Knock Out (Worth the Fight) by Michele Mannon Read Free Book Online Page A

With a slight squeeze of his fingers, this little dancer would easily crush. He set her back in place, and settled himself onto the couch. Closing his eyes, he listened to Logan move about.
    “Here we go, just as I promised. We need more light. Would you mind turning on the one on the side table for me?”
    The small movement of twisting the light’s knob reminded him how his knuckles hurt like hell.
    Temporary relief came in the form of the tall cup of warmed red wine Logan placed in front of him on the coffee table. Later, he promised himself, he’d forget everything, except the feeling of being buried deep within the attractive female next to him. Resting a hand on his pocket, his fingers wrapped around the bottle of pills inside. After, when he was spent, if it hadn’t been enough to quiet his mind, he’d medicate.
    “Here you go. Let me see your knuckles.” She grabbed his wrist, brought it over to rest on her thigh, and arranged a Ziploc bag of frozen peas over the swelling. “Secret of the trade. An icepack won’t wrap around your fingers the same way. I can’t tell you how many nights I sat with these homemade packs on my feet. Didn’t help the blisters much but nothing beats it for bringing down the swelling.”
    At the mention of her feet, a memory of her on the ramp in those ridiculous pink Nikes made him frown in confusion. What was a woman like her—dressed in a fancy sweater and classy boots, conservative—doing strutting half-naked in the ring? She brought her legs up Indian-style on the couch and turned slightly to better face him.
    Tonight, clothing covered almost every inch of her, from thick, wool socks, to tight, black pants, and on to a large, soft sweater. Effectively hiding the shapely body he’d felt pressed up against him. The memory of her hot little body, her nipples pebbling up hard against him, that tight ass flexing beneath his arm, caused his cock to stir. Those layers did nothing to dim how freakin’ sexy this ring card girl was. Fuck, every red-blooded male in Pittsburgh had been talking about this Octagon Girl.
    For some unknown reason, the thought annoyed him.
    Women threw themselves at him all the time, though he hadn’t expected an Octagon Girl to hurl herself into his chest in a full body slam. Or block his exit from the arena. This woman was determined, he’d give her that, tracking him down at Finnegan’s and maneuvering Rosie out of bed, so to speak.
    “You certainly don’t like to mince words,” she said sarcastically.
    He liked that. She had spunk. He shifted and the movement of the cushion forced her closer. Yeah, she was just what he needed—a temporary distraction from all his problems.
    Logan had done something to her hair, pulled it up into a loose bun. Blond wisps escaped and settled around her face. She was prettier than he remembered. Attractive, and eager.
    Picking up on the heat within his stare, she flushed a pretty pink. He waited for her to act on it. A few seconds passed, and then she spoke. “You knocked Andy the Annihilator out in ten seconds. You’re a champion, that’s why Jerry wants you on his fight team.”
    “Seven seconds, in a guillotine.” He flexed his fingers. This conversation was going nowhere. The raw insistence in her voice pissed him off. Not at her, at whatever caused it. Shit, he could relate. But him fighting, that wasn’t gonna work out for him. Or her. A good fuck—now that would help.
    His hand found her thigh and shifted upward. The spark of hunger in her green eyes made his cock thicken. No surprise there, yet he was tempted to smile.
    Man alive, she was willing. He leaned further back onto the couch and stretched out his legs. Better if Logan initiated things. Less drama that way, by making her work for it, having her be the aggressor. Someone who’d enjoy exactly what he was offering. Someone who wouldn’t break into tears if he didn’t talk to her afterward. Or ever again—which he tended to do more often than