Panic drove at me as a litany of 'fuckfuckfuck' echoed in my Jameson-soaked brain. Why? Why would I risk everything for a woman I didn't know or care about? I lifted my face to the shower spray and prayed for some kind of clarity, even though prayer wasn't something I believed in.

So, now I had damage control to deal with — what was my first step?

Apologize, grovel, beg for forgiveness, plead temporary insanity.

Seemed legit.

Especially the insanity part. No one would question that I'd lost my ever-loving mind when I reared my fist and plowed it into Davonte’s nose.

I scrubbed at my face with the coarse washcloth and gave my nuts and cock a quick once-over. My cock stubbornly ignored the message that the chick in the other room wasn't anything but a ball of trouble and kept trying to harden as if something was going to happen.

Jesus, I palmed my cock roughly, knock it off, already.

But the rough touch was the wrong thing to do.

Suddenly, my semi-hard cock was steel encased in hot skin.

No whiskey dick problems here, I thought grimly.

Now wasn’t the time to get off. I had bigger problems.

But my entire body tensed, needing that release.

Fine, I conceded, lathering up my cock with more soap for a nice, slippery sensation. It wasn’t a hot pussy but it’d do.

I closed my eyes and stroked my cock, needing to feel something other than this overwhelming fear that I'd just signed my death warrant and killed my career in one punch.

Too much pent-up testosterone.

I hadn't jerked off in a while.

My balls were practically purple.

I'd been so focused on getting back in the ring, I hadn't spared a moment for a quick wank, even if just to relieve the pressure.

Big tittied women flashed in my brain and I stroked harder, squeezing the base and shaft for a tight fit.

God, I loved big tits.

Just like the woman's I woke up to this morning.

Yeah, she was the perfect package.

Small waisted, big hips and tits, and barely reached my chest. I could pick her up and impale her on my cock without breaking a sweat.

No, I shook my head, don't think of her. She's the reason I’m in this mess.

But I was already close.

That familiar tingle at the base of my cock, building in my balls, was already getting ready to go nuclear. I braced myself against the shower wall, a groan locked tightly behind my teeth. I didn't want to think of her but each time I shoved her away in my mind, desperately grabbing onto nameless, faceless chicks to finish, she crowded back in.

Those golden eyes.

Those perfectly thick hips that made me want to grip with both hands so I could sink my face into her hot pussy.

All that long, red hair flowing down the curve of her back.

And, yeah, that was all I could take.

FUCKKKKKKK! That groan I'd tried to hold back, escaped from my clenched lips as I blew a nut so hard it could've punched a hole in the wall.

I sagged as my knees weakened.

Sobriety came with a thunderclap and I realized I was in such deep shit I couldn't even fathom the depth.

Davonte wasn’t a forgiving man.

He ruled The Underground and with good reason.

No one messed with the King of Detroit.

But I’d broken his nose.

For her?

I didn’t even know the woman.

But my cock seemed to heartily approve.

Ahh, fuck me. I’d screwed the pooch royally this time.

I rinsed off, pushed aside the knowledge that I'd cum harder than ever before by thinking of her, and shut off the water.

Time to figure this shit out.

First things first, coffee.

Then, answers.

If she thought she'd hitched her wagon to some kind of hero, she had another thing coming.

As far I was concerned, I'd be happy to dump her happy ass back on Davonte’s doorstep with a giant bow perched on her head.

I drew a deep breath, wrapped the towel around my mid-section and exited the bathroom with a plan.

I’d set her straight — tell her she was going back to Davonte with my apologies.

I’d carry her ass the entire way if I had to.

She could kick and scream all she wanted — not my problem.

I felt relatively good with this plan. It wouldn’t do any favors for my ego — groveling wasn’t my thing, not for no one — but neither was dying so groveling was the plan.

Except, my bedroom was empty.

And the woman was gone.