, correct?”

  “Yep,” I say, nodding. “I was the one who got her involved in the business, actually. She wanted a change of career a couple of years back. She’s finally been allowed into the big leagues, and I promised Seb – Sebastian, her husband, my old friend – that I’d help her out.”

  “You’re too damn humble,” Caesar jokes as the jet begins its descent, my stomach doing a somersault as the earth rushes up to meet us. “You’ve never forgotten where you came from, Liam.”

  “Jesus, old man,” I say. “Next you’ll be singing me a damn song. I know this is our last fight together, but rein it in, eh?”

  I smirk at him to let him know I’m joking. He flips me the bird and then sits back, a smile touching his lips as the wheels bash into the concrete of the runway.

  I let my mind drift to the fight, mentally placing myself inside the cage, hearing the roar of the crowd as their desire for extreme violence rises into the air like a noxious gas. These are the most expens
ive tickets JFC has ever sold, and I know the crowd is going to want visceral value for their money.

  I prepare to make myself go primal, to let out the hungry beast inside my chest, the one I keep locked in a cage inside myself until I’m in the cage. And then I let it free, and my opponent – no matter how well-prepared they think they are – is left to wither and panic under the weight of my furious attack.

  My mind skips over to what Coach said about finding somebody and settling down, and I can’t help but smirk as the ridiculousness of it hits me right in the center.

  I’ve always known that when I see my woman, the mother of my children, I’ll know, with a sucker-punch I’ll just know she’s mine.

  I’ll claim her.

  I’ll take her.

  I’ll sweep her up into my arms with the force of a hurricane and hold her there firmly.

  But that day has never come and I’m starting to doubt it ever will. In all my forty-two years, I’ve never seen a woman that’s made me feel anything even close to that.

  “Liam?” Caesar says, glancing over at me. “You good?”

  I open my eyes, only realizing they were closed when he calls my name. The plane is still and the cabin clangs and clatters with the sounds of my team unloading their luggage, their voices humming with optimism.

  “I’m good,” I snarl. “In fact, I’m ready to take this prick’s head clean off.”

  Cesar’s lips savagely twist into a wolfish smile, the same one I must be wearing. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  I sit in the studio JFC has set up for the one-on-one fighter interviews, wearing a steel-grey suit the same color as my hair, tailored to my hulking build.

  As I sit here, waiting for the host – she’s late, which causes a tremor of annoyance to pump through me – I grip the edges of the armchair and feel my muscles pressing against the fabric of my clothes.

  When the host finally arrives, she’s not Anna Young, my old friend’s wife, like I expected. Instead, a much younger woman walks in, her cheeks flushed and red as the crimson pallor creeps down her neck to the open collar of her white shirt.

  In the stark light of the interview suite, her skin looks pale and I can see shimmering droplets of sweat clinging to her skin. Her luscious auburn hair cascading down to her shoulders, and her build is curvy, a heaven-sent build, the sort of undulations that make me want to grab her and drag her onto my lap and pump, pump, pump my hips until my seed is shooting deep inside of her.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  Those are child-bearing hips if I’ve ever seen them, and as she approaches I see that her eyes glimmer brightly, a blue-green color that seems to pull me in and hypnotize me.

  This is her, the woman I’ve been waiting for.

  I know it instantly, the certainty punching me with the force of destiny or fate. I want to sweep her into my arms right away, but she takes the seat opposite me, rubbing her hands down her full thighs through her black skirt.

  I stare, wishing my hands were stroking down her flesh instead. I imagine how her shy-yet-determined expression would quiver in release if I slid my hand up her thigh, squeezed and pressed and massaged.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she whispers. “Mom got sick and then her assistant caught the same bug. They think it’s a twenty-four hour one. And I’m here for some work experience, and I’m technically part of the company, so …”

  Wait a goddamn second.

  I look closer at the goddess sitting across from me, narrowing my eyes to the same focused pinpricks I aim while fighting in the cage, trying to untangle how mind-fucking gorgeous she is now from the image I have of her as a teenager.

  She was the shy girl with the braces, the girl I barely even glanced at when I would visit my old friend.

  She’s Seb and Anna’s daughter.

  “Lola?” I whisper, disbelief warping my words into a snarl.

  “Yes,” she says, a nervous tic of a smile touching her lips.

  I want to make her twitch in other ways, carnal ways, and yet suddenly a complication has exploded into the scenario.

  She’s my best friend’s daughter.

  And I want her.

  No, need her.

  She’s the woman I’ve been waiting for.

  “I thought you didn’t recognize me for a second,” she mutters. “Is it going to be too awkward, me doing the interview? I can try and find somebody else, if it is. But Mom said she really wanted it for her network and, and … I have her questions. So …”

  She bites her lip as anxiety rockets through her. I have to stamp down on the urge to reach across and press those full breasts together, the way they push and strain at the white shirt making me want to rip the buttons with my teeth, let them pop loose and free those milky handfuls.

  “It’s fine,” I growl, waving a hand.

  “Um, okay,” she sighs, smoothing down her skirt again.

  Every time she does that, I have to squeeze with iron strength onto the arms of the chair I’m sitting in.

  Every primeval instinct in me is roaring at me to pounce on this woman and fire my scalding hot seed into her womanhood, right into the heart of her womb.

  You’re going to have my babies, Lola, and you don’t even fucking know it yet.

  I know from Seb that she turned eighteen and graduated high school a few months ago, but I never dreamed that she’d be clothed in so much womanly sexiness and grace.

  She’s like a nymph out of a fevered dream, mind-fucking me into oblivion.

  “I need to get mic’d up and everything,” she says, glancing around at the cameramen and assistants.

  Somebody glides forward and hands her a microphone, which she …

  Oh, fuck.

  She slides it up her shirt, but fumbles and lifts a slice of said shirt. I get a glorious peak at the flesh beneath, her belly beckoning for my hand, making me want to slide my hand over it and then up to her bra.

  I’d slide beneath her bra and then pinch her nipples softly, urging them to harden, the same way they will when our baby nuzzles at her for milk.

  She’s going to make an incredible mother.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with me doing this?” she asks one the mic is in place.

  “Of course,” I snap, because talking quietly or reasonably is downright impossible with this sexy as hell woman staring at me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She shrugs cutely. “I dunno. But if you’re sure it’s okay?”

  We start the interview and I can read the nerves dancing through her every gesture, her every word, but she handles herself well. It’s me who has to force my tongue to obey me, to make myself smirk confidently and answer her questions with poise.

  “You’ve Tweeted a lot about forty-two wins at forty-two years old,” Lola says.

  My management team has Tweeted, you mean.

  “How important is that to you?”

  “Very,” I answer honestly. “There’s this misconception in the sport that once you age past thirty-five, you can’t compete anymore. I’m going to prove everybody wrong when I take out Markus.”

  “So you’re promising us a finish, then? Because, as you know, Markus’ last nine wins have come via knockout.”

  She’s good. I can’t help but let my eyes roam over her, admiring the confidence with which she’s sunk into the interview.

  And I can’t help but wonder if she’ll be the same elsewhere, her shyness melting away to sizzling confidence as I paint her naked curvaceous body in sinful ecstasy.

  “I never promise knockouts or submissions,” I say. “But I will promise to put one hell of a beating on my opponent.”

  Once the interview is over, I watch as her azure-emerald eyes move over me. The idea that she can see into my mind strikes me, that she can read my carnal thoughts.

  And I want her to, despite the complications, despite the fact that she’s Seb’s daughter, my best friend’s daughter.

  “You’re interviewing Markus next, right?” I said.


  “Hmm-mm,” she whispers, nodding.

  “Good luck,” I growl, and then stand up.

  Because if I don’t stand up, if I don’t swagger out of this room, I’m going to fist her auburn hair and ravage her body right here, cameras or no cameras.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lola

  I watch Liam Larson’s broad back as he swaggers toward the exit, the fabric of his suit pulled taut from shoulder to shoulder as though any second it could tear in half.

  My heart is still rabbiting in my chest as my mind cascades back over the interview, Liam’s imposing six foot seven form leaning forward, his pale brown eyes gazing firmly into mine. His square jawline clean shaven and his hair pure iron, and when he stared at me it was like he was fricking furious.

  The idea that it has something to do with the fact that it was me giving the interview swarms through me with the feeling of truth.

  He was informed that Mom would be giving the interview, a professional MMA journalist, and in her place he got me, an eighteen year old girl who’s only in this tropical paradise for a holiday … and to work on my novel, fine, but I doubt that Liam “The Reaper” Larson reads many thrillers or cares about my budding not-yet-a-career.

  When Mom told me, all raspy-voiced, that I’d have to do the interview or she’d lose her exclusivity clause with JFC, my mouth fell open with shock.

  But of course I agreed, because she’s my mom and I know how hard she works at her career.

  Sitting across from Liam was like sitting across a pressure cooker, the rage rolling off of him in thick waves. Liam Larson has been a friend of my family for as long as I can remember, and as my teenage years drove me crazy with rioting hormones, I remember writing his name in my notepad and drawing hearts around it.

  He was my high school big-time crush, but just for a little while, and then I moved on and decided that boys were just A-holes who only liked girls who were starve-yourself-thin and billboard pretty.

  But even knowing this, crazy thoughts move through my mind, sending tingles over my body.

  When he gazed at me angrily, I imagined he wanted me instead. I imagined him leaning forward and pressing his rock hard body against mine, laying his rough lips against my cheek and dragging them to my pout.