by M. Leighton
“All for you,” she breathes, letting her head fall back against my chest.
With my other hand, I unbutton and unzip her pants and push them down her legs along with her panties. She steps out of them and leaves her thighs spread for me.
My cock is straining against my own jeans. I unfasten them to free it, guiding the tip to the crack of her lush ass as I press her chest tighter against the glass.
“Aren’t you supposed to start your period soon?” I ask, feeling a drop of precome ooze out to coat the smooth skin of her cheek. I grind my teeth together, my erection nearly painful as I think of all sorts of wicked things I’d like to do to this girl.
“Yes,” she says, swiveling her hips against me as she reaches back and grips my thighs, digging in with her fingers as my pace on her clit increases. “Why?”
“Would it be safe to have sex without a condom this close to it? I want to feel you with nothing between us. Just this once.”
I run my finger down to her entrance, teasing her by popping it in and out in shallow thrusts as my palm massages the rest of her sex. She grunts and my cock jumps. God, she’s amazing. Hungry. Like me.
“Y-you don’t have to worry,” she explains. “I went after work the night you had to shoot late and got an IUD.”
My balls contract in anticipation. “Are you serious?”
She nods, pressing her cheek to the window, her eyes still closed. “I was going to tell you, but I . . . I . . .”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. There will be plenty of time for talk later. Now, all I want to do is shoot come so far up into her that she can taste it in the back of her throat. “What do you think the people down on the street would think of this pussy if they could see it?” I bring my hand around to her hip and push her pelvis up against the window, too. “Every one of those bastards would kill to be me, just to have this beautiful body underneath them one time.”
I slip my hand between her legs from behind, finding her slick core and thrusting two fingers as deep as they’ll go. She rises up on her tiptoes and her mouth rounds out into a silent O.
“Just thinking about someone seeing us, someone watching me put my fingers in you, put my cock in you, watching your come drip off my balls is just . . .”
It’s all too much—the thoughts, the words, the anticipation. The urgency of being inside her while I still can.
I spin Katie toward me, covering her mouth with mine as I lift her by her legs and press her back to the glass. I enter her in one smooth motion, stopping when I’m buried to the hilt in her tight little body and her gasp in my ear is the only sound I can hear.
“Fuuuc . . .” I groan, forcing myself to concentrate so that I won’t come. “Holy shit, Katie!”
I pull out, leaning away just enough to tongue a nipple into my mouth and suck hard. When I’ve regained control, I slam up into her again, going even deeper. Katie loses it. I feel the tremble of her muscles right before they contract, squeezing me until it almost hurts it feels so good. Her sweetness pours over the head of my cock and down to my balls, and it’s more than I can take. I’m done. Finished. Spewing into her in record time.
Finding her mouth again, I drive my body into hers over and over and over again until I can’t tell whose come is whose. And I don’t give a shit either. The only thing that matters right now is the woman in my arms and how I don’t want to be anywhere but inside her.
And that I love her. Damn it, I love her.
Shit.
TWENTY-NINE
Katie
Friday
I don’t know what I expected that we’d do two days before the fight, but Rogan has been much busier than I anticipated. Evidently, because he hasn’t been training like he should, he has to go through a series of challenges to prove to his trainer, Johns, that he won’t go into the ring and get himself killed. Johns says that his acting, or “playing” as he calls it, just makes him weak. And according to him, Rogan needs to be at his best for this particular opponent.
“This ain’t some pussy from outta nowhere, some random jackhole who fights like a girl. This kid’s got something. I wanna see you eatin’ him for breakfast, not the other way around,” the crusty, graying fifty-some-year-old explains in his smoker’s growl.
I listen to Johns taunt Rogan with barbs as he pushes him through the most grueling workout I’ve ever seen. Not once does Rogan falter. Even as he grunts with strain, even as he grimaces in pain, he doesn’t slack off. In fact, Johns seems to have a way of driving him to work even harder, so maybe this is just their dynamic.
From my perspective (once I got used to Johns’s way of needling Rogan) it has been fascinating. Not just their relationship and the whole “gym” scene, but Rogan himself. Watching his muscles flex beneath his shimmering skin, seeing him press beyond the point of most human endurance, listening to his breath heave with his exertion—good Lord! My knees are weak and my panties are a wet mess.
This man is delicious in any setting, whether dressed in jeans and a tee with his cute grin and wicked wink, or dressed in a pair of shorts and dripping with sweat. He takes my breath away.
This makes me respect his physical conditioning and fighterly prowess, too. Rogan is a deadly machine. It seems he’s perfect. Top to bottom, head to toe, inside and out.
“Told you I was keeping up better than you thought,” Rogan tells Johns as he guzzles from a liter of vitamin water.
“Like I’d take your word for it, pup,” Johns replies, slapping Rogan’s shoulder. He calls him that a lot—pup. Seems like their affection for each other runs deep, far beyond this man’s gruff exterior.
“Get some rest. I’ll pick you up at eight.” Before he disappears around the corner, the brusque old man calls back to Rogan, nodding to me, “And explain to her what needs to happen on fight day. And what doesn’t need to happen on fight day.”
With a wry grin, Rogan salutes his trainer and then turns to me, slinging his still-dry towel over my head to collar me and pull me toward him for a kiss. “I don’t want to touch you and get you all sweaty,” he says, keeping every body part except his lips at bay.
“I’ve been watching this sweaty body for the last four hours,” I tell him, running my hands down his granite stomach and leaning into his chest. “I want it touching me.”
The black of his pupils swells within the green forest of his eyes and I barely hear him breathe, “Damn you, woman.”
Looking left and right to make sure no one has inadvertently stumbled into the private gym that his trainer rented, I give a startled yip when Rogan suddenly bends and throws me over his shoulder, trotting off toward . . . somewhere.
The next thing I see from my perch atop his shoulder, facing the floor, is the carpet turn to tile. When Rogan puts me down, we are in the bathroom. That’s the last thought that registers before his hands are all over me, his lips are all over me, and I find out firsthand what happens when you get a fighter all worked up.
It’s amazing.
• • •
An hour and a half later, we are in the back of the limo, retracing the streets to our hotel. I’m lying, boneless, against Rogan’s side, my head on his shoulder and his arm draped loosely around me. He seems distracted. Happy and satisfied, but still distracted.
“What did Johns mean about what to expect on fight day?”
I hear Rogan’s huff of laughter rumble through his chest and vibrate into my ear. “He has always insisted that a very specific ritual should be observed on fight day and he never deviates from it. Ever.”
“And just what does this ritual entail?” I ask, picturing everything from the blood of a live chicken to wearing a jockstrap that hasn’t been washed since 2009.
“Sleeping until seven. A big breakfast at eight. Stretching at ten, followed by a massage and lunch. He has pretty much the whole day planned out. What he forbids, no questions asked, is sex. Thinks it makes a fighter weak, distracted.”
Bummer.
“And what do you thi
nk?”
I feel his lips brush the top of my head. “I think my mind is always on you, so I’m not sure abstaining will make any difference.”
Now I feel guilty. Deliriously happy, of course, but also guilty. “Well, this is important. Maybe we shouldn’t mess with what works.”
“Well, this isn’t a title fight, so . . .”
“But still. If you lost because of me . . .” I sit up and look at Rogan. His eyes are lazy yet hooded. I want to ask what’s going on behind them, but I don’t dare. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. And maybe I don’t really want to know.
“I won’t lose,” he assures me with a quiet confidence. He kisses my forehead and the tip of my nose. “I’ll win for you. Because you’ll be there watching me.”
“That’s something I wanted to ask you about,” I begin, toying with the neckline of his V-neck tee. “Will I have to sit in a certain place? I mean, I’d rather not . . . I don’t want people to . . .”
Sexy lips quirk into a knowing grin as Rogan hooks a finger under my chin to raise my eyes to his. “Why do you think I wanted you to bring the umbrella?”
I frown. “I don’t know. Why did you?”
He brings his smiling mouth to mine and teases my lips with a short kiss. “You’ll see. But don’t worry about anything. I’ve got it all taken care of.” When his tongue flicks out to trace my bottom lip, I find it hard to worry about much of anything. “Until then, we’ve got a lot of hours before fight day. I hope you don’t have plans.”
I think to myself, while I can still think at all, that I don’t have any plans other than to be devoured by this gorgeous man. There are no better plans than those.
Sunday, Fight Day
As I’m chauffeured from the hotel to the arena, limo-style, I reflect back on the day. When Rogan said he had it all taken care of, he wasn’t kidding. Maybe it was because he knew I was nervous to be back. Maybe it was because he knew he would hardly see me. Or maybe it was just because he’s thoughtful and kind and wonderful. I don’t know, but he had the entire day planned out, right down to the minute.
We didn’t leave our room at all yesterday. I lost count of how many times we made love. We both fell into an exhausted sleep sometime in the wee hours, but when I woke this morning, he was gone.
Room service was delivered to my room, promptly at eight. It consisted of eggs, bacon, hash browns and the most delicious pancakes in the history of the world. But the best part was what rested beside the tiny, swan-shaped cake of butter—The Walking Dead: Season One and a one-word note that read Enjoy.
Which I did. All the way through lunch, which was delivered to my door at precisely twelve o’clock. And then, again, right up until the phone in my room rang at three fifteen to inform me that my masseuse was on her way up for my three thirty appointment.
I’ve never had a massage before. Obviously, at this point in my life, I’m not terribly fond of people touching me, but I didn’t want to send her away and make a big deal of it and embarrass both Rogan and myself, so I jacked my chin up and decided I’d suffer through it. I mean, from what I’ve seen, there’s a hole in the table that you can actually hide your face in. It’s perfect for someone like me. At least she wouldn’t know of my shame. But as it turns out, Rogan even had that organized to the finest detail. She came in, asked me to change and wrap myself in a sheet, and then she proceeded to give me my massage right through the sheet. My hair stayed swept over my shoulder as I lay, face down, staring at the carpet. Well, until I got so relaxed that I closed them. Then I wasn’t staring at much of anything other than the backs of my eyelids.
After that, I slithered off her table and made it to the couch, where I collapsed in front of the last episode of TWD until suppertime, which was again delivered to my door. The only way the day could’ve been better is if Rogan had been with me for all those hours. But if I had to be in New York and spend them alone, that was certainly the way to go.
I suppose I could’ve called Kurt, but somehow that didn’t seem like it might be a very good idea, so I refrained. If Rogan had wanted him to be part of my day, he’d have penciled him in.
So now, here I am, walking into a packed arena, just a few minutes before the fight starts. My polka-dot umbrella is in hand, although I have no idea why.
My palms are sweaty, even though there’s no good reason for them to be. I guess it’s just the fact that I’m out of my comfort zone, out of my shell after hiding inside it for so long. But I have to admit that it’s been a nice change of pace.
There was a man waiting for me at the curb when the limo pulled up. He opened the door and asked, “Ms. Rydale?”
I nodded and he offered his hand, which I took and let him help me out. He then led me inside, past all the outer bands of security and ticket-taking hot spots, right to a seat that borders on what people call the nosebleeds. I’m not sitting up in the rafters, but I’m not ringside, either. Not that I wanted to be. Too much attention.
Surprisingly, I have an excellent view. I’m nearly eye-level with the ring, which is a big, fenced-in octagon, just farther away.
I sit down, taking in the energy of the people around me. Many are standing, watching the ring expectantly, and many, especially the women, are carrying umbrellas, which I find odd. Odd, both that they’re carrying umbrellas when it’s been gorgeous outside (and is supposed to remain gorgeous until Tuesday according to channel six) and odd that there are so many women here. I mean, this isn’t exactly the kind of sport I would expect a lot of women to love, but . . . who am I to judge?
When the announcer walks to the center of the ring, the crowd goes wild. I’m not sure why, but since I’m the newbie, I figure it’s better to just go with it. I’ll probably never experience something like this again.
I give a muted little whoooo in an effort to blend in. I’m immediately more enthusiastic about this venue when I see that no one pays me the least bit of attention. A place where I can go completely unnoticed, in a crowd this size, is right up my alley.
A minute or so later, I see people start to point and a preternatural hush falls across the arena. Seconds later, a guitar riff starts to strain loudly through the speakers. It plays for several seconds, like an intro, and then, when the horns of Battle Without Honor or Humanity kick in, a deafening roar erupts from the crowd. Heads turn and people start to jump up and down, but I can’t see what’s going on. I can’t see anything except umbrellas popping open everywhere, being held aloft and shaken to the beat of the music.
Scrambling for mine where it resides under my seat, I open it as well, standing along with the rest of the crowd, looking for the source of the excitement. My gut (and the umbrellas) tells me it’s Rogan.
I finally see him when he reaches the edge of the ring. He’s cloaked in a black satin robe that has a huge green R on the back and what look like raindrops falling through it. Even though the hood is up, I’d recognize him anywhere. That walk, that posture, that mouth and chin, barely visible in the slice of light shining in on it.
It’s Rogan.
I know it.
Stripping off his hood with a flourish, Rogan bounces on the balls of his feet and holds up his thinly gloved hands. He nods to each section of the stadium as he turns a slow circle. Each one goes even wilder when he does. Women screaming, men hollering, everyone chanting. It isn’t until the music starts to die down that I can finally make out the rhythmic words of the fans. They’re crying, Bring the rain! Bring the rain! Bring the rain!
Rogan turns to enter the fenced ring, but just before he ducks inside, he stops and scans the crowd in a more purposeful way. As his eyes pass each section surrounding the octagon again, I even hear a few propositions, girls offering to do everything from have his baby to lick his abs and a few other less publicly appropriate declarations.
He seems to ignore them all as he searches the masses. When he turns in the direction of my section, my heart stutters in my chest and I hold my umbrella steady. Now I understand why he wa
nted me to bring it. In a sea of black and green umbrellas, my polka dots stand out like a sore thumb. Something he should easily be able to spot from a distance.
And he does.
I know it the second he sees me. I feel his eyes on my face like a touch. It’s as though there isn’t a field of people between us, as though there aren’t a million eyes on him. For a tenth of a second, it’s just Rogan and me. Our connection sizzles with electricity as he brings one fist to his mouth, kisses the knuckles and holds it out to me.
To me. He holds that kiss out to me.
Everything inside me melts. Even as people turn to see who he’s giving such a public nod to, my heart thunders, my pulse races and my face breaks out into a smile that I can’t stop. It comes from too deep, it speaks of something too beautiful to hide.
This man. God, this man!
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or do both.
How can he do this to me? Make me feel so much with such a tiny gesture?
After a few seconds, he drops his hand, bumps his fists together and smiles that cocky, lopsided grin that makes my stomach turn flips. And, judging by the response of the ovary-possessing portion of the crowd, I’m not the only one. There are a couple of girls sitting close to me that I worry might faint. I wonder briefly if they think he might’ve been motioning to one of them. I don’t know, of course, but a guy tells one of them to sit down before she falls down. When she does, I see that her face is pale and streaked with tears.
This fan business is some serious stuff.
As the two fighters enter the ring, the announcer explains that this is a fight to benefit a charity called A Way Out, a safe haven for abused children, and that no title will be awarded, yada yada yada. I’m even more anxious for Rogan to win now, now that I know why the charity is so close to his heart.
After that part, the announcer starts to become more animated, drawing out certain words as he gives the information on the challenger, Daniels. He goes through weight and titles and his nickname. I think everyone is as impatient as I am for him to get to Rogan.
