Page 26 of Ruthless Lord

Charlie

I nstead of heading into the locker room, one of Albert’s guys heads us off in the back halls. He’s sheepish-looking and his nose is crooked. It takes me a beat before I recognize Big Boss.

“Mr. Morton asked that I take you two up to his private box for tonight’s fight.” Big Boss grimaces as Stefano steps forward, getting closer. “Also, I should apologize for my actions.”

“You should grovel on your fucking knees for touching my wife.”

“In his defense, I wasn’t your wife.” I touch Stefano’s arm. Big Boss looks like he’s about to shit himself from fear. “I have a feeling this is Albert’s version of a joke.”

“Mr. Morton can be real funny.” Big Boss’s voice is shaking as he gestures for us to follow. “Right this way, please.”

“Listen to him, all fucking polite now,” Stefano says, snarling, staring at Big Boss like he’s a starving dog.

“Easy there.” I take his arm and pat it gently. That seems to mollify him, or at least it’s enough of a distraction. “You should focus on the fight.”

Big Boss leads us to the last private box.

We step into a luxurious space with a small buffet spread, a minibar, lush couches, several high-top tables, a quiet private bar, and tinted glass windows that lead out to a balcony overlooking the ring down below.

Albert’s most important high rollers are shown to this room, and it shows. Everything is sumptuous and high-end.

“I’m tempted to beat that fucker’s ass just for a warmup,” Stefano grumbles as he tosses his faded old duffel down beside a chair that’s probably worth more than a midsize sedan. “What the hell are you grinning for?”

“I just didn’t know you held grudges.”

“He tried to kill you.”

“And you choked him out for it. I think everyone’s square. Besides, the guy was practically scraping his forehead on the ground and pleading for your forgiveness.”

“He should still be dead.”

“Easy, big guy.” I touch his arm again. I don’t know why I keep doing it. Something about the fight tonight has me on edge, and touching Stefano calms me down. “So what do you do leading up to the big moment?”

He grumbles more about hurting Big Boss but eventually gives in. “Prefight ritual is stretching.” He sighs as he touches his toes. “Lots and lots of fucking stretching .”

I kick my feet up on the couch and enjoy the show.

Old Man Stefano grunts and groans through a series of movements, bends, and lunges.

He methodically works out each of his impressive muscles, which is one hell of a show, if I’m honest. All the while, he curses and groans like someone’s shoving hot pokers up his asshole.

“Why do you put yourself through this?” I say, sipping on cold Fiji water. Nothing but the fancy shit. Might as well be Philly tap for all I care. “I mean, you’re clearly miserable.”

“This part sucks.”

“So why do it?”

“Because the part down there’s worth all this.” He sighs and cracks his neck loudly. “I didn’t always have to do all this shit, you know. Back when I was younger, I could roll out of bed, beat the shit out of a dozen strong men, and get drunk that night before doing it all again the next day.”

“Must be hard for you, learning how to limber up.”

“You have no idea.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m not going to bore you with the complaints of an old man?—”

“Too late for that.”

“But fighting really is a young man’s game. The body doesn’t heal like it used to.”

“And yet you still think it’s worth it.” I get up from the couch and walk over to him. “Come here, let me help.”

“Not sure what you can do.”

“Lie back.” I grab his leg and push it back, loosening his hamstrings. I shouldn’t be touching him, but his muscles are too tempting. There are even scars on his legs, little knots littering his thighs. “God, you’re a mess.”

He follows my gaze. “I like to think I’m beautifully worn in.”

“Do you think scars are beautiful?”

“They tell stories. That one by my knee? That was a dog. A big fucker too.”

“A dog bit you?” I trace the lines. “How long ago?”

“I was… fifteen? Broke into a junkyard. Just about the biggest cliché imaginable, but it happened.”

“Bitten by a junkyard dog. I’m amazed you survived.”

“You’d be amazed by half the stories then.

” His eyes drift down to my lips. “Been through too much. Nothing ever totally heals right either. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but that’s just bullshit.

What doesn’t kill you now might kill you later.

My fucked-up knee might mean I miss a step.

Or my ruined elbows might make me hit a little too soft. A dozen injuries and more.”

“And you still want to fight.” I work on his other leg. He closes his eyes and sighs. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“Nothing touches the way I feel down there. When I’m in the ring, life is simple. It’s me and him. I know what to do. I know how to win. There’s no stress, no worry, no fucking desk or paperwork. Just my fists.”

“And his face.”

“Exactly.” He pulls an arm across his chest. “Nothing matches it. Well, almost nothing.”

“Yeah? Something finally crack that tough nut of yours?”

“Something like that.”

“Tell me, what’s nearly as good as fighting?”

His gaze meets mine and his lips curl. “Fucking you.”

A shiver runs down my spine. I look away so he can’t see my cheeks turn red. “That’s so flattering. It’s almost as good.”

“Takes a lot less warmup, anyway. You’re easy like that.”

“Hey!” I finally release his leg. I’ve been stretching him for longer than necessary, mostly because I can’t keep my hands away. “I’m insulted.”

“You shouldn’t be. Just means you like the way it feels with me.” He pushes himself up into a sitting position, shoulders slumped, big arms hanging loose in his lap. “If I had my choice, I’d rather have you. But fighting will do for now.”

I watch him finish up the stretches. I don’t offer to help. But I have to admit, watching him like this, I have a newfound respect for what he does.

I still think fighting is stupid and beneath him, but it’s something he loves.

Clearly, he puts a lot of time and effort into keeping his body in top shape.

This stretching routine alone is grueling, and I can’t imagine caring about anything enough to go through something like this several times a week.

Yet here he is, still going, even years past what’s allegedly his prime.

When he’s done, he strips off his shirt, just as Big Boss pokes his head back into the room. “Five minutes to the fight,” he says and quickly retreats.

Stefano grunts and rolls his shoulders. “I should go down.”

“Any way I can change your mind?”

“Take off your clothes and I’ll stay.”

I cross my legs. “Good luck down there.”

He looks at me and I can’t tell how serious he is. Would he really skip a fight to sleep with me? Or is he trying to get me to drop the rule?

I know the second I do that, I’m totally done.

If he can touch me whenever he wants, there’s no way I’ll resist him forever. Sooner or later, he’ll break me.

I don’t want to give him that chance.

Stefano strides out of the room. I stay on the couch, my good mood vanishing without him to watch. I find a bottle of wine behind the bar and pour myself a glass. I doubt Albert will mind.

I find a good spot at the bottom of the balcony.

Down below in the ring, my husband circles a man half his age.

He prowls, graceful and beautiful. Stefano looks like he’s a fish in water, home after a long absence, and when they come together and clash for the first time, I’m startled by his speed and strength.

He takes a beating. He gives out even worse. And as the two men strike each other, I realize something important.

Stefano isn’t old. He’s mature . There’s an enormous difference between the two.

He hasn’t given in to age. He could’ve rolled over and accepted fate a long time ago, but instead he struggles against the inevitability of decline.

He keeps himself in incredible shape purely because he wants to, and that’s the mark of a man who knows himself.

That’s true maturity. Coming into his own body, accepting who he is.

And here I am trying to make him change.

When Stefano’s fist finally shatters the jaw of his much younger opponent, I make up my mind.

I can be more like him. Or at least half like him.

I need to find my own maturity.

The crowd roars as I retreat back into the box.

My hands shake as I pour another glass of wine.

The door opens before I finish the glass and my husband’s standing there on the threshold, staring in at me, body red and glistening with sweat, face bloodied and beautiful, like a Viking returned after a long raid.

“Shut the door behind you,” I tell him softly, coming around the bar.

“Did you watch?”

“Against my better judgment.”

“And?”

“You were good.”

“I know.” He doesn’t move when I stop inches in front of him. He smells like himself, but more. Musky and deep and warm. “I thought you’d leave before I got back.”

“And miss my chance to congratulate the conquering hero?”

“Didn’t think you cared all that much.”

“I didn’t think I did either,” I admit, touching his chest with my fingertips, moving them upward. I pull them back and lick his sweat off, staring into his eyes. “But I changed my mind.” I tilt my chin up, mouth slightly open. “I give you permission to touch me now.”

He destroys the distance between us and pulls me against him with one massive arm.

His mouth crushes mine, hungry and desperate, like he’s been waiting to hear those words forever.

I moan into his mouth, not caring that he’s sweaty and I can taste his blood on his tongue.

I want him, I want all of him, and I have to be okay with that.

It’s time to grow up.

I push back and drop to my knees. He stares in surprise as I tug down his shorts and his tight briefs. His dick’s already half hard from one kiss, and I grip its base, licking his tip, sucking the sweat off as I take him into my mouth.