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Read Online Books/Novels:

Fighting for Her

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Amy Brent

Book Information:

I was an MMA champion until a sucker punch from a sadistic opponent ended my career for good.
I have everything a man could wish for.
Women are drawn to me like moths to a flame, like magnets to steel. I could have a different woman in my bed every night if I wanted. Hell, some nights I have two or three.

Then I meet her, Fiona, the tall blond who hypnotizes me with her eyes and mesmerizes me with her body. She makes me feel things no other woman has ever made me feel. In bed, she rocks me like a punch to head and leaves me flat of my back begging for more.

But she has a secret, something she isn’t telling me, and when I discover what that secret is, people are going to get hurt. Some who deserve it, some who do not. Either way, I’m willing to fight for the woman I love, even if it turns my brain and heart to mush.

Books by Author:

Amy Brent Books

CHAPTER ONE: Fiona Cassidy

As crazy as it sounds, I think Kyle wanted me to catch him screwing Wendy Lowenstein in our bed that night. I mean, there was no way he couldn’t know that I would walk through the door just after ten o’clock. It was as if the whole thing was planned just to see the look of shock and disgust on my face.

Wendy was the head of Public Relations at Kyle’s company, Cassidy Event Management. She was a short red head with oversized boobs and undersized expectations who would have jumped off a bridge if Kyle had told her to do so. She was pretty in a harsh, overly-made up kind of way, with trusting blue eyes and plump lips that she always seemed to be wetting with her tongue, especially when Kyle was in the room.

It was sad, really, how pathetically taken she was with my husband. Granted, Kyle was a good-looking man; tall, fit, sandy blond hair, deep tan, bright green eyes, a quick smile that in the old days made me melt into my panties. He looked more like a surfer dude modeling an Armani suit than the CEO of a multimillion dollar event management company. And more often than not, he acted that way.

He was also flirty, overly so when it came to women he wanted to sleep with. Kyle was a self-proclaimed toucher and hugger. If you were a woman he’d find a reason to touch your arm or put his hand on the small of your back to walk you out. He hugged you when you came into the room and hugged you when you left. Sometimes, the hug lingered a little too long to be anything other than suggestive. He used to hug me like that. I used to enjoy it. Now, not so much. I find his hugs repulsive.

The most shocking thing about catching him fucking Wendy was that she was not his type. Wendy was short, full-figured, and a little too eager to please. Every woman he had cheated on me with, at least those that I knew about, had been tall and thin, with blonde hair and blue eyes, like me. Perhaps my bruised ego was assuming too much, thinking that I set the stereotype for women Kyle cheated with. Perhaps the fact that he cheated with women who looked like his wife was just a coincidence. Or maybe he never had a type at all. Maybe he had worked his way through tall blondes and was now moving on to chubby redheads.

I was not surprised in the least that Wendy would fuck my husband. She would have fucked him in the town square at high noon if he wanted her to. She literally drooled when he looked at her. Her self-esteem wouldn’t even have registered on the scale if there was a way of measuring such things. She practically had the words “USE ME” tattooed to her forehead, at least as far as Kyle was concerned. I always felt a little sorry for her, until I found her fucking my husband in my home on my bed.

It wouldn’t have bothered me so much if he had just bent Wendy over her desk and hammered it to her ample backside, but he brought her into my home, stripped off her clothes and fucked her on my bed. I had stopped caring long ago that Kyle fucked around, it was just a fact of life, but there had to be boundaries if he expected me to stay married to him. And my home was out of bounds.

Kyle knew that the charity dinner I was attending with his parents, the dinner his company was sponsoring, would end around ten and that I’d come straight home, putting me there by ten-thirty at the latest.

I should have known something was up when I saw that baboon Danny O’Shea standing outside the front of our apartment building smoking a fat cigar with the doorman. Kyle couldn’t have a bowel movement unless he knew Danny was guarding the door. It wasn’t like Kyle’s life was in any danger. He wasn’t a mobster, for petesake, though sometimes I think he pictured himself as one. His favorite show was The Sopranos. He loved Tony Soprano; the murderous, cheating, heartless, beefy mobster who did whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted without regard to the consequences. The thought of doing anything he wanted without accountability fascinated Kyle.

“Imagine living life without repercussions,” he once said as we watched the show in bed after a half-hearted round of sex. “How fucking cool would that be?”

That was his way of letting me know that I was a repercussion. I was the only one he answered to and he didn’t answer to me for much anymore. He didn’t care what I thought, so long as I kept up appearances and didn’t spend too much of the family fortune.

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