Submission Moves: An MMA Romance (2 page)

He hadn’t been among those men she’d spied by the pool earlier. For one, he was fully dressed. His broad shoulders and chest were regrettably concealed beneath a white shirt with a scary-looking graphic print, and his long legs were encased in a pair of dark track pants.

“Hi,” he said, his voice a deep, rich baritone with a slight husky timbre.

A shiver jolted through Rose’s body. “Can I help you?” she asked in a voice she fought very hard to keep impassive.

A corner of his lips quirked. “I was thinking maybe
I
could help you.”

The glamour of that sudden half-smile just about turned her stupid. He cold help himself to her eggs anytime. Those were her ovaries talking, silly things. One look at this perfect specimen of manhood and the reptilian part of her brain was now commanding her to spread her legs wide open and make babies with him.

He lowered himself to a sitting position on the empty lounger next to hers, legs spread and elbows resting atop his thighs.

Don’t look at his crotch. Do not look at his crotch.

With the sun no longer behind him and with a conscious effort to keep her gaze from roaming too low, Rose studied his face. Dammit, he was even more handsome upon closer inspection. A rarity. He was so handsome Rose forgot to breathe, but her mind raced with thoughts of how she must look to him sprawled out on the lounger like that. How very unflattering the angle must be on her stomach and her hips and thighs. Oh shit, her thighs. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles self-consciously.

That sudden movement caught his attention and his eyes darted to her feet. With no attempt at subtlety, he let his gaze skim upward, slow and appraising, pausing where flesh met the V of her bikini top. There, it lingered. A little too long, in Rose’s opinion. When he finally raised his eyes back to hers, the merest suggestion of a smirk that played on his lips slowly broadened into a panty-shredding grin. He knew that
she knew
that he’d been staring at her breasts, and he didn’t look the least bit guilty about it.

Her chest had been an area of great interest for boys since she was thirteen years old. She was, to put it bluntly, stacked. God help anyone stupid enough to get caught staring, because Rose always had a brutal tongue lashing ready.

But now, even if she had been so inclined, she was too stunned by the shameless way he had checked her out to take any offense. Too stunned and too turned on.

“I’m Nick. Nick Rossi,” he said, flashing another smile with more wattage than the last.

After a moment’s hesitation, Rose took his proffered hand and watched as his rough, calloused grip swallowed hers whole. She was too intimidated to do anything else. Not a feeling she was used to. Rose was not a shy girl. She’d been called argumentative, assertive, and all its other iterations. She was no simpering miss. Not usually.

“What’s your name?” he asked after a few beats when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to volunteer it.

“Rose Shannon.”

“Well, Rose Shannon, I noticed you at the bar earlier. I would’ve talked to you then but you ran off so quickly.”

Before she could even think of a reply, a waitress materialized to plop a martini glass and a bottle of water on the table between them. Nick thanked her with a smile and she retreated just as discreetly.
 

“You wanted an appletini, right? I figured if you
were
under 21, you wouldn’t go anywhere without your fake ID. Not in Vegas.” He reached for his bottled water and unscrewed the cap. “But, I gotta say, you do look like you’re about 12 years old. Except for some parts. Some parts you’re all woman.” To his credit, his gaze didn’t drop to her chest after he said that, but he did give her a wicked smile.

She should be offended. She ought to dump the drink on his lap. At the very least, she should walk away. But his stare held her frozen in place. It wasn’t leering or sleazy, Rose didn’t think. Just openly flirtatious. Definitely interested, he left no doubt about that. She’d never had a guy look at her quite in that way before.

“I promise I just wanna buy you a drink. I’m not some weirdo,” he said when Rose still didn’t say anything.  “You can look me up on the Internet or something. Niccolo Rossi.”

Because she had yet to think of something clever or charming to say, she did the only other thing she could and reached for the cocktail. She took a long sip, hoping the alcohol would help loosen her tongue.

Taking that as his cue that his presence wasn’t totally unwanted, he leaned closer and asked, “You here with your boyfriend? Girlfriends? Family?”

“My sisters,” Rose said. “Sorority sisters.”

“Sorority sisters in Vegas, huh?” he repeated with a naughty glint in his eyes. She could guess the sort of “girls-gone-wild” scenarios playing in his head.
Good. Let him think that.
 

She studied him over another long sip of her cocktail. His eyes were a rich deep brown—like hers, framed by thick spiky lashes—also like hers. It was what Rose liked most about herself physically. Seeing it on this guy was a bit jarring. It rendered him quite pretty, an incongruity on his otherwise utterly masculine physique. He could be a model, as gorgeous as he was, but Rose was getting very strong jock vibes.
 

He stared right back at her, welcoming her scrutiny. At least he didn’t have double standards when it came to ogling.

“What would I find if I looked you up online?” she finally asked.
 

“I’m Niccolo Rossi, 25, a mixed martial artist with an amateur record of 12 and zero, all by KOs on the first round. Born and raised in Chicago, but fighting out of and currently a resident of Sacramento, California.”

Chicago. She almost said something at that. She was from Chicago too, born and raised. She planned on moving back after graduation.

“Never been arrested. No sex tapes or dick pics going around, not that I know of,” he added with a sheepish smile. “What about you? What would I find if I looked you up?”
 

Her social media accounts were as private as it could get, but surely the World Wide Web carried records of her
geekery
, or the causes she was involved with. It would be on local news sites or interest group blogs. But she felt uncommonly reluctant bringing those up while being flirted with by Niccolo Rossi.

Immediately, she felt a twinge of self-recrimination. Why should he get to flaunt his achievements, and why did she feel the need to downplay hers?
 

He waited, taking a sip of his water and not breaking eye contact.

“No alcohol for you?” she asked, evading his question altogether.  

“I don’t drink.”

“What are you doing in a bar if you don’t drink?”

“Enjoying the view.”

He
so
clearly meant her. Her heart, which had slowed to normal, was once again slamming into her ribcage.

“And I don’t drink when I’m fighting,” he clarified.

“Fighting? Oh, you mean, in the mixed martial arts thing?”

“Yep. It’s tonight. I’m just here with my team for some late lunch.” He nodded back to the cabana not too far from them where what could only be his entourage lazed about, burly men dressed pretty much in the same way as Nick. “Food’s good here too. But after the weight cut, everything tastes good.”

He took another sip and Rose watched, riveted, as his pursed lips closed on the opening of his water bottle. The muscles and tendons on his jaw and neck shifted and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he took three successive swallows. She licked her own lips on pure impulse.
 

“Ever watch any MMA?” he asked with a quirked brow and a grin that showed off symmetrical dimples on either side of his cheeks.

Rose shook her head.

“I could hook you up with tickets, if you want. Good seats, too. I’m not the main fight or anything, but I’ll give a good show. I always do.”

She and her friends had something else planned for the night, but she found his supreme self-confidence oddly intriguing and attractive, she couldn’t bring herself to say no outright. “I don’t know…”

“So how many tickets do you want?”

“Uh, one?”

“You sure? You can bring your friends, you know.”

Rose shrugged. They were supposed to hit the clubs. No way she’d be able to talk any of her friends into going with her. And maybe she didn’t want to. Maybe she wanted to keep this guy all to herself for now and not answer any questions they were sure to have about him. “One is fine.”

“Okay then.” He quickly excused himself to go back to his group. When he returned, he had a ticket for her.
 

She took it and slid it between the pages of her book. “Thanks. I’ll try to come.”
 

He nodded and took a step back. “I gotta go get back to my warm up and stuff. Enjoy your drink.” He gave her one last smile that Rose could’ve sworn made his dark brown eyes twinkle, then he turned and started to walk away.

Her heart plummeted. That was it? After all that flirting? She couldn’t claim to be an expert, but shouldn’t there be an exchange of phone numbers or something? “Hey Nick!”

He turned around, looking smug and entirely self-satisfied. Like he knew she was going to call him back. Like he’d been expecting it.
 

“Thanks for the drink,” Rose said as nonchalantly as she could manage. “And good luck tonight. Or whatever it is you say before a fight. Knock em’ dead? Break a leg?”

He smirked at that. “Let’s hope I don’t actually break a leg. We’re hanging out after.”

He didn’t ask her. He told her. Mother of all surprises, she quite liked it.

“See you soon, Rosie.”
 

Rose
. She should’ve corrected him. No one had called her Rosie since she was little. But she had a feeling that man would be taking a lot more liberties with her than just calling her by her childhood nickname. And, oh my God, she was going to let him.

CHAPTER 3

Rose didn’t think that fisticuffs and bloody noses could still faze her. She grew up with five older stepbrothers, all meat-head jocks who lived and breathed sports. Hockey and football were their favorites. During the off season, they took to beating the crap out of each other for fun. Because that’s what boys did, apparently. Throughout their childhood, those wild Connelly boys were in and out of hospitals for concussions, sprains, broken noses, or broken bones.
 

But nothing could have prepared her for what was happening just a few meters away. She watched in mute horror as one man’s fist connected with his opponent’s jaw. She thought she heard a chilling crack before the blood spewed out of the man’s mouth in an impressive projectile. He slumped down to his knees and the crowd erupted in a chorus of cheers and boos.
 

The arena was massive and dim all over except for its bright spot-lighted center and the occasional flashes of neon lights. The men fought on a raised octagonal platform, made all the more ominous by the chain-linked fence that enclosed it.
 

This is as real as it gets,
she thought, at once thrilled and disgusted. Normally, she wouldn’t have the stomach for this level of violence, but she found herself morbidly fascinated. She could appreciate the valor it took to step into a cage with another highly-trained fighter and, more so, to shake his hand after the final bell. While the whole thing was rather savage, there was also nobility about it. But maybe that was just the latent romantic streak in her talking. Either way, she could see why men would be drawn to this gruesome sport. Gruesome but so bad-ass.
 

“How was that for your very first live MMA fight? Was that awesome or what?”
 

Rose turned to the sound of the voice and her breath froze. They looked so much alike it
still
took her by surprise. Same eyes, same nose, and same mouth, but Nick’s younger brother had none of his smooth self-assurance, nor his dimples. Angelo was also a couple of inches shorter, leaner and younger, closer to Rose’s age. He was a watered-down, more accessible version of Nick. Very friendly and handsome, but a bit of a doofus.
 

“That was…wow. That was very exciting. I like it,” she said, surprised that she meant it.
 

Angelo laughed and clapped her on the back. He’d been waiting for her when she arrived in her seat before the first fight began with instructions from Nick to keep her company. Rose was touched and a little surprised by the gesture. She hadn’t pegged Nick as the thoughtful type, what with all his muscles and macho swagger. What other surprises could he be hiding under that pretty face and ridiculously buff body? Maybe he was some sort of a genius with a doctorate or a successful start-up somewhere. Unlikely, but a girl could dream, right?