Frostbitten

Chapter 1: I’ll Play Nice This Time-1

Chapter 1: I’ll Play Nice This Time

January 10

Malcolm Frost had to be someone’s nemesis in the boxing ring—mine. Not that it mattered to me, since I still wanted to undress the middleweight contender with my bare hands and roll my fingertips over his hairy and pert n*****s.

He made me feel frostbitten.

I couldn’t have him sexually, though. Never.

I wouldn’t have him, or so I told myself.

Sometimes I wanted things I couldn’t have, Malcolm William Frost included. The world spun that way sometimes. Spiteful. Upsetting. Off its axis. Goodness and love had vanished from the planet on most days. Why couldn’t I get the guy I wanted? And why all the s****l tension between us?

The sexy and muscular boxer refused to have our chiseled torsos touch, even though I wanted to be physically close to the man. Never could we wind up in a heated embrace of mutual bliss because Colm, as I called him, had Melinda Moretell’s heart; a bombshell of an actress with her ditzy charm, model qualities, and numerous sexy stilettos. He loved Melinda. Every part of her. Everything about the Hollywood actress. To my understanding, the actress belonged to him, and the two were inseparable, lovers until their dying ends. To break their bond apart seemed unthinkable; something I wouldn’t dare accomplish, at least not on purpose. Both were intricate puzzle pieces that fit beautifully together. Never would they separate, or so I believed, and convinced myself, as one of Colm’s best friends.

Again, I studied Colm inside the ring at Ranard’s Gym on Nelson Street in downtown Pittsburgh. Memberships were steep and limited to use the gym, and both of us were lucky to have one. The man resembled fire on the mat, quickly shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, jabbing his practicing buddy, Brian “Beef” Tarkin, in the chest. Colm threw a bolo punch and followed it up with two rabbits. Beef had the reputation of being a palooka, a weak and unskilled competitor, who usually lost a fight. Colm used the guy as turtle meat to practice on, throwing random left hooks and a haymaker, which sent Beef against the mat, head-first.

Pleased with himself, Colm took off his head gear. A smile spread over his handsome face. Pride etched around his stunning eyes. Accomplishment twinkled in his pupils. The man opposed being arrogant. Instead, he humbled himself with pride and came across as charming. I considered him the man of my dreams, yet untouchable because of a certain actress in his life that I believed he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, marrying and loving forever, until death.

There, positioned on the sideline, outside the ring, I studied the twenty-six-year-old yet again and ogled his delicious features: thick curly hair the color of a crow’s feathers, piercing marsh green eyes, and an English-sloped nose. He had pinkish narrow lips, broad shoulders with convex-structured triceps, a muscled hairy chest, erect n*****s the color of molten brown, and an athletic hourglass shape. He stood at five-ten, featured toned hips, thighs of steel, and had a chunk of c**k hidden in a canary yellow Champion trunk.

Colm helped Beef up and off the mat and escorted him to the edge of the ring. They shook hands and exchanged words of encouragement. The loser climbed out of the ring and headed for the showers. Colm crossed the mat, walked up to the ropes on my side, and looked down at me.

He smiled and asked, “What did you think, Daron?”

The Liverpool accent had disappeared after living in America for twenty years; too bad for me since I thought it a turn-on. Colm moved from Liverpool to Greenwich Village with his mother, Eve, when he turned six. Eve functioned as a single mother, never married, and wanted her only son to have the best experiences in life, which she believed could only happen in America. The paperback romance writer felt that Pittsburgh had the slice-of-life they needed to survive, and the pair settled there, tucked in the polite city. Some two decades later, Eve now lived in San Francisco with a plumber, and sexy Colm just happened to live in downtown Pittsburgh, which pleased me.

“You’re definitely a fighter. God has given you a gift, and you’re using it with expertise. Kudos, my friend.”

He huffed and puffed for air. His silky and sweaty chest rose and fell as he waved me into the ring and said, “You need to get in here so I can beat the s**t out of you.”

“Always a gentleman, aren’t you, Colm? To tell you the truth, I’m good right here,” I confessed, grinning from ear to ear. “You already know you’re better in the ring. There’s no reason to prove it again, my friend.”

Frankly, he could slip his lean and muscular body between two of the ropes and let me brush my lips and chin against its bulging physique. Then I could make his c**k turn hard, and we could end up in the gym’s shower area together, naked and panting, sexually intertwined. That didn’t happen, though, and probably never would. Colm had Melinda for such s****l pleasantries, not Daron Tulsa—me.

“Come in the ring, man,” he begged. “I’ll be gentle with you.” He gazed at my twenty-eight-year-old, five-nine frame, blond crew cut, and Caribbean blue eyes. Colm checked out my block of hairless and suntanned chest, blinked a few times, and added, “Trust me. That’s what boxing is all about…trust.”

“The last time you said that, I ended up with a misaligned collarbone.”

He chuckled, staring down at me. “I’ll play nice this time. Give me a good hit or two, and we’ll call it a day. What do you say?”

Fuck it. Why not? The guy exceeded levels of hotness, came across as being sexy as hell, and a great boxer that I could learn many things from. I actually wanted to feel his sparring gloves make contact with my chest, muscular shoulders, and wherever else he wanted to strike me.

As he helped me up to the mat, I informed him, “No face. Remember that. I’m a pretty guy for a reason. Boxing isn’t one of those reasons.”

“Why? Do you have a date with Chad tonight?”

“Chad dumped me for a waiter. You know that.”

“That waiter with the four toes on his right foot?”

“Yes. The guy looks like me, except he’s younger. Chad won’t be with him long.” I rolled onto the mat, entered the ring, stood, and faced my competitor.

Colm chuckled at my loss. We bounced sparring gloves together and began to prance on the mat.

“You need to pick better boyfriends, man. Chad was an asshole. He treated you like s**t, and then dumped you. What the f**k was all of that about anyway?”

What could I say? Life liked to kick me in the ass. Chad enjoyed blond guys and any d**k he could shove into his mouth or ass. He excelled at being unfaithful and a liar. I became his emotional punching bag and nothing more when we were together. A few months with the asshole taught me to despise him, and then a breakup happened between us. Any longer, and I would have lost more than my heart.

“Tell me about it. This is the third guy who dumped me in a year. There’s something wrong with me. Guys just don’t want to be around me.”

“You’re cursed. It happens to the best of us. That curse isn’t going to let up until the right guy comes along. Give it time, though. Mr. Right is out there for you.”

Mr. Right stood in front of me, and he didn’t even realize it.

“I’m not cursed. This is a lifelong thing that’s going on with me. It’s like a tumor that won’t go away. Permanency.”

“Shut up and hit me, Daron. Give me your best. Hand me some pain.” He bobbed up and down on his heels, grinned, winked, and huffed, beginning our play inside the ring.

I carried out three consecutive body punches with textbook skill, none of which affected my competitor. Colm came across as a big guy, strong, and a better athlete. To knock him down seemed impossible, almost like knocking a steel building down. Usually, I never won a fight between us, not that I had ever planned to, of course.

He nailed me in the breadbasket with a potent right jab, taking the wind out of me a bit. Then he plowed my left shoulder and almost knocked me against the mat. I stood my ground, though, felt pain arc through my upper torso, and chuckled.

“Is that all you got?”

He laughed at me in play and prattled, “Take this, fucker.”

Then he executed a dirty fighting move with a head butt and low blow to my gut, which I didn’t see coming. The blow felt deliberate and exactly what I wanted from him. Rough play indicated a pathway to the man’s heart, I perceived. If he wanted a fight, then I would dish one out to him.

“You’re a sleaze in the ring. No championship for you,” I instigated.

“A sexy sleaze, though,” he said, using his best tactic with me: s****l play.

Boxing entailed verbal warring in the ring, not just physical hits. Outwitting each other with those types of moves created legends in the ring, a lot of cash, and an unquestionable status. If you wanted to be the best at boxing, verbal maneuvers were just as important as physical ones, and every boxer knew that.

“That, too,” I admitted. “It’s the only way to be.”

I returned a wink to him, already head over heels in love with the guy, and felt my heart thud within my chest. I craved his affection and whatever else he could emotionally supply me.

Sex with the steamy boxer occurred only in my dreams, unable to happen between us in the real world. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not anytime soon. Melinda owned Colm’s heart, keeping him from me. Colm always said he was straight and claimed he loved the woman. I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, interfere with their relationship, although a part of me wanted to. That could never happen, though. Not in my lifetime. At least not by choice.

We threw a number of hits at each other with quick movement and feisty action: right hooks, a one-two punch, and powerful uppercuts. Our footwork could have earned compliments, but we lacked an audience to watch our action play out in the gym that morning. Beef decided to pass on his shower and left with his gym bag.

Bobs and weaves ensued for the next seven minutes. To my liking, we ended up in a textbook clinch, which caused our bare chests and heads to come together in a firm lock. Our arms wrapped around each other like vices, and we stared each other down with notorious concentration. Both of us perspired and huffed like bulls in the ring. And both of us smelled rank, stinging with man-sweat as we stayed entangled together, face to face, and without a referee to pull us apart.

Frostbitten, I thought. He has my heart and doesn’t even know it. He has everything and nothing when it comes to me. Dammit.

Our torsos touched, and we heaved for breath. I could feel his c**k under the trunk, semi-snug around his beefy thighs: thick, long, and heavy. I couldn’t help but feel turned on by him, eye to eye and with such magnetism between us. Part of me thought it was due to his s****l longing, but it wasn’t, not with Melinda in his life.

Honestly, if I didn’t unlock myself from him, the c**k between my legs would have swollen into a full erection. Huffing for breath, tense and sweaty, tight against his face, noses almost brushing together, our bodies in an upright and locked position, I whispered the most ambiguous comment to him that I could muster, “You got me, Colm.”

“Right where I want you,” he groaned. He jostled his trunk-covered c**k to the right and then to the left, connecting it to my own c**k, adding s****l strain and friction between our unmoving frames.

Melinda Moretell. Damn the blonde beauty. I loved her and hated her all at the same time. I wished with all my heart that she wouldn’t have been in the picture. Yes, she acted like a princess and had the reputation of being royalty in Hollywood. Melinda carried many labels: gem, a lady, and proper. She stunned everyone with her beauty and seemed enjoyable enough to be around. Everything about her spoke of a refined sweetness with a mix of genial charm. Plus, she had the hottest boyfriend and treated him like a prince.

Hell, I bet Melinda wanted to marry him, because I certainly did. Everyone knew Colm Frost had the qualities of a good catch. Melinda possessed the same qualities as well. The two were perfect together, a great couple, and all for the right reasons. But why?

Guilt washed over me during those few seconds of unclear c**k-play with Colm, core to core. I abruptly pulled away from him. Why did he rub his c**k against mine? Straight middleweight boxers f****d around in the ring all the time, but they didn’t rub their junk together. Never.

Colm’s action didn’t make any sense to me, and it left me confused and awestruck. Why did he tease me? What point did he have?

I thought, Melinda. Frostbitten. Mr. Right. Then I exited our tight clinch, backed off and away from him, and raised my gloves.

“You win. You always win. I’m sweaty and need a shower.”

His chest swelled and deflated as he breathed. The hair on his thick abs looked matted with droplets of sweat, which created another turn-on for me and an awkward feeling between my legs. The middleweight boxer didn’t look phased at all by our work on the mat. In fact, he resembled a beefy Spartan of sorts, ready for our battle to continue, man against man, and willed to take me down with his power. Pleased with my idea, he gave me a semi-smile that could have dropped me to my knees.

He said, “A shower sounds like a great idea. Let’s go.”