Page 31 of Last Round

Who the fuck am I kidding? I know exactly why there was some extracheerin myOsthis morning and it had nothing to do with either of those asshats. It was all her.

For the life of me, I can’t think of the last time I justchilled. And I mean, really hung out. Willing to bet if I rewound my life and went to the last time it happened, no doubt Molly and her brother were there.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But things weren’t alwaysBeaver Cleaverat the Murphy house. Most of the time, my parents were busting their asses at the flower shop, leaving Cian in charge. My older brother rode my ass, all the while doting on Cassie like she was a little princess. Anything ever went wrong, it was my fault. Not saying I couldn’t be a little shit. Just that I might not have been that bad if they would’ve ever let up.

The Walsh house was my escape. Nate (Sean’s dad) was like a second father to me. He supported our crazy ambitions. He also never thought they were crazy in the first place. He bought us our first punching bag, took us to see our first live fight, always sprung for Pay-per-view. Despite being a single father, he made as much time for his kids as he could.

By the time my parents tookanyinterest in my life, it was too late. I was grown up. My future was already in progress and I went full-steam ahead the day I moved out. Yes, sometimes I feel guilty about leaving. Not for my parents’ sake. No, with Cian and me both off doing our own thing, Cassie was left alone with “Ward” and “June” AKA Mom and Dad. She got the brunt force of all their expectations. The crap they couldn’t put on us.

At least it worked out in the long run. I’m not a firm believer in fate or the will of God. But deep down, part of me believes Cassie was meant to find Robbie, and that never would’ve happened if things didn’t go the way they did.

And Molly?

“No,” I scold myself and push through my morning warmup in the gym before the other guys get here and sweat all over the place.

Last night was great. But that was strictly platonic. No different from hanging out with one of the guys.

If it was so platonic, then why did you make her sweat to death in a pair of pants that were four times her size? And why do you have no intention of telling Sean?

“I wouldn’t deny it if he asked me.” Even to myself, the lie is obvious. If I heard a guy like me spent the night hanging out with my little sister and it was strictly platonic, yeah, I wouldn’t believe that shit either.

“Who are you talking to?”

“What the fuck?” I jump, turning around with a hand to my chest. The sexy firecracker who has me lying by omission to my best friend stands before me.

“Sorry,” she says. However, the glimmer in her eye tells mesorryis the last thing she’s feeling. “Sean said I could come in early and work out before thetalenttakes over. Didn’t expect to see anyone here.” More lies. She damn well knew I was going to be here and planned onaccidentallyrunning into me. Her pink earlobes give her away, a tell I’ve recently noticed.

“Really?” The devil on my shoulder must have smothered the angel who would usually provide me sage advice in this sort of situation. Because there is no internal protest as I take a step towards her—like an absolute idiot—and land right in her web of lust, woven with bad decisions.

“Really.” Wearing only a sports bra, she presses her chest to mine.

It’s not uncommon. I see it all the damn time. Usually, it has me cheering for joy—not that my dick isn’t doing somersaults as he tents my shorts. It’s just the consistent question I’m stuck asking myself almost every five seconds.Why me?

“Where are your pants?” I sigh. At least yesterday she wore capris. Today she is wearing those tempting little micro-shorts. I swear women invented them just to punish us for staring at their asses.

An evil grin spreads across her angelic face. “It’s hot today.”

“No more than yesterday.”

“That’s why I adjusted. Made sure I don’t getoverheated.” She raises her arms above her head. Grabbing one wrist, she pulls it to the opposite side to stretch it out before she does the same with the other arm.

“I thought we called a truce?” I’m grasping at the remaining thread of my common sense—angel be damned.The bastard might have given up on me, but I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet. If he’s not up to the job of keeping me in line, I’ll do it myself.

We can show her how to work up a real sweat, that pesky-ass devil murmurs in my ear.

Molly turns her back to me. She casts a devious glance over her shoulder. “Cinderellaclause, it expired at midnight.” She bends forward and touches her toes, pressing her ass directly against my groin.

I bite my knuckle, preventing myself from grabbing her luscious globes. It would be so fucking easy to rip the pathetic excuse for shorts she’s wearing off her.Shit, with the thin material we’re both wearing, my dick could probably stab through the fabric and slam home. Fuck her without mercy from behind.

Refusing to back down, I savor how amazing it feels to slide between her cheeks. I’ve had—well, let’s face it—lotsof sex. I pride myself on maintaining excellent stamina and body control. Yet this brief friction has me naming the UFC heavyweight champions in chronological order to prevent myself from blowing my load.

Mark Coleman…

Maurice Smith…

Randy Couture…

I’m about to say “fuck Bas Rutten”when all of a sudden her tempting warmth is gone. Molly, clearly the wiser of the two of us, bolts at the jingling of keys. I never thought it would happen, but I thank god for the expertly timed cockblock preventing me from doing something really, really stupid.

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