Read Online Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1) by Holly Hart - Free Book Online
Authors: Holly Hart
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used to say that it was either the most, or the least romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. Even now, years later, I wasn't sure which it was.
At the very second my bra joined my top on the floor, an act that happened so smoothly I barely noticed, Conor planted a fierce kiss on my lips. I pressed mine back against his, feeling the heat as they joined together, and cried out a little as his tongue grazed my bottom lip. I felt his right hand trace its way down my torso. It moved with exquisite slowness and left a trail of pleasure in its wake. His left weaved itself into a handful of my hair and gently pulled at it.
"Please, Conor," I begged. God knows what I was asking for, but whatever it was, he delivered it.
He scraped the bristles on his chin down my front, beginning at the little dimple where my neck meets my shoulders, and trailed his way down my body, passing through my firm breasts and then down, down, down toward my belly button.
It was slow, sensuous torture. It seemed as if he was barely moving, but he knew exactly what he was doing. He was building me up to tear me down.
"Turn over," he grunted, not leaving me a choice. I couldn't have disobeyed him even if I'd tried, because he did it for me anyway. He grabbed my hips and flipped me over in one easy movement, leaving me marveling at the power contained in the bulging, rippling muscles that marked his shoulders and back like thick segments of rope.
I came back down to the mattress with a thump which slightly knocked the wind out of me, but Conor didn't give me so much as a second to recover, leaning forward and kissing the back of my neck with his lightly bristled face, groping my ass hungrily and tracing the outline of my pussy.
His hands seemed to have a boundless energy, roaming across every inch of my skin with a speed, firmness and dexterity that left me crying out with pleasure. He massaged tension out of my neck that I didn't even know existed with hands made strong through years of training.
Conor laid a trail of kisses down from the back of my neck to the belt loop of my jeans, accompanying it either side with the gentlest of scratches from his fingernails. He concentrated his attention on my sensitive lower back with a torturous slowness. He seemed to remember every inch of my skin like it was his own, and to know every little thing that made my orgasm tick.
He flipped me over once more, my back a sea of fiery pleasure, and unbuttoned my denim jeans with a practiced ease. Excited beyond belief, with a fire burning between my legs, I tried to help him pull them off, kicking out, but he grabbed my legs and stilled them easily, swiftly yanking the pants off my legs, where they too joined the rest of my clothes on the floor.
Christ, I haven't shaved my legs in weeks. Or down there in … much longer .
But once again, Conor didn't seem to care. I raised my eyes to the ceiling and thanked the heavens that he couldn't see all the little imperfections, the curves and stretches through the darkness. They were there thanks to a life that had treated me far harder over the past four years than I could ever have imagined.
I resolved that when, or if, I managed to escape my minders once again to spend time with Conor, I'd come prepared. A bikini wax, shaved legs and, at the very least, matching underwear!
"This isn't fair," I moaned through the waves of pleasure beginning to pulsate between my legs, "I'm practically naked and you're –"
Conor didn't let me finish. He ripped his t-shirt off his head and tossed it to one side, revealing a torso that, from what little of it I could see through the gray darkness that filled the room, didn't have so much as an ounce of fat on it. I reached up, caressing his taut body with a wondering expression on my face, studying his impressive frame through the sparse light from Alexandria's nighttime glow that filtered through the thin string curtains.
"Better?" He grinned cheekily.
"What are the scars from –." I
At the very second my bra joined my top on the floor, an act that happened so smoothly I barely noticed, Conor planted a fierce kiss on my lips. I pressed mine back against his, feeling the heat as they joined together, and cried out a little as his tongue grazed my bottom lip. I felt his right hand trace its way down my torso. It moved with exquisite slowness and left a trail of pleasure in its wake. His left weaved itself into a handful of my hair and gently pulled at it.
"Please, Conor," I begged. God knows what I was asking for, but whatever it was, he delivered it.
He scraped the bristles on his chin down my front, beginning at the little dimple where my neck meets my shoulders, and trailed his way down my body, passing through my firm breasts and then down, down, down toward my belly button.
It was slow, sensuous torture. It seemed as if he was barely moving, but he knew exactly what he was doing. He was building me up to tear me down.
"Turn over," he grunted, not leaving me a choice. I couldn't have disobeyed him even if I'd tried, because he did it for me anyway. He grabbed my hips and flipped me over in one easy movement, leaving me marveling at the power contained in the bulging, rippling muscles that marked his shoulders and back like thick segments of rope.
I came back down to the mattress with a thump which slightly knocked the wind out of me, but Conor didn't give me so much as a second to recover, leaning forward and kissing the back of my neck with his lightly bristled face, groping my ass hungrily and tracing the outline of my pussy.
His hands seemed to have a boundless energy, roaming across every inch of my skin with a speed, firmness and dexterity that left me crying out with pleasure. He massaged tension out of my neck that I didn't even know existed with hands made strong through years of training.
Conor laid a trail of kisses down from the back of my neck to the belt loop of my jeans, accompanying it either side with the gentlest of scratches from his fingernails. He concentrated his attention on my sensitive lower back with a torturous slowness. He seemed to remember every inch of my skin like it was his own, and to know every little thing that made my orgasm tick.
He flipped me over once more, my back a sea of fiery pleasure, and unbuttoned my denim jeans with a practiced ease. Excited beyond belief, with a fire burning between my legs, I tried to help him pull them off, kicking out, but he grabbed my legs and stilled them easily, swiftly yanking the pants off my legs, where they too joined the rest of my clothes on the floor.
Christ, I haven't shaved my legs in weeks. Or down there in … much longer .
But once again, Conor didn't seem to care. I raised my eyes to the ceiling and thanked the heavens that he couldn't see all the little imperfections, the curves and stretches through the darkness. They were there thanks to a life that had treated me far harder over the past four years than I could ever have imagined.
I resolved that when, or if, I managed to escape my minders once again to spend time with Conor, I'd come prepared. A bikini wax, shaved legs and, at the very least, matching underwear!
"This isn't fair," I moaned through the waves of pleasure beginning to pulsate between my legs, "I'm practically naked and you're –"
Conor didn't let me finish. He ripped his t-shirt off his head and tossed it to one side, revealing a torso that, from what little of it I could see through the gray darkness that filled the room, didn't have so much as an ounce of fat on it. I reached up, caressing his taut body with a wondering expression on my face, studying his impressive frame through the sparse light from Alexandria's nighttime glow that filtered through the thin string curtains.
"Better?" He grinned cheekily.
"What are the scars from –." I
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