Page 9 of Love Punch

One minute, Miranda Priestley was talking about the colour cerulean and the next I was waking up in my bed, tucked so tightly into the covers I could hardly move my arms. When I finally wrestled myself free and my brain started working at close to normal speed, I realised what had happened. I’d fallen asleep watching a movie. Andsomeonehad carried me to bed.

I looked to my left, hopeful that Bradley might have decided that our rather unprofessional professional relationship no longer needed the arbitrary boundaries we’d set. But no such luck. The Bradley-shaped hole in my bed remained as it had for years: empty.

Right.Time to get up. I gathered myself and trudged to the little en-suite bathroom to get myself ready. I turned on the warm water, kicking off my pyjamas and Bradley’s dressing gown. I stepped under the spray and wondered if Bradley was undertaking the same morning routine in his much bigger bathroom at the other end of the house. Did he know how often I thought of him in the shower? Did he think of me?

One archaic rule that Jase insisted on Bradley following in the week before a fight?No emissions.No women, no men—not even himself. He said it increased performance to let that testosterone build. I wondered how often Bradley got hard knowing he couldn’t do anything to relieve the pressure. Did that make it worse?

I always wished he’d let out all of that pent-up pressure on me after a fight—but he never did. I wondered if he was getting it elsewhere, because he never brought anyone back to the house. I just didn’t know where. I didn’t know whether knowing would make things easier or hurt all the more.

I pictured Brad after a match. Sometimes, one eye would be swollen or there’d be a cut across his jaw. There was something so primal about how he threw himself into the fight that turned me on to no end. I imaginedthatBradley, the scary but erotic image of him after a fight, so pent up with energy and testosterone that he felt the need to push me to my knees and make me take him all the way to the back of my throat.

My hand strayed down to my own erection and I gave a couple of tugs, as if that would help relieve the pressure. Of course it didn’t, so I let myself give into the fantasy of Bradley until I was shooting down the drain.

The post-nut shame hit hard, and I cleaned myself up as quickly and efficiently as I could. I dressed myself in my usual work gear—fancy-ish chinos and a button-down shirt from the charity shop — and made my way into the main belly of the house. Bradley wasn’t awake yet and with a quick check of the clock, I noted that his alarm would wake him in ten minutes. So, I prepped his morning protein shake and waited.

When he finally stepped into the kitchen, I could have killed him. It was like he’d seen my fantasy play out and was determined to taunt me. He wore nothing but a pair of tight, white boxer briefs that left little to the imagination—verylittle.

“I could file a sexual harassment lawsuit, you know,” I said. For a second, Bradley looked startled. And then he grinned.

“I believe it’s in your contract that you might see me in ‘different states of undress.’ It’s hard to be prude when you’re an athlete,” he said, reaching for the protein shake. I moved it out of his way, then in the other direction when he grabbed again.

“Go put some clothes on and you can have your shake,” I told him. “Be a good boy for your boss.”

“I’myourboss,” he growled, reaching for the shake I childishly hid behind my back. “Seriously?”

“Go put some clothes on,” I repeated with a smile. I wish he knew it was for his benefit, so that I didn’t start humping his leg.

Brad gave a resigned sigh. “Fine…” he muttered, turning around and taking a couple of steps away. Then, with boxer’s speed and reflexes he spun and I found my back pressed against the counter. Despite my best efforts, he reached around me and grabbed the shaker bottle, but I kept a firm hold. Our faces were inches apart, but our bodies were flush from chest to toe.

“Mine,” he panted. And it took me a second to remember he meant the protein shake.

“This is assault,” I whispered, unable to stop myself from smiling.

“You wish.” And it felt like he’d reached deep into my silly fantasy land and conjured up that exact scenario. The thought shocked me enough to let go of the bottle. Bradley grinned, but didn’t step back. He was far too cruel for that. He stayed put, pressed against my body and drank the bottle down where we stood.Fuck.I watched as a stray drop dribbled down his chin and hit my chest.

When he was done, he gave me a toothy smile. For just a second, we stood there, so close we could kiss with hardly a movement. And then I shifted slightly, my leg connecting withsomething hard. Bradley moaned, the sound pulling from deep in his chest—and the moment was broken.

The shaker hit the floor with a clatter, remnants of shake splattering over our feet. I saw the moment the blood drained from Bradley’s face before he ran into his room. I wanted to follow him, to ask what the hell he was playing at—but I was just the assistant. And as much as our friendly, antagonistic relationship had served us well, there were certain boundaries I couldn’t cross. Rather, ones Ishouldn’tcross; and we’d definitely just crossed a line.

By the time I’d cleaned up the mess on the floor and washed the shaker bottle. Bradley returned to the kitchen wearing tracksuit bottoms and a grey tank top.

“Shit, that reminds me. Tattoo appointment. Wednesday,” I said as I tapped out a confirmation email. “Do you have the design? Sophia’s been asking.”

“I’ll send it through to her,” Bradley answered. “Let me sort it.

“Are you sure? Do you even have her number?”

Bradley grimaced. “If you could send it over…”

“Or I could just send over the design, as I always do.” I indicated his arm, the one that had been bare when we met. Unlike the wild designs decorating his right, the left was covered in writing. He’d told me they were boxing terms in the native languages of all the countries he’d fought in. After every win, I sent his requested phrasing to the tattoo artist for approval.

“I promise I’m capable of one thing,” he said. “Let me handle that, you handle…everything else.”

“Like media interviews? You have theDaily Mailcoming this afternoon for an exclusive.”

Bradley growled, as I knew he would. They had been the ones to out him almost a decade ago, and it had stalled his rise through the world of boxing. But he’d beaten the odds and was at the apex of his career now.

I sighed. “It’s a condition of the fight, which you’d have known if you bothered reading anything I ever sent you.”

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