Page 11 of Big Wild Fighter

“Marlon!” he says, grabbing my hand in a firm handshake and then clapping me on the shoulder like we’ve been friends for years. “It’s an honor, man. I’ve been following your career since your early days. You’ve got heart, you know that? And skill, of course, but heart—”

“Dad,” Grace interrupts, laughing as she steps between us. “Let him breathe. He just got here.”

Frank laughs, not the least bit embarrassed. “Sorry, sorry. Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”

The inside of the house is just as inviting as the outside. The walls are lined with family photos, the furniture is cozy but well-loved, and the smell of something rich and savory fills the air. My stomach growls audibly, and Grace stifles a laugh.

Her mom appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She’s smaller than Grace, but there’s no mistaking where Grace got her sharp eyes and easy smile.

“So this is the famous Marlon,” she greets, looking me up and down like she’s sizing me up for a sparring match.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, suddenly unsure if I should stick out my hand or wait for her to make the first move.

She breaks into a smile that’s equal parts welcoming and mischievous. “You don’t have to call me ma’am. Makes me feel ancient. I’m Nina.”

“Nina,” I repeat, nodding. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She eyes me for another beat before turning to Grace. “He’s handsome. And he doesn’t look as cocky as I expected.”

“Mom!” Grace groans, her face flushing.

“What? I’m just saying.” Nina shrugs, then waves us toward the dining room. “Now, let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

***

Dinner is perfect.

Frank and I talk fights over plates of tender roast chicken, roasted potatoes, and green beans that remind me of home. He’s got a million questions—about my training, my toughest opponents, my favorite fight moments—and I answer them all, enjoying his genuine enthusiasm.

Nina, meanwhile, keeps things grounded with her quick wit, throwing in comments that make Grace groan and roll her eyes but have me laughing.

And Grace watches it all with a soft smile, her hand occasionally brushing mine under the table.

By the time dessert comes out—a homemade peach cobbler that’s somehow even better than the main course—I feel like I’ve known these people for years.

When we’re finally leaving, Frank pulls me into a quick hug and says, “You take care of her, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I promise, and I mean it. I don’t know when or how I came to mean it that seriously, but I do.

Nina kisses my cheek and winks. “Don’t be a stranger, Marlon.”

I look over at Grace, who’s watching me with a warmth in her eyes that makes me want to promise her the world. After our goodbyes, the drive to Grace’s apartment is filled with quiet and tension. My blood is practically vibrating in my veins at her nearness and I can tell from the clench of her thighs and the soft breaths barely escaping her lips that she’s feeling the same draw that I am.

That’s why as soon as we’re inside her place, I press her against the door, my lips finding hers with a hunger I’ve been holding back all night. She responds just as eagerly, her hands sliding up to tangle in my hair as I lift her off her feet.

“You were amazing tonight,” she breathes against my lips.

“So were you.” I kiss her again, deeper this time, my hands sliding down to her hips. She feels like heaven in my arms, and I can’t get enough of her.

We move to the couch, and she pulls me down with her, her legs wrapping around my waist as our kisses grow more heated. My hands slide under her shirt, and her soft moan drives me wild.

“Grace,” I murmur, my voice rough with desire.

Her fingers thread deeper into my hair, pulling me closer as if no space between us can be left untouched. Her breath hitches when I shift my weight, pressing her further into the couch cushions. The scent of her skin is intoxicating, a mix of lavender and something warm and distinctly her.

I trail kisses down her jawline, the sound of her soft gasps and murmured encouragements fueling the fire coursing through my veins. My hands travel under her shirt, grazing the smooth skin of her sides, memorizing the way she arches into me like she’s as desperate for this as I am.

Her hands wander too, one sliding down my back, the other pressing firmly against my chest. When her nails lightly drag along my skin, I groan, deep and guttural, as if all the restraint I’ve been clinging to is about to snap.

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