Beneath the Surface

by M.A. Stacie

  “Wouldn’t this be considered sexual harassment, Mr. Reese?” Dale asked, breathless.

  She began to wriggle her hips in an attempt to free herself. However, with each movement, she ground herself against his thigh. He groaned, gathering every ounce of strength he had not to take this further.

  “Only if you feel harassed, Ms. Porter,” he whispered, bringing his face closer to hers. The vanilla scent grew stronger. He hated vanilla. It now reminded him of his crumbling control. Nevertheless, her smell, coupled with her constant writhing, was turning him on. “And if you do, I suggest you report it to your superior.”

  Her cheeks grew darker, the light petal-pink blush now bursting into a rosy hue. Fire blazed from her green eyes, and his body went on lock-down, concentrating on the woman pressed against him.

  “Maybe I’ll do that.”

  Moving his mouth to her ear, he delivered a quick flick of his tongue to her lobe. Her flavor burst along his taste buds, his mouth salivating, his groin tightening, and the little voice that told him this was wrong was buried in a landslide of lust.

  “If you would like to make an appointment with my assistant, I’d be happy to hear your complaint, Ms. Porter.”

  He felt her shiver at his words; Dale understood what he meant. His erection flourished in response. He sniffed the crook of her neck, drinking her in. His hormones drove him now, all reasonable thought lost in the deluge of desire.

  Dale stopped squirming, but her breathing increased. The blush that had lit up her cheeks was now spreading down her throat and blooming across the swell of her breasts.

  He wanted her. It was that simple. He wanted her like this; hot, grinding, and ready to rip him to pieces. For a man who had complete control of everything in his life, it shook him to the core that it all dissolved so quickly around one woman. She was like a siren calling to him.

  Whenever he was around her, he felt a need to touch her and possess her.

  It beat at him now, yelling at him to take her, make her his, and again that instinct overtook him.

  He opened his mouth and touched his tongue to the base of her neck.

  This time the moan of arousal came from Dale as he began licking up to her ear. His senses intensified the further he climbed up her flesh with his tongue.

  His hard cock twitched even more when Dale gasped and pushed her neck closer to him. She thrust her hips against his thigh, her silent demands increasing. The urge to mark her and bite down on her skin was strong. So intense that he had to bite his own lip to stop it from happening.

  Blood bloomed on his tongue from his teeth breaking the sensitive skin of his lip. But it wasn’t the first time he’d tasted his own blood, nor would it be the last. His body was used to the mutilation and healed quickly.

  His entire system vibrated with lust, his crotch tightened each time Dale writhed against him. Her breath floated across his cheek in short, sharp gasps, mirroring his own breathlessness.

  Moving her wrists into one hand, it left his free one to roam her delicious body. Dale’s tight dress covered her body like a second skin, flaunting her every curve. Images of hot, sweaty nights in his bed, wearing nothing but each other, blossomed in his head, and Kyran cupped her ass to drag her further up his thigh.

  “We . . . should . . . stop,” she said, breathing heavily, her actions contradicting her words as she rubbed her sex faster on his thigh.

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Door.” She pushed her chest against his, trying to lower her leg. “The elevator stopped.”

  Her words doused him in ice-cold water. He dropped her arms like they were on fire, tearing himself away from her. What the hell had just happened, and how had he lost himself so completely?

  Dale looked to the floor, smoothing her dress before squatting to pick up the files. Kyran cleared his throat, his arms feeling bereft without her heat pulsing against him. Disgusted by his body’s reaction, he battled with his composure, trying to figure out how things got so out of hand.

  She clutched the files to her chest. “I should go. Taylor will be wondering where I am.”

  “I’m surprised he knows who you are. He’s usually too messed up to notice.”

  Dale shot him a confused look. “He seems very nice so far. He told me to be careful around you, you know? Guess he was right.”

  Irritation pulsed within him. “He did what? He’s got some fucking nerve.”

  She smiled, seemingly unconcerned with his outburst. The thought of his brother implying things about him made his blood boil, and he wouldn’t let it rest there. He was going to talk to him about it.

  “What did you mean before?” he said, hauling his gym bag back onto his shoulder.

  Dale stood, still trying to correct the files, and scowled at him. “Huh?”

  “You asked me about the dress code. What were you talking about?”

  She rolled her green eyes to the ceiling of the elevator before fixing on his. “Seriously? You’re asking me that after what just went on in here?”

  “Yes,” was his blunt response.

  Shaking her head, Dale pursed her lips before replying, the flush to her cheeks now melting away. “You have no shirt on. Don’t get me wrong, I love the muscles and tats and everything, but you don’t seem the kind to walk around here half naked. I was just pointing that out.”

  Surprised, Kyran looked down to his chest. How had that slipped past him? How many people had seen him in such a state? Dale was the cause.

  She was responsible for his spiral into oblivion. He didn’t like it one bit.

  Pointing at her and ignoring the tremble of his hand, he snapped, “It’s your fault. You!”

  Her mouth hung open, ready with a retort. He didn’t hear it because he was already stalking out of the elevator and away from her.

  He needed to smell something other than vanilla.

  Chapter 4

  “I thought you were staying away from this joint for a while.”

  Kyran shrugged as Sam wrapped his knuckles. “That was the plan.”

  “And things didn’t go according to plan? That’s not like you, kiddo.

  What’s the deal?”

  Switching hands, he watched Sam wrap. He clenched his bandaged hand, testing its tautness. “I needed the outlet. Work’s been hell.”

  “Work was the reason you were staying away.” Sam pointed out the obvious. “So I’m not buying that.”

  “Buy whatever you want. I refuse to give you anything else.”

  Sam stepped away, grumbling. Kyran slid off the bench and adjusted his shorts, resting them low on his hips. He punched out a quick combination, ending with an uppercut underneath Sam’s chin. He stopped just short of a connection. The old man’s eyes glinted, and he raised his own fists. “I could still take you.”

  Kyran grinned, bobbing and weaving out of the way of Sam’s fists.

  They always ended up like this. It calmed him and allowed him a quick warm-up at the same time. Sparring with the old man gave him the boost he needed to step out into the club and face his opponent.

  “I see you picked an easy one tonight.”

  It was clear to Kyran that Sam wasn’t about to give up his fishing. He wanted answers. The man had known him long enough to understand when something wasn’t quite right with him. Kyran often confided in him, sometimes wondering if Sam was the only person who knew the true him.

  Tonight, however, he kept it to himself.

  He wouldn’t know what to say about Dale Porter even if he did spill.

  The woman had him lost for words.

  “I picked who I could deal with without fucking up my face.”

  Sam grasped Kyran’s chin, puckering his lips and making kissing noises. “And we can’t scar something so beautiful, can we, darling?”

  “Shut it, Sam.”

  Kyran ripped himself free of the man’s hand and repeated his punch combination: jab, jab, uppercut. He bounced on the balls of his feet, warming his legs up before st
retching out his arms. “Okay, I’m ready. Bring it.”

  Sam gave him a short clap and opened the door to the main bar.

  It was always the smell that hit him first. The mix of beer, sweat, and blood filled his nostrils and flooded his lungs until he could almost taste it.

  His adrenaline surged, pumping him up and increasing his excitement.

  The patrons of the club cheered when they saw him, clapping at his entrance, and jeering at his competitor.

  Kyran did a quick sweep of the club, assessing his surroundings. His opponent stepped into the ring, which was nothing more than a chalked circle on the concrete floor. Kyran stiffened his spine and stretched his neck from side to side.

  Music pumped out from the speakers, slightly muffled by the sounds of the crowd but still enough to rev him up.

  This was what he needed. This was what he lived for. No amount of buying and selling businesses could beat the buzz he got from it. Tomorrow would be better—his senses would be heightened and his rigid control would return.

  Bouncing gently on the cold floor, he tested his feet. They were bare, but also bandaged. Kyran disliked the feel of any form of sneaker while he fought. It had cost him a broken toe or two in the past, but nothing compared to the feeling of leading himself by his baser instincts.

  “You ready, kid?” Sam slapped him on the back. Kyran welcomed the sting and nodded. He twisted his head from side to side and entered the ring, greeted by a loud cheer.

  His competitor stepped forward, and Kyran let his gaze drift over the man’s body. He’d known Cal for as long as he’d been fighting. They had sparred on many occasions, though Kyran would never describe them as friends. The man had a temper, and a fighter didn’t make friends with other fighters. He couldn’t really smash a guy he liked in the face.

  A smirk teased the side of his mouth, testing the other man’s restraint.

  Newbies would often snap at that point, lashing out on an early quest for blood. At that point, it took only one swift punch to gain a knock-out.

  This one held still.

  Assessing the man’s height and weight, Kyran gauged their differences, trying to find his Achilles’ heel. The man’s frame was thinner, not as toned, and his arm was strapped tight in bandages, seemingly supporting a previous injury. When he bobbed before offering a quick jab, Kyran noticed he winced.

  Bingo!

  They circled each other, eyes locked, fists raised. They were taking their time and jeers from the crowd started to rumble through the space.

  Kyran ground his teeth. He would not be rushed; this cat and mouse segment was all part of the fight.

  Sweat began to coat his skin, trickling from his temples down the side of his face. He blinked once, breaking the eye contact.

  His opponent struck. Kyran weaved to dodge the fist that flew at his face. A wave of warm air followed, warning him how close he’d come to receiving the black eye he was trying to avoid. The crowd clapped loudly, shouts and hollers increasing in volume. He could do this. He’d beaten guys bigger than this many times before, though on those occasions he hadn’t been as distracted.

  Another fist flew, this time connecting with his shoulder. The sting was enough to force Kyran into battle mode. He swung out, hooking his arm in an attempt to hit the side of Cal’s face. He bobbed, squatting a little so Kyran’s fist slipped over his head.

  “Shit,” he said, spitting onto the floor and struggling to gain focus.

  Full of rage, Kyran punched out a one-two combo, the muscles of his shoulder twisting and contracting in pain. The combo paid off—each one he launched made impact: eye, cheek, jaw. Cal’s skin reddened, a small cut giving Kyran the encouragement he needed.

  With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Kyran belted out three consecutive hits, all connecting. His breath came in short bursts while he pummeled the man in front of him. There was little time to comprehend any pain he felt, although his ribs ached terribly.

  The crowd grew closer, the circle around the men tightening. It made the air thinner and the smell of sweat and stale beer stronger. Kyran’s chest constricted, and each breath he took became a struggle.

  Cal’s uppercut slammed into Kyran’s jaw, causing his teeth to crash together painfully. He growled, anger fermenting in his bloodstream as he turned and jabbed, the bandage slipping off his knuckles when he pulled his fist back. Blood coated the abraded skin, and whether it was his or the other guy’s, he didn’t know. Nor did he have time to contemplate it as he blocked Cal’s fist and bobbed out of the way to dodge another.

  His feet slipped on the sweat-and blood-smeared concrete floor. He wobbled but remained upright. Cal’s punches were flying thick and fast.

  However, for each one he dodged, he landed twice as many. The man’s face was a disaster zone.

  A copper tang hit his tongue—one Kyran recognized very well. He was bleeding. The fucker had cut his face. His vision clouded red, and his pulse pounded in his ears. The next punch he delivered with a roar, launching his arm forward and hitting with every ounce of strength he |

  could muster. Bones cracked as Cal’s head snapped back. Blood sprayed in all directions, wetting Kyran’s strapped hand and dripping down his arm.

  Elation blasted through him. Nothing could come close to the feeling he had the moment he realized he’d won. Not even sex. An orgasm was satisfying, but beating a guy with his bare hands until he knocked him out gave him so much more. Here he was in complete control. He was good at it, and his ability was never questioned, unlike his father did at work. Kyran also needed this outlet to release every ounce of stress. It was a strange sport but one that worked well for him.

  The crowd went crazy, and his opponent swayed as Kyran watched the man’s eyes dull then close. Cal sagged to the floor with a thunk, his head lolling at an odd angle, an action reminiscent of a rag doll. A bellow of remaining rage escaped Kyran’s lips, his fist clenching.

  Sam slapped him on the back, his mouth close to his ear. “Good job, kid. Good job.”

  Kyran’s whole body sagged, the tension that had been keeping his muscles taut finally fading away. Calmness surrounded him, the very feeling he’d been trying to get since Ms. Porter stumbled into his office in her silly heels.

  “Let me see your face.” Sam turned his face to the side. Instinctively, Kyran tugged away, and then pushed past the excited crowd and grasping hands, heading back to the locker room. His feet slapped against the floor, his bandages slipping a bit. His torso was drenched in sweat, every inch of skin slick, every muscle pumped. Sam followed close behind.

  “Later, Sam. I need to get clean,” Kyran said, opening the locker room door.

  His pounding heart only now began to slow down. An ache had begun at his elbows, reverberating through his arms. He pushed past it with only the showers in his thoughts.

  “Not later. Now.” Sam stopped Kyran in his tracks. Groaning and relenting, Kyran sat down and unwrapped his hands. The bandages were soiled, bloody like his knuckles. They hadn’t protected him. Cuts marred his skin, along with his feet. The floor of Metro wasn’t the best place to go barefoot, so his feet usually ended up cut. What must his face be like if his hands and feet were this messed up?

  “Is it bad? I’ve got fucking meetings tomorrow.” Kyran snarled in pain as Sam inspected his forehead. He tried to stand and look in the nearest mirror, but Sam pressed on his shoulder, making sure he remained seated as he brought a cold cloth to clean the drying blood off Kyran’s face.

  “I don’t know. Let me shift this shit, and I’ll be able to tell you.”

  Not bothering to be gentle, Sam swiped the cloth around Kyran’s face.

  Instantly, he felt the sting. It started at his eyebrow and zipped down the lid where his whole eye throbbed. Sam hissed at the same time as Kyran. “It’s not good, kid. It’s already starting to swell.”

  “Swell? It feels like a cut.”

  “Along with a mighty black eye. You’re gonna need to borrow your girl�
�s makeup to cover that up tomorrow.”

  Kyran ignored the comment about a girlfriend and reached up to touch his swollen face. “Fuck!”

  He shoved past Sam, stumbling over to the mirrors to get an eyeful of what he looked like. It wasn’t pretty, and it would be far worse in the morning.

  “He only got one decent punch in,” Kyran said.

  “That’s all he needed.” Sam placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Did you really think you could come here tonight and not get a little banged up? You know the score, kiddo.”

  Kyran picked up a clean towel and stomped across to the showers. “Go away, Sam.”

  The man laughed. “How many times do we need to have this conversation? I’m not your pet. Orders don’t work on me.”

  Kyran ignored him by pulling down his shorts and turning on the shower.

  “But I will leave you alone to clean up,” Sam added.

  The slam of the door echoed around the room, which only added to the pounding in his temples. He stepped under the spray of cold water. Nothing had ever felt so good. The coolness soothed his heated skin and numbed his stinging cuts. Every part of him ached, and yet he was refreshed. The club had given him just what he required tonight. Minus the black eye.

  Kyran washed up, cleansing every inch of his body. He scrubbed himself dry, as he always did, before patting the abraded flesh. Kyran smiled when he saw a clean hoodie and jeans laid out for him.

  The noise from the club could still be heard in the locker room. Kyran listened to the sounds of another fight as he dressed. The fabric was harsh on his sensitive body, but he couldn’t go home naked, so he pulled the hood up over his head and hauled his gym bag onto his shoulder.