Fighter's Kiss: An enemies-to-lovers MMA romance (Irish Kiss Book 3) Read online

  Thud!

  Thud!

  THUD!

  “What the fuck!” I shouted as Declan crashed into my room.

  I pulled the sheets up over my naked chest because I was butt-ass naked. I apparently forgot to put on the t-shirt and shorts I normally wore to bed after drunkenly stumbling into my room early that morning when Oisin and I returned, swaying arm in arm, to the manor from the local pub. “What are you doing, Declan?”

  He ignored me as he stalked over to my curtains and flung them open. I groaned in pain as the rays of morning light accosted my light-sensitive eyes. As I suspected, the sound of my groan and my shouting made my head explode. I cradled it in my hands as Declan stood over my bed.

  “Where’s my breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?” I blinked with squinted eyes up at him. “It’s Saturday.”

  He crossed his arms, somehow making his biceps appear even bigger than usual. Usual…meaning the size of tree trunks. “So?”

  I tried to keep the comforter against my naked chest as I stretched over to pull back the drapes to block the harsh glare of the morning sun.

  Declan easily pulled them out of reach. “So I don’t stop training just because you decided you wanted to go out and get shit-faced the night before,” he said with obvious irritation.

  Closing my eyes, I rubbed at my temples to attempt to ease the relentless throbbing. Foggy images of a small, crowded, smoke-filled pub flashed in my mind. There was a drinking contest with Joan, who wore a sweater with a kitten on the front she knit herself. Mistake. There was begging David’s mom on the phone to let him stay longer with us. Mistake. There was dancing on the bar with Oisin. Mis—no. No, that one was a great decision.

  “You train on the weekend?” I asked, noticing Declan’s black athletic shorts and sneakers.

  Declan sighed. “You still haven’t finished the Job Manual?”

  I glanced at it, untouched on my nightstand. “I have…” I lied.

  “Employer trains every day without exception, including both public and private holidays, birthdays, or social engagements,” Declan recited. “Employee must request for approval a day off of normal duties with a minimum two weeks’ notice.” He glared down at me. “So get up.”

  I gazed longingly at the cool, soft comfort of my pillows before sighing in resignation of my pain-filled morning. “Fine,” I grumbled.

  That was that, but neither of us moved. I remained in bed, staring up at Declan. Declan remained standing next to the bed, staring down at me. I waited…and waited…and—

  “Well?” Declan asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “You need to leave.” Over the edge of the covers still pulled up close to my chest, I pointed a finger toward the door.

  He glanced over his shoulder at it. “I’m not leaving till you get up,” he said as he faced me again, face resolute. “You’re not going back to bed.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s not it. I—”

  “In case you’ve somehow already forgotten, you’re still in your trial week at this position.” Declan planted his feet, obviously not intending on going anywhere.

  I wasn’t even sure a bulldozer could move him out of my room.

  “I suggest you get up to make my breakfast.”

  I clenched the balled-up comforter in my fists and said through gritted teeth, “I will get up… once you leave.”

  “You’re going to go back to bed.”

  “I’m not.”

  Both of us glared at one another as we each grew more and more frustrated.

  “I need my breakfast now.”

  “The sooner you leave, the sooner you get your breakfast,” I retorted.

  Declan was clearly not used to someone challenging him as his eyes grew angry and he bristled with obvious frustration. He jabbed a finger at me and tried to keep his voice from shaking. “Listen to me and listen to me real good…” His voice rose to yelling. “Get up now or you can pack your bags and get your ass out of this house this after—”

  “I’m naked!” I finally shouted.

  Declan froze with his mouth still open, half a word still on his lips.

  “I’m naked, okay?” I waved one hand up and down the length of my body. “Under here? You see, yeah? Under here, there’s nothing but me. Head, shoulder, knees, and toes, all naked. Tits, pussy, ass and hips, all naked. Naked, naked, naked.”

  I jutted my chin up in defiance as Declan ducked his gaze. But before he did, I could have sworn I caught his eyes skim the outline of my body beneath the sheets: the subtle hint of the roundness of breasts, the soft protrusion of my hipbone, the long line of my slim legs. He certainly couldn’t get the whole picture, but even with the comforter pulled up high, he could catch a glimpse.

  I couldn’t help but imagine what would happen if I pulled back the sheets with Declan standing there. What if I lay there completely exposed before him? Would he look? Would he like what he saw? Would he take a step closer?

  My heart rate spiked and the brush of the cool sheets against my now hard nipples sent heat between my legs. I was trying and failing to send the image from my mind when Declan finally spoke.

  “Well, then,” he grumbled after clearing his throat. “Put some goddamn clothes on.” Eyes to the floor, he turned and stalked out of my room without another word.

  After the door slammed, I sank back into bed and slung an arm over my eyes with a pain-filled groan. Why was I thinking of my employer like this? Why was I thinking of my asshole employer like this?

  I was in trouble. I was in serious trouble. If the thought of alcohol hadn’t made my stomach churn, I would have needed a drink and it wasn’t even… I peeked an eye open to squint at my phone. Fuck.

  It wasn’t even 7:45 a.m.

  * * *

  It wasn’t even 1:45 p.m. when my bedroom door crashed open for the second time that day during an impromptu dance session while cleaning.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I shouted over Whitney Houston as she belted out “How Do I Know.” “Don’t tell me you need an afternoon snack. Because I have no idea where the Cheerios are.”

  Declan crossed my room without looking at me and smashed his fingers on the buttons of the speakers, cutting off the song.

  “What do you want?” I placed my hands irritably on my hips. “I can do ants on a log. Little raisins on a celery stick filled with peanut butter. Is that what you want?”

  “No music from 1 to 3 p.m.,” he said in an emotionless voice as he walked back toward my door. “Page 23 of the Job Manual.”

  He was already halfway into the hall when I shouted after him, “Are you kidding me?”

  “No!” His voice echoed back to me from the hallway.

  “Why?”

  Declan returned to stand in the doorway of my room. He crossed his arms over his broad, bare chest.

  I couldn’t help my eyes from following the trail of his chiselled abs straight down toward the v-shaped muscles at his hipbones that pointed down, down, down before disappearing below the low-slung waistband of his thin cotton lounge pants. I blushed and looked away to stop myself from hungrily searching for the shape…and length of anything lower. I focused on Declan’s blue eyes, but dear God, they turned me on just as much as his body.

  “I’m sleeping,” he said.

  I nodded while realising my gaze had drawn to his mouth. I quite liked the shape of his lips as well. They were full and soft and perfect for kissing down my stomach toward my— “Right, right,” I shook my head to clear my dirty thoughts. I reminded myself I was supposed to be aggravated, not aroused. “But it’s a mansion,” I argued.

  “No,” Declan said. “It’s my mansion. So no music from 1 to 3 p.m.”

  I squeezed my hands into fists in an attempt to hold back my frustration. I wasn’t used to this…rules for this, rules for that. Rules, rules, rules. “I can’t listen to music?” I asked as calmly as possible.

  Declan shook his head. “You can’t do anything that disturbs my training,” he said. “If your music disturbs my training, you turn it off. If your endless questions disturb my training, you stop speaking. If your presence disturbs my training, you leave.”

  “If my breathing disturbs your training, I quit breathing,” I mumbled.

  Declan’s perfect lips curled into a mock smile. “Glad we’re finally on the same page.”

  I glared at him as I snatched my headphones up from the nightstand, ripped my phone from the speakers, and blasted Whitney into my ears. “I’m listening to music, Declan, and it’s 1:45,” I shouted over the song as I began to dance again. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Swinging my hips to the rhythm, I spun around and shook my ass at Declan. “Huh, Declan?” I shouted. “What are you gonna do about it?” As I continued to dance, I glanced over my shoulder and paused. “Oh.”

  Declan was gone and I was alone.

  “Well, I showed him,” I mumbled to myself as I snatched up some dirty clothes from the floor.

  I kept the door open the rest of the day because I wasn’t sure the hinges of the door could handle much more. I wouldn’t admit to myself that I secretly wished Declan would come storming in again.

  I wouldn’t admit that I was secretly a little disappointed when he didn’t.

  River

  Declan wasn’t exactly the smile-for-the-camera type, and the preapproved photos for his social media account certainly confirmed that. In my office at the back of the gym, I clicked through photo after photo of blank-faced, dead-eyed, straight-lipped stares in obviously posed positions of Declan “‘training.” I sighed as I tapped the arrow key in boredom.

  Click…click…click…

  Declan pretending to kick a punching bag… Declan pretending to duck under an opponent’s jab… Declan pretending to naturally wipe the sweat from his brow after a hard training session…

  Click…click…click…

  It wasn’t a surprise at all that his social media engagement was at an all-time low. These pictures lacked all traces of authenticity, energy, soul. I’d seen Declan kick the black punching bag in the corner of his gym, his eyes locked in as his foot collided with the swinging bag again and again and again. I’d seen the ferocity of his gaze, the tension of his muscles, the vibrations through the bag.

  None of it looked like these still, lifeless, dead pictures.

  If only his followers could see what it was like…

  With my foot, I pushed open my canvas tote and tapped my fingers on the desk as I eyed my camera just visible beneath my balled-up rainbow sweater. It wasn’t the best camera in the world, far from it. But it was all I could afford and even then, it took three months of eating a diet of exclusively SpaghettiOs and leftover—only slightly mouldy—bread from the deli down the block before I could purchase it used from the local consignment store. It was old, glitchy, and a bit scratched here and there, but I’d learned everything I knew about photography on it and it hadn’t failed me yet.

  I looked from the camera in my tote to the Job Manual on my desk. The Job Manual gave specific instructions regarding which photographs to use for Declan’s social media presence. They were even labelled on his computer as “Approved Photographs.” But if I could show him how the world responded to a non-staged picture of him…

  Before I could stop to consider what a terrible, idiotic, dangerous idea this was, I snatched up my camera and rushed to the door. I only paused to peer through the crack in the door at Declan.

  He was training with a dummy set up in the centre of the fighting cage, which was raised up a few feet from the floor. Seamus was nowhere to be found. Declan was alone.

  I took a breath and slipped inside. Declan’s back was to me as I tiptoed through the dumbbell racks, weight machines, and cardio equipment. The sound of his laboured breathing and the harsh pounding of his fists against the dummy was the only noise echoing through the gym.

  His back was still to me as I checked the settings on my camera and adjusted for the dim light of the gym. I winced at the unexpected beeps as I clicked through, but Declan remained fixated on the dummy as he delivered a series of brutal uppercuts to its chin. Inching closer toward the cage, I raised the camera up to my face and leaned my shoulder against the wire panel.

  Through the lens, I watched Declan duck and weave in front of the dummy, so light on his toes. He delivered a powerful jab to the chest and the dummy swayed on its stand before falling back into place with a loud thud. The muscles along his back tensed as he pulled back for another strike.

  I frowned as I fidgeted with the zoom. Declan’s body looked strong, powerful, fit, but it wasn’t quite the picture I was looking for to put up on his social media accounts. I needed to see his face. I wanted to see his emotion, his passion, his raw, animalistic aggression. I wanted to capture that. To do that I needed to get closer.

  The sound of my footsteps was masked as Declan punched the dummy faster, faster, faster. Harder, harder, harder. I followed the edge of the cage till I could just make out the profile of his strong, defined jaw. My heart raced as I lifted the camera again, closing one eye and nervously blinking open the other.

  Through my camera, I saw a different Declan than the one I knew, or the one I thought I knew. The Declan I saw through my camera was completely unguarded despite the deadly fists protecting his face. He had no defence up even as he artfully evaded an invisible onslaught of furious punches. He was entirely vulnerable in that moment regardless of the impressive display of strength and speed. I saw that through my camera. I saw it and I knew.

  Declan was in pain.

  As he wailed endlessly against the dummy, I knew this wasn’t a normal kind of pain. It wasn’t the good kind of pain. It wasn’t the pain of lungs gasping for air after sprinting a mile or muscles begging for relief after bench pressing a new personal best. It was the kind of pain that made people scream. The kind of pain that made people reach for medicine. The kind of pain that no one wanted to endure.

  But Declan did not stop.

  Instead, he moved faster, he attacked harder, he pushed himself further. Lines of agony etched his face as he punched the dummy again, again, again.

  Why wasn’t he stopping?

  Again, again, again.

  Why didn’t he just stop?

  Again, again, again.

  Why couldn’t I look away?

  Again, again, again.

  I took the picture and immediately I knew it was a mistake. The shutter sounded loudly in the gym and Declan whirled toward me. He chest heaved up and down as sweat dripped down his face. His hands were still curled into fists that hung low at his sides. His eyes, dark and savage, fell on me.

  Then my camera.

  “Delete it,” he commanded, his voice low.

  I glanced down at my camera and then back up at him. His breathing seemed not to be slowing, but spiking. “Listen, Declan, I was looking through the folder of your preapproved photos and I thought that I could help you take a more authentic one and—”

  “Delete it.”

  I frowned at his rude interruption again. “You didn’t even give me a chance to explain what I was trying to do,” I said, squaring my shoulders and preparing myself for a fight.

  Declan stepped closer to me as he neared the edge of the ring.

  I tried not to take a nervous step back as his imposing form loomed above me.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you thought you were doing,” he hissed. “Delete it. Now.”

  Crossing my arms, I glared up at him. He looked even more like a dangerous animal behind the cage wires. He wanted to consume me. I saw it.

  “Delete the picture,” he demanded. His voice was ice cold; his eyes, even colder. His single step closer to me was an obvious threat. He stood tall, high above me. Every muscle along his arms and chest was tense to the point of shaking. His chest rose and fell like he was still punching the dummy and not standing still above me. “Delete. The. Picture,” he repeated.

  I jutted my chin defiantly up at him. “No.” The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “You hired me to help you and—”

  I gasped and stumbled back as Declan kicked open the cage door. He leaped down and stalked toward me, pointing a finger at my chest as I retreated as far as I could before my back bumped into a weight machine. My eyes were wide as I stared at him in shock.

  “Let’s get one thing straight here.” His voice was shaking with anger that only burned brighter in his narrowed eyes, the piercing blue replaced with the deepest of blacks. “I do not need your help. I need your obedience. I say blend a smoothie, you blend a smoothie. I say turn off your music, you turn off your music. I say delete a picture, you fucking delete it!”

  Before I even realised that Declan had moved, the camera was already ripped out of my hands. I lunged for his arm, but was too late—far too late—as he lifted my camera high above his head, drove it down with inhuman speed and strength, and smashed it to the floor.

  Gasping, I fell to my knees and lifted up the shattered pieces of glass and plastic that, only moments before, shaped my dreams.

  They weren’t going to fit back together. No amount of time or patience or super-strength glue could make my camera whole again. It was ruined. The pieces fell from my fingers as I stood slowly and looked Declan straight in the eyes.

  I wanted to make sure he saw me.

  I wanted to make sure he heard me.

  I wasn’t afraid that he would interrupt me this time. I wasn’t afraid because I knew. I knew he wasn’t going to fucking interrupt me, because I had only two words to say.

  “I quit.”

  Declan

  The wilted spinach was bland, the sweet potato had no seasoning, and the chicken breast was poached with not a trace of salt or pepper, and that’s how I knew I fucked up. I’d become well accustomed to Chef’s passive aggressive tendencies over the years. He knew I couldn’t go more than a few days of intentionally sabotaged cooking that he slopped out on a plate, entirely lacking his normal pristine presentation. He knew I would relent and apologise for whatever asshole thing I did that time.