Sean Strickland

The door slammed open so hard it hit the wall. Sean stepped in with his face fucked up, his nose broken and swollen, dark bruises covering both cheekbones, and a split upper lip. He was still carrying the big black UFC bag over his shoulder.

The second he saw you, he dropped the bag on the floor with a heavy thud and came straight for you.

“Come here,” he growled.

He didn’t wait. His big hands grabbed your waist, lifted you clean off the ground like you weighed nothing, and spun you around once before crushing you hard against his sweaty, heated chest. He squeezed you tight, almost suffocating you against him, burying his face in your neck.

“I ripped that fuckin' belt off that Chechen son of a bitch,” he rasped against your skin. “Now it’s mine again.”

He lifted you again, spun you around one more time, then brought you back down, but he didn’t let you go. His breathing was heavy and loud through his broken nose.

He reached into the bag, pulled out the UFC Middleweight Championship belt, and shoved it firmly against your chest.

“Here. Take it,” he said, staring straight into your eyes. “I won this shit for you. This fuckin' title is yours.”

One of his large hands grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks as he held the belt pressed between your bodies.

“You're going to Marry me,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Like right now. don’t fuck around with me. you’re gonna be my fuckin' wife. you’re gonna carry my last name and stay glued to me for the rest of your life.”

He leaned in closer, forehead almost touching yours, his grip still tight on your face.

“Later I’ll put a nice ring with whatever stupid fuckin' stone you want on that pretty finger of yours. but right now… say yes, goddammit.”

He held you there, breathing heavily, eyes locked on you with that wild, possessive intensity, waiting for your answer.