Part 1 (1/2)

Unleashed.

A Bad Boy MMA Stepbrother Romance.

By Emilia Kincade.

Note to readers: The story depicted in this book is a full-length adaptation of Saffron Daughter's novella, Chance Her Stepbrother. The full publis.h.i.+ng rights were transferred to this author, Emilia Kincade.

Chapter One.

Looking at her a.s.s is making my c.o.c.k hard.

If she knew I was looking, she'd get all kinds of nervous.

I watch as she walks toward the street outside the school. She's got this a.s.s that makes my throat tighten, plenty to hold on to, to grab and slap.

Just imagining her in my bed, arms pinned above her head, is winding me up. G.o.d, I'd devour every sweet inch of her skin. I'd taste her everywhere, make her feel things she never has before, give her the absolute best lay of her life, and she'd be begging for more.

And I'm always good for more. It's the benefit of being a pro-prospect athlete in my physical prime. I never tire.

My eyes haven't left her. The way she pulls her hair to the side so that it falls down over only one shoulder is something I absolutely love. It's s.e.xy, shows off the back of her neck. I want to plant my lips there, want to kiss her softly, smell her there.

I want to bite her, dig my teeth into her, mark her. I want to hold her from behind, press my hardness into her a.s.s, and tell her in no uncertain terms that I'm going to have her then and there.

Of course, she'd resist. She'd pretend she didn't want it, pretend that she hadn't just spent a year doing her best to ignore me.

I picture driving myself into her, can almost feel her tightness around me, her sweaty body pressed up against mine, her t.i.ts in my face while she rides me hard, moaning in bliss and pleasure.

I'd turn her over, push her face into the pillow and slap her thighs shut so she became even tighter. I'd take from her everything I want.

Give her everything she wants.

And she wants it. That much has always been obvious. I've always known that.

It's not just because I'm me. Girls want me, that's nothing to write home about. I know I'm a looker, hit the genetic jackpot, and not to mention my body: Honed, hard, a product of my fighting training.

How can I credit myself for winning the genetic lottery? To do so would be dishonest.

No, she wants me because she hates me. Now... that I worked on. I will take credit for that.

But the thing about her that drives me crazy?

She's completely oblivious to how hot she is. It just pa.s.ses her by how s.e.xy she is. She has no idea how wound-up she gets me, how I fantasize about her, how she stole my attention the very moment I first saw her.

The truth is, she probably fancies herself a realist.

She probably thinks she needs to lose weight, but give me a.s.s and thighs over skin and bone any day.

She probably thinks that she's not beautiful, that she's not desirable. How wrong she is.

My tongue darts out, wets my lips. I want her, I want her all to myself. I want her to be mine, and only mine.

But she hates me. She's never outright said it, but it's clear that she does. It's not like I planted the seed, she did that on her own. But I helped her to water it in every cla.s.s we shared this last year.

That just makes it more fun. I love a challenge.

I reach into my pocket, pull out my pack of smokes. Coach is always saying I should quit. He's always saying that because I'm an MMA pro-prospect.

I haven't needed to yet. I will someday, but not yet.

I spark up a cigarette, and some teacher I don't know approaches me. He looks like he's got a two-by-four lodged firmly up his a.s.s.

Around us, students from the graduating year pa.s.s by in their gowns, excitedly chattering. School's over, and everybody is either looking forward to going to college, or to going on gap years, which is all the craze.

”You can't smoke on school grounds,” the teacher says. His tinny voice seems to drone out from his nostrils.

I just narrow my eyes at him. I watch as he wilts beneath my stare, like a flower beneath a flame. His whole body just keels over and withers.

Before he knows it, his authority is extinguished. What authority he thought he had. I'm not a student here anymore. No old f.u.c.ker is going to tell me what to do.

”What's your name?” he asks.

I just look at him, amused.

”Wait,” he says. ”I know you.”

I take a big drag of my cigarette, let the smoke drift out of my mouth and inhale it through my nose, like an upside-down waterfall.

”You know you can't smoke on school property,” he says. ”You little s.h.i.+t.”

The last word slithers out of his mouth, but he's got no venom. He grows fl.u.s.tered. His face becomes beetroot red. The blackheads on his prize-strawberry nose seem to pop of their own accord.

He storms off huffing.

That was easy, I think to myself, grinning after him. I notice he takes tiny steps, and that he's both flat-footed, and duck-footed.

As a fighter, I notice people's feet.

I walk out of the school, still gazing after her. I had cla.s.s with her for a year, and it was the only cla.s.s I had to attend.

I took a year off school when I was seventeen to do an amateur fight tour in Asia. When I got back, I had to repeat, and then make up what credits I was missing.

f.u.c.k it, I could have taken a wrestling scholars.h.i.+p. But I wasn't about to be a pro fighter who didn't graduate. Besides, it gave me time to work on my craft, and it introduced me to her.