After he won, he wouldn’t hold back. He’d even rehearsed a little speech.
Wham, bam, Libby Lamb, you’re mine.
P.S. I plan on being the only man giving you Os from here on out.
P.S.S. Dougie is a right knob-headed mug of a plonker-loving twatwaffle.
P.S.S.S. Feel like having an O now? I’m game.
It wasn’t poetry, by any means, but it got the job done.
After the incident with her father, his protective instinct had gone into overdrive. He’d shortened his training sessions with Augie to spend more time with Libby and, in turn, his son. Pun-chi yoga went from an hour a day to three. Their donkey runs turned into day-long hikes with Sebastian and a picnic in tow. They explored the trails, especially those that didn’t have stacks of stones lining the sides of the path. They’d gone off the usual route and investigated weather-beaten barns, rundown mining structures, and picked wildflowers under the Colorado sun while the donkeys munched on wild grasses, birds sang out, and bees and butterflies crossed their path.
Yes, the British Beast, Erasmus Cress, bloody enjoyed frolicking in nature as well as arranging bouquets of fragrant bluebells, larkspur, and Columbine wildflowers.
He’d become a man of many talents this week.
But it was more than a shift in his schedule and his newfound appreciation for fauna and flora that had him walking on sunshine.
It was the remarkable company he’d been blessed to keep.
When he sat on the creek bank and looked on as Libby and Sebastian had a splash fight, his cheeks hurt from smiling. And in the evenings, when Libby put the boy to bed, he’d stand outside his son’s door and listen for those precious words.
Picture a time when you were truly happy. Hold the feeling inside your chest, close to your heart.
There, in the darkened hallway, he couldn’t help but follow along. With his hand pressed to his chest, thoughts of days spent with Libby and Sebastian bolstered his spirit. The man who’d once pegged yoga and meditation as a crock of shit now joyfully busted out a downward-facing dog and projected a positive aura.
Here’s the thing.
Pun-chi yoga was no bloody walk in the park. He’d come out of the sessions covered in sweat with his limbs trembling.
But the heat he and Libby generated on the yoga mat was nothing compared to the raging inferno that burned once Sebastian was fast asleep.
He could barely wait to have Libby naked and beneath him. Tangled together, writhing in ecstasy, he disappeared into the woman. All it took was one kiss, one touch, and the pain he’d carried these last three years evaporated into the sex-infused air. Sliding inside her, slowly filling her to the hilt, and the sweet, grinding rhythm of their bodies quieted the nagging voices in his head. With this powerhouse of a woman by his side and in his bed, he didn’t have to face the ugly truth. Her brightness drowned it out. That blue-violet aura masked his darkness.
It was as if he were living an alternate life, and he didn’t want to return to his miserable status quo.
And if he played his cards right, he wouldn’t have to.
The photographers jostled in front of them, clamoring to get Beefcake to look at the camera. He caught Libby’s eye as the barrage of flashes continued, and he knew that today, everything would change. He drank her in. With her jet-black hair pulled into a high ponytail and those sparkling amber eyes, the thought that had spiraled around and around in his mind over the last week solidified.
He didn’t want to give her up, and he sure as hell wouldn’t share her.
That’s why he had to win this donkey race. He spied Doug and his burro Ace across the square.
Get ready to have your arse handed to you and your bloody ass.
Just like he’d told Libby the night when he held her and kissed away her salty tears, he didn’t lose.
And he wouldn’t be earning an L today.
Victory would be his.
He could taste it. And then he’d never have to think about Zen Dougie again.
Screw the benchmark screw.
“Miss Lamb,” a reporter called. “Is there a reason you and Mr. Cress chose to run the Ass-in-Nine race in honor of Denver’s first responders?”
Raz raised an eyebrow at his burro racing beauty, curious about how she would answer that one.
Mischief glinted in Libby’s gaze. “Mr. Cress and I appreciate their hard work. We’re thrilled to show them our support.”
“I agree,” he chimed. “It’s amazing what first responders encounter,” he added, making Libby blush. He knew what she was thinking. Those encounters they had to deal with included arresting barefoot women and professional athletes for lewd behavior. Harrowing work, for sure, but he wasn’t about to refresh the media’s memory on that wild incident.
“Miss Lamb, tell us about your relationship with the Lion?” another inquired.
She stared at the reporter, her cheeks growing rosier by the second. “My relationship?”
“Yes, with Mr. Cress, as his Pun-chi yoga coach.”
Libby looked him over, her eyes devouring his body. “Erasmus is an excellent student. Extremely compliant.”
“Am I now?” he tossed back.
“You went above and beyond what I asked of you this morning,” she purred.
And now it was his turn to have his cheeks heat up. He’d spent the better part of the early morning hours between her thighs, making her pant and moan with his mouth. If compliance meant tasting Libby Lamb before dawn, he was on board.
Nonchalantly, he brushed at the corner of his mouth. “That I did. I’m always up for the challenge of going above and beyond.” He shifted his stance. Dammit! Thanks to the image of Libby’s naked body spread out on the bed like a dirty breakfast buffet, his blood supply had headed south.
Bloody hell, he’d be especially challenged if he had to run nine miles with a giant hard-on.
“One last question. That’s what we’ve got time for,” Briggs said, staring at his phone and frowning.
“I’ve got one for Erasmus Cress.”
Raz nodded to the reporter.
“Are you concerned that your pseudo-training with Miss Lamb will leave you unprepared to face the Irish Snake?”
There’s always a knob.
Raz narrowed his gaze, hardening his expression. “No,” he bit back. There was no need to say any more than that. This bloke was fishing, trying to provoke him. But he wasn’t about to fall for it.
“There are reports you aren’t spending as much time in the gym,” the man continued, glancing over at Augie, but the stone-faced trainer didn’t bite either. “And Silas Scott posted on social media,” the reporter continued.
Ah, that’s what must have soured Briggs’ expression.
“And what wise words did the Snake share today?” he replied, sarcasm coating his response.
“He said that you should think about changing your name from the Lion to the Donkey—or the Jackass. His words, sir, not mine,” the knob reporter added.
Bloody prick.
Raz stared the guy down. “It doesn’t matter what they call me. My name could be Erasmus Cress, the Pussycat, and I’d still crush Silas Scott.” Raz amplified his air of confidence. He could play the part of the badass boxer flawlessly, but that didn’t stop the tiny voices from clawing their way back into his head.