#99c MMA Romance
Braden McCahill. His mouth's foul, his mind's dirty, his hands are covered in blood; his chiseled abs glisten with sweat. Whether beating money out of low-lives for his Irish mobster boss, or beating life out of amateur fighters in the octagon, a woman's heart hops; her body burns with unhinged desire when she sees that tattoo-covered bad-boy body in action. She feels light-headed and soaked through her clothes with the heat his sculpted physique, his entrancing green eyes, and his go-to-hell attitude inspire. The striking, handsome, Irish blonde brawler's hotter than Hell, and when he takes you to bed with him he'll make your body feel like Heaven; he's a car-crash of a stud, a heady human hurricane who'll wrap you up in his stormy, steamy madness and then leave you cold – begging, screaming for more. And, for seven years, he was all mine. We fell in love, and the world fell like a bag of cement onto our shoulders. We screamed and we kissed; we fought, and we had a lot of fun; we breathed one another. He learned to fight in the underground MMA circuit's rusty cages, and I learned what it was to truly live. But love's never simple, and it presented Braden with a fateful choice – the life of an MMA fighter, or the life of a criminal. Me, or the mob. He didn't choose me. Now, like a churning tidal wave off the coast of Boston's rusty docks, he's come crashing back in to my life, and I can't get enough of him. I watch him fight in the octagon. I moan his name and swallow his breath when we kiss again, it feels like those dull years away from him never even happened. He wants to sleep with me – with one rule. No complications. But sex always brings complications, and when it's two old lovers feeling the flame of passion anew in their chests, Braden and I might break our one rule – and when you fall in love with an MMA fighter-turned Irish mobster, danger hides behind every musty, rainy corner in Boston's South Side.