Elara Keane is like a siren's call in a sea of mundane - every guy's dream and every girl's envy. She's the kind of girl who could make your heart do backflips with just a wink, and yet, she's got that adorable vibe that screams wifey material. But if you ask Ryker Draven, the tattooed, smoldering hot mess of a boxing champ, he'd tell you she's pure wildfire - beautiful and dangerous. The night Ryker defended his title, the press swarmed him like bees to honey. Cameras flashing, reporters elbowing each other out of the way, all itching for a piece of The Ace. And there's Elara, hanging back, her cool gaze slicing through the chaos like a blade. "So, Ryker, rumor has it you go full monk mode before a fight. Booze and babes-off-limits. True story?" the reporter prods, eager for a scoop. Ryker, his face a roadmap of bruises and a trickle of blood painting his jawline, gives the kind of grin that should be illegal - it's that cocky. "Yeah, gotta stay sharp," he drawls, his voice a rough caress that could make a saint sin. Elara's poker face doesn't twitch. But inside, she's rolling her eyes so hard she can see her brain. If only they knew. Ryker's 'abstinence'? More like a joke they shared between tangled sheets and breathless laughs. Her friend, who's always up for some tea-spilling, nudges her. "Is the sex god really keeping it in his pants for a whole month?" Elara bites back a smirk. If only she could tweet the truth with a #LiesMyBoyfriendTells. But she plays it coy, her silence a perfect misdirection. "Poor thing," her friend sighs, "having a Greek god for a boyfriend and you can't even play naughty nurse." Little does she know, Elara and Ryker have a different kind of fight night ritual - one that involves less fighting and a lot more... cardio.
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