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  The Tempest

  BRIT CONSTANTINE

  The Tempest

  Copyright © 2017 by Brit Constantine

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Published: Brit Constantine 2017

  Editor: Isaac Mitchel

  Proofreader: Sarah Fielding

  Cover Design: Little Paint Box Designs

  Cover model: Patrick O’Hara

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Blurb

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue Part I

  Epilogue Part II

  Epilogue Part III

  Epilogue Part IV

  Acknowledgements

  Author Bio

  Outtake I

  Outtake II

  DEDICATION

  In memory of my father, K. H. Constantine. Thank you for introducing me to the secrets of humming.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Tempest is set in a fictional town in England, and is written in British English.

  Make sure you don’t miss out on the free outtakes found at the end of this book.

  The Tempest

  Blurb

  They call him “The Tempest."

  England’s most feared heavyweight-boxing champion.

  He despises the fame and glory, but it's nothing compared to the hate he inflicts on himself. All he wants is to be left alone to live on his boat in misery.

  When I line up for his autograph, it’s instant fireworks. But not the beautiful stars-shine-bright kind.

  He's rude. Heartless. A ticking time bomb of rage. Luckily, I'm not afraid to put a lit match to his fuse.

  I upload his private video to my one-million-subscribers channel. The video goes viral.

  The ex-Royal Marine nearly breaks down my studio door to flag me inappropriate…

  …while I’m in the middle of a live streaming event.

  I don’t tell him. I don’t switch off the camera. I keep recording, secretly playing to my audience. He should have checked if the camera was rolling, right?

  It should be a shipwreck from the moment the tempest hits.

  It is. And then ... it isn’t.

  Our attraction is painful, undeniable, and it’s like I am Eve and his lips are the apple, and damn if his tongue isn’t the snake.

  I am the only girl who can put this broken man back together again.

  But he knows the secret he is keeping will tear us apart.

  He knows it’ll force my hand to break ties with the only family I have left in this world.

  But once The Tempest, the man with the iron heart, falls in love … he'll crush anyone who dares to take me away from him. I have no choice but to go down with his big ship.

  Hook, line, and goddamned sinker.

  PROLOGUE

  LENIC REEVUS

  “FRESH MEAT TO THE SLAUGHTER?”

  LENIC

  “YOU TOLD ME you did make-up tutorials and shit,” I hiss.

  “I like to broaden my horizons,” Felicity replies. “I’ll try anything once.”

  This is bullshit.

  What kind of girl humiliates a man who saved her life only three days ago? If this is payback because of what happened between us…

  “Your fans love it,” she goes on, baiting me. “There are loads of comments expressing how much they love you. Love ‘The Tempest’. Is it really all that bad?”

  I look at her, all peaches and cream. She is playing innocence. She is anything but innocent. My mind is telling me not to take the bait; other body parts are screaming something else.

  “That’s not an angle you wanna see yourself doing. Nobody should see that. I don’t even wanna see me do that. And I definitely don’t want five million people watching me do that.”

  “It’s amazing ... You wouldn’t think a man the size of a mountain could be that … flexible ... It’s impressive. You’re a real inspiration to the big guys.”

  The smirk on her face is enough for me to blow my fuse, but I don’t short circuit. It’s what she wants. It’s why she did this.

  Instead … I’ve got a better way to handle her.

  “I’ve got no problem with nudity, Felicity.” My voice is like a serpent’s just before it strikes.

  If she thinks she can humiliate me with her little stint, uploading an embarrassing video of me online — she’s got another thing coming. And I’m definitely coming hard for her.

  I unbutton my jeans, and throwing it down to the floor I leave myself bare, giving her the full gun show. I don’t blink. I know I'm in better shape than I’ve ever been — arms that could bend damn steel with. And by the way she’s staring at me, I know I’ll walk out of her door as King.

  I wrap my large hands around her tight tiny body. The same hands that are only used to fight — trained to hit flesh and bone. It’s been a long time, way too long, since they’ve wrapped around something soft, something meaningful, something good and sweet.

  “This. Is. Me,” I tell her. “You can't take me down, Felicity. Because if anyone is doing the taking…” I pull her closer. “…it will be me.”

  I can’t ignore the fact that she’s straight-up sexy-as-hell in all that red lace goodness, and I start to second-guess why I’m pussy-footing around this.

  I’m like a shooting bullet from a gun. Fast. Powerful. Deadly. She’ll get her shot. But right now, I want her to know just who is bigger, who is stronger.

  “Now, is there anything you want to say to me?”

  The room is pin-drop silent. I’ve always preferred silence, it’s easier that way to block out the dark in my head, detach from the world. But the sound of her incomprehensible response to the slightest touch of my body drowns out everything else. The sound of her submission is the only thing I want to hear. I could easily give up my life for it; spend every waking hour making her cum, just so I could hear those sounds for eternity.

  “I…” she says weakly, finally speaking up. It’s a blunt contrast from her usual smartarse mouth. “I—”

  She gasps suddenly, covering her mouth in
shock, then snaps around to face the computer behind her. I hear the mouse click. I hear her swear.

  Well, that’s a little strange… What the hell’s going on?

  I watch her turn back around. Slowly. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Grabbing my jeans, I put them on. I leave my chest exposed, riding high. “Now you know who’s in control, so don’t think you can humiliate me and get away—” I start to say, but she damn well cuts me off.

  “I was live streaming.”

  What the hell’s she going on about?

  I grunt, meet her eyes defiantly. “What do you mean ‘live streaming’?”

  “I mean … this whole love affair … was recorded live.” She hauls her thumb in the direction of a camera. “I was doing a live streaming event when you broke through my door ... and … I thought it would be … entertaining …. to record us...”

  What.

  The.

  Hell?

  I pause, let the words sink in. “Is this some sick joke?” She shakes her head, and looks ready to provide some sympathy, some remorse, like a normal goddamn person. But then she laughs, like it’s the most hilarious thing to her. Like I am…

  “Fresh meat to the slaughter?”

  “Isn’t it always… between us? she replies, almost sinfully.

  I feel my blood start to simmer with…

  Bitterness. I hate that feeling of bitterness that wormed its way into my heart and festered away like so many maggots, consuming the dead flesh, leaving the tiny bit of good raw and painful. I tried to fight it, but nothing ever worked.

  One girl and … boom.

  Trying to take Felicity down is like being in the ring, except she makes me more breathless. It was an unfair match from the start. Boxing is the sport of kings or something. But this — her — is the damn opposite. She is the sport for the poor and the desperate, men willing to break their minds, hearts and souls. And she just stands there, laughing, raising the anticipation levels, probably hoping for a longer fight and baying for more blood — my blood.

  Looking at her, I feel my heart pound harder against my ribcage, but it isn’t anger fuelling it. I didn’t think I’d care about anything ever again. Stuff people care about, like babies and kittens and rainbows and shit. But all that shit could make me smile — genuinely smile knowing she’s in the universe.

  Twenty-nine’s not that old, but joining the Army at sixteen, spending my teenage years learning to blow shit up … and after what happened … all those years ago … after what I … the reasons I’ve been living a bitter, twisted life … it’s made me feel older than my actual years. But since meeting her, I feel young, dumb and full of … yeah … I feel alive.

  I’m known to rip heads off for the slightest error, so what I do next surprises the hell out of me. My eyes meet the warm brown eyes of the girl who is my Achilles’ heel.

  Felicity Saint James.

  Ah, hell.

  I’m all hers.

  1

  FELICITY SAINT JAMES

  Three days earlier…

  “YOU BAT FOR THE OTHER TEAM AND I DON’T MEAN THE TERRORISTS.”

  FELICITY

  TODAY, I WILL finally nail the moody bastard.

  The Blue Coliseum is packed, the air ventilation system inadequate in midst of a summer heatwave, and heat permeates the place. A film of condensation gathers on the ceiling and drips down the walls from the mass of bodies jammed into the arena.

  It’s Box Fest — a chance to meet your favourite fighters and watch the matches. I am standing in line with my friend, waiting to get an autograph from Lenic “The Tempest” Reevus. The ex-Royal Marine — now a heavyweight champion in bare-knuckle boxing — is built like a Spartan warrior. His pretty-boy face and hard-muscled body screams, ‘Hello girls,’ but his eyes are always permanently set in a deep frown. It’s like he would rather be shot dead than be caught red-handed with a smile. Most of his shots in the tabloids are of him giving the finger to the camera. Rumoured to have a hot temperament, he’s been known to smash a few paparazzi’s cameras.

  “I think you need to buy official merchandise to get an autograph,” Delphine says, standing behind me. “The board by the entrance states it.”

  “I’ve got merchandise,” I reply. “I just didn’t get it from here.”

  “Your boobs aren’t official WBC merchandise.”

  I look farther down the line and find I am about halfway to the table where he sits. “They’re official. As in real. It should count for something.”

  A distant roar of a crowd rises and falls, rises again. The boxing match is swinging in full force in the main room of the large amphitheatre. “They’ll turn you away. You won’t get his autograph.”

  “I’m not here for his signature, Del.”

  Time and time again, as each fan greets him, Lenic Reevus will use and reuse the same hand gesture that transfers his name to authentic sports memorabilia, and offer a quick fake smile. Not fake, as such. Forced, maybe, or that it’s slightly hellish and uncomfortable for him. Unnatural.

  I don’t need him to smile for what I’ve got planned.

  He appears tired and completely overworked. Despite the fact that he’s been sitting for hours, I can feel the fatigue over his body, enveloping him with darkness, taunting him over the how many hours he still has ahead of him.

  He needs something new, something to look forward to at the end of the evening. The sameness of signings, the desperate women and men, practically begging for his attention is probably getting old. He needs excitement. He needs someone to say something fresh.

  He needs … seven minutes of heaven with me.

  “I’m going to pass him my phone number to hook up. A quickie backstage in his private changing room.”

  “Flick, you can’t,” my friend condemns, her piercing blue eyes on me.

  “Life’s about living in the moment. I’m not going to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. He is everything a woman wants — perfection. A man who dominates with confidence. A man who chases the woman. A man with swagger and drop-dead gorgeous good looks. A man who has a terrifying sexual appetite and a staggering range of sexual technique. That’s Lenic Reevus, I guarantee it.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “In my dreams he is.”

  “Exactly. It’s your twisted reality. It’s just a dream. Men like that don’t exist. Not in the real world. Not for mere mortals like us.”

  “I disagree. I think we should dream big. Why not? Who says we don’t deserve to go get what we want? Men do it all the time going way beyond their league, so why can’t we? Just the other day you were quoting Ghandi: ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’”

  “Are you saying Ghandi is the reason the world needs you to have sex with Lenic Reevus?”

  As the line moves closer, I smile. “Yes. It’s a matter of world affairs that I have sex with him. I need to be that change. If I must have mind-altering orgasms to do it, then so be it.”

  “OK. You’re twenty-four. You don’t need my advice on the proper etiquette on how to get laid. But why are you choosing to hit on him now? You’ve had plenty of opportunities.”

  Lenic Reevus’ gym is just a pebble’s throw away from my house in Stonebrook, but I’ve never had the nerve to walk up to him. Today is different, however. It marks a time I want to forget. My grandpa supported me against the hardship of this day, but he sadly passed away this year. I guess I'm looking for a distraction. Looking to do something wild and reckless to banish the bad memories. A dirty one-night stand with my celebrity crush is the perfect antidote.

  I shrug. “It just feels right. All the sweat, blood and testosterone of the venue will steam things up for us. Filthy sex is the best kind.” I look at her. “It’s not a big deal. I’m seeking a one-time encounter. Not a marriage proposal.”

  She chuckles softly. “Go for it. I think it’ll be amusing to watch you try and catch him. Everyone in my yoga class has asked him out and he’s snubbed every sin
gle one of them.”

  “Gay?”

  “God, I hope not. Not after you caught him in the shower last month.” She fans herself with the baseball cap she just purchased from the venue. “It would be such a waste.”

  “Mmmm,” I moan, biting my lip, remembering. “How can I forget the video of the century?”

  A month ago, when the church bells woke me up at five a.m., again, I caught Lenic Reevus running across Old Marsden’s private land. My house and attic bedroom are situated just perfectly to see across Marsden’s land — with an expensive camera and 83x zoom lens attached. I struck gold when he decided to use the private outside shower by the boat sheds.

  My phone buzzes in my purse. I dig it out and raise it to my ear. “Hey, West. Where are you?”

  West is my brother — technically, not my real brother, but you don’t have to be blood-related to be family. He is set to fight against Lenic Reevus in the bare-knuckle boxing semi-finals at the end of the year. I suppose that makes my crush the enemy.

  “Still held up with my manager, babe,” West says. “Just wanted to see how you were holding up. I remembered what day it is.”

  I don’t want to remember that today is the anniversary of my parents’ death. Even though it was the day Grandpa Joe took me in, I don’t like to be reminded of what he was taking me away from. “I’m fine, honestly.”

  “OK, good. Look, change of plans. Meet backstage in my changing room in say … two hours? You still got those backstage passes I gave you?”

  “Yes. Delphine says many thanks.”

  “No problem. Anything for you, Flick. You know that.” I hear static through the line and then muffled voices. Stepping forwards in the line, I wait. “Sorry, my manager wants me to meet with WBC’s coordinator. Might not see me tonight, at all, which means hanging out at our old hang-out will have to wait for another time. But go on ahead backstage without me. I’ve made sure they’ve put your favourite cocktails by the bar. Just give them my name — they’re expecting you.”