Brawling Gabby- Ebook

With the Yakuza, the Italian mafia, and a local motorcycle club breathing down her neck, Gabriella Mitchell should be thanking her lucky stars that the members of Blackards MMA have taken her under their wing.

Instead, she’s lusting after her head coach.

Pushing all his buttons.

Making the widower feel things he hasn’t felt for five years.

Things that will spectacularly backfire in both their faces… when they allow their mutual attraction to morph into a night of edging and sensual self-gratification through the thin walls of the home they currently share.

The air inside Blackards MMA hums like a live wire. Sweat, leather, and testosterone. This is the holy trinity of this over-masculinised place. The mats are slick beneath my bare feet, pale under the halogen lights, and the heavy-bag row trembles in rhythm with the fighters pounding out their fury in their allocated rings. 

“Again, Gabbi.” Venom’s voice cuts through the noise. “Tighten your guard. You’re leavin’ yourself open.”

He’s a wall of calm in black compression gear. His stance is perfect when he shows me how it’s done. I copy his form. His strange eyes narrow with judgement, then he shakes his head. I try again. Another dismissal. 

Pulling air into my lungs until it burns, I exhale through my teeth.

“Try again,” he commands.

I nod.

My movements are met with a slow blink. 

He presses his lips together and moves his head from side to side. 

Temper flaring, I’m about to tell him to shove his instructions sideways up his butt when Diablo steps into the cage. The owner and head coach of Blackards MMA doesn’t need an introduction. Every cell in me feels the shift before I even look up. The hum of activity changes pitch. Dipping low. Electrifying. He’s already unwrapping his hands from his last session, muscles cording and flexing, sweat slicking the ink over his ribs.

Venom hits me with a look that tells me to focus, but my pulse ignores him.

“You takin’ over this drill, Diablo?” Venom says. He offers his friend a smirk. “Thought you didn’t train girls any longer.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it—” The faint scowl that twists his lips is partially hidden by the bruise from his last fight. “—but seein’ your shitty efforts forced my hand.” 

Diablo steps closer. Heat rolls off him. I can smell salt, the lingering notes of his cologne, and the faint tang of the rubber he has pounded during his warmup. Although I hold my breath after inhaling his presence, I resent my weakness. 

Ever since he moved into the home I rent from Angelo, we’ve been stuck with each other. 

The domesticity we’ve fostered, almost like we have been Matthew’s parents since he was born, is dulling my senses. I’ve come to rely on Diablo. On Angelo. On Venom. On the other fighters at Blackards MMA. 

The situation is untenable, a symptom of the ongoing flux in my life. 

I enjoy the reprieve I have from his attention when I’m training. 

My attraction to Venom is nil. 

The same can’t be said for Micah “Diablo” Kennedy. 

He can scramble my brains by stepping too close to me. 

“Gloves,” Venom orders. “Go.”

Diablo circles me, lazy and confident. 

I keep my weight centered. 

Eyes on his chest, not his face. 

The first exchange is textbook. 

Jab. Parry. Sweep. 

But in the next trade… he changes the rhythm. 

Feints left, then closes the distance so fast my breath catches.

“Too slow, little girl,” he murmurs.

Mimicking Venom’s earlier demonstration, my elbow clips his ribs. Diablo’s grunt vibrates through me. He stiffens. I use the momentum propelling me forward to pivot. Aiming for a takedown, I almost have it. 

Diablo twists mid-air. 

He evades my clinch. 

Circles my waist, then pulls me beneath him. 

We land. 

The cage mat bites my shoulders. 

Pinned by his body, I feel every bounce of the canvas. 

Voice rough, he repeats, “Still too slow.”

I laugh without thinking. 

Gazes locked, we grin at each other. 

“Enough flirtin’.” Venom’s bark pulls us apart. He claps his hands together as a signal for us to get back into position. “This’s a professional gym.”

Flirting. 

He’s not wrong. 

I swallow my retort. Push at Diablo’s shoulders. He lets me shove him. After lingering with his face level with mine, the big man shakes himself, then he allows me to roll out from beneath him. The entire time I’m in motion, his ocean-coloured eyes stay on mine. They’re stormy, full of black clouds, the same shade as every sin I’ve ever wanted to commit.

Venom breaks our strange stalemate. “Reverse mount. Now.” 

When we reset, my heartbeat’s a weapon in my chest. 

We move through combinations. 

Clinch. 

Break. 

Strike. 

I’m tentative. 

Knocked off balance by the hunger in his gaze. 

The terse instructions of my coach echo in my head. Venom goads me every time Diablo takes me down. Slowly but surely, muscle memory takes over. My competitive streak wins dominance over my thoughts.  

Until the only thought left is the desire to beat him. 

Diablo hooks my arm. I counter. He sweeps my legs. I land hard, air bursting from my lungs, and suddenly his palm is splayed across my throat. 

Not choking. 

Just resting there. 

Possessive. 

Testing.

Venom says something I don’t hear.

My world narrows into a pinprick. 

The older man’s weight over me. 

The slow drag of his breathing. 

The scrape of his stubble when he looks down and his chin brushes my cheek.

For one impossible second, I forget where I am.

Then he’s back on his feet again.

“Much better,” Venom calls. “Good enough for today… we’ll pick up from here tomorrow.”

Diablo offers me a hand I don’t take. The gym noise floods back in. Bags thumping. Men laughing. Water bottles and weights clatter against each other. The scrape and bounce of sparring boots on canvas. 

Annoyed at myself, I roll to a seated position. 

His hand hangs. 

I ignore it. 

Every place he touched hums with awareness. 

If we touch again, I’ll burst into flames. 

“You’ve got speed. Technique.” Venom crouches beside me, towel draped around his neck. “But your control’s slippin’. Whatever’s in your head, Gabbi, you need to sort it before it costs you a fight.”

I nod. 

Venom doesn’t buy my ease agreement. 

And why would he? 

We both know that my distraction stands six-foot-five with dark hair and a bad attitude.  

Thankfully, Diablo’s already walking away when I clamber back to my feet. The wraps he discarded to spar with me are being efficiently wound around his wrists again. He snatches a roll of tape from the closest bench, bites the end and secures his gloves back in place. 

I watch as he pushes the ropes down to step over them. 

Swallowing hard, I pretend I’m not enthralled by the sight. 

If he can pretend like nothing happened, so can I.

The next hour is a blur of cool-down drills, banter with Kaleb and Jep, and Venom’s half-smirk when he tells me to hit the showers because I will be partying with them at Nitro’s nightclub tonight. Throughout it all, the awareness rippling over my skin doesn’t fade. It follows me into the locker room, beneath the steaming shower head that relaxes my tight muscles, to intertwine with the scent of my Sol de Janeiro Mist & Match set. 

When I meet my reflection in the fogged glass, I look like someone else entirely. 

Someone hungry.

Needy. 

The door swings open. 

I startle. 

Diablo’s voice is low and raspy when he tells me, “You left your phone by the ring.”

He holds out the device, gaze flicking to the towel secured around my chest. 

His eyes do not linger. 

They can’t. 

Because the air between us crackles from the smallest look. 

Anything more would set Blackards MMA ablaze. 

“Thanks.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Appreciate you bringing it to me.” 

Jaw tight, muscle ticking, he nods. “Don’t forget to eat before we head out tonight. Angelo’ll kill me if you pass out on the dance floor.”

So casual. 

So careful.

Like he didn’t just have his body pressed to mine. 

Like his hand wasn’t at my throat.