Page 47 of Wreck Me

Blood exploded from his nose.

I assaulted him with a hammer fist, then swept my leg at his ankles, the brutal combo sending him crashing onto his front on the ring floor.

The crowd went wild and I heard people screaming to switch their bets.

Euphoria coursed through me as I took in the half-beaten shithead down on the ground by my hand, at my mercy—or lack thereof.

“Who’s owning who, asshole?” I spat, before delivering a kick to his ribs that had him grunting and rolling onto his back.

“Come on! Give me your fight!” I found myself yelling then.

I needed more.

Way more.

I was nowhere close to being satiated yet.

Vicars had gone down way too easy.

Where was the fight?

The brutality?

The pain?

The blood?

The fucking struggle?

Give me more!

Give me fucking everything!

My hands were shaking with the need.

I was like an addict in a bad state of withdrawal.

And I guess that was the case to an extent.

Tasting this again… it was a heady fucking thing.

I wouldn’t just settle for an appetizer now.

Vicars pushed back to his feet.

This time, he didn’t go the fist route.

I guess he’d learned his lesson there.

Instead, he rushed me and snagged me across the waist in a football tackle, slamming my back into the chain-link right beside tons of spectators.

He snarled and licked across the tops of my breasts, then tugged at my sports bra with his teeth.

Urgh.

“Mmm. Feisty kitty kat.”

“Jeez, that’s cringeworthy even to me,” I heard Damien say.

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