by Laura Kaye
Surrounding his left shoulder, the tribal tattoo looped and jagged in a lighter shade of black than the dragon. A reach for something off a shelf revealed lines of writing on his rib cage beneath his right arm, but Becca couldn’t make out what they said.
Tattoos had never looked better than they did on this man. She was absofreakinglutely sure of it.
“Put these on.”
A pair of fat white boxing gloves fell into her hands. “We’re gonna box?”
He smirked. “Figured you’d enjoy taking a swing at me.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What? I don’t want to—”
“Relax.” He grabbed a smaller pair of black gloves for himself and slid one on. They left the tips of his fingers exposed. With a smirk, he pointed. “We’ll use the heavy bag.”
Becca’s gaze cut across the room, where an oblong vinyl bag hung suspended from a beam. “Oh.” Actually, beating the crap out of something did sound like a good way to work off some nervous energy. “Cool.”
“Here. Let me help you with those.” He tucked one of her white gloves under his arm and held up the other. The padding that encased her hand was cool and stiff, and the Velcro band that secured it was tight around her wrist.
“These fit perfectly.”
They repeated the process with her other glove. “They’re Katherine’s. Figured they’d work for you.”
“Katherine boxes?”
Tugging his other glove on, he nodded. “Yeah. My sister is tiny, like five foot two. Before she left for college, I made sure she knew how to take care of herself. Now she’s hell on wheels.”
Becca smiled at the image of this apparently petite yet kick-ass woman, but also at the obvious affection in Nick’s voice. “You were a totally crazy overprotective big brother, weren’t you?”
“No more than necessary.”
She knocked her gloves together. “Ha. According to you or her?” His scowl made her laugh. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. I think I’d like to meet your sister.”
He crossed to the heavy bag. “I’m sure that would be tons of fun for me. You ever hit a bag like this before?”
Becca stopped a few feet away. “Er, no. You don’t just hit it?”
“Not if you don’t want to hurt yourself. Hit it wrong and you could sprain or break your wrist. Watch, and then I’ll walk you through it.” Nick stepped about an arm’s length away, his body at an angle to the black vinyl, right foot, hip, and shoulder back. He brought his arms up, elbows in tight and gloved fists in front of his chest. As he explained, he demonstrated in slow motion a few times, twisting his body into the fake punch. “Your goal is to make solid contact with the bag, not to push it or make it bounce. Like this.”
He unleashed a series of right punches, the muscles rippling under his skin. His movements were precise and efficient.
With a gloved hand, he stilled the bag and turned to her. “Now I’ll show you how to do a one-two punch, and then you’re up.”
“Okay,” she said, half of her eager to try, because smashing something right now would probably feel great, half of her perfectly content to grab a tub of popcorn and a drink and watch him as long as he wanted to do it.
He got back into position and demonstrated again. Using his full power, Nick attacked the bag. Smack-smack, smack-smack, smack-smack. Light on his bare feet, the dragon absolutely alive underneath his powerful movements, he hammered his punches into the firm surface for a full minute.
Becca picked her jaw up off the floor before he saw. But . . . just . . . wow. He was beautiful to watch, all controlled strength and purposeful movement.
He stilled the bag. “Your turn.”
She swallowed hard. No way she was going to look like that, but the idea of being able to direct her strength that way had her stepping up without reservation.
He moved behind her, and heat radiated off him. “Hold your arm out so you know how far away to stand. Good. Right foot back, hip and shoulder angled away.” Becca followed his instructions. “Okay, arms up.” His big hands fell on her shoulders and gently squeezed. A tingle of nerves and heat shot through her. “Relax your muscles. Only thing you want to keep tense is your wrist. No floppy wrists.”
“Okay. Floppy wrists bad. Got it.” She let her shoulders go loose under his grip.
“Good. Now, start out in slow motion so you can get the feel for the movements.” She twisted her body, bringing her arm out straight against the bag. He stepped in close to her extended arm. “If you weren’t wearing the glove, what part of your hand would be touching the bag right now?”
Becca concentrated on her position. “The middle knuckles of my fingers.”
He adjusted the angle downward. “You want to hit with the knuckles closest to your hand. Try again. Slow.” Becca did it a half dozen more times under his intense observation. “Good. That looks good.”
Despite the chilly air, warmth rolled over her skin. Since she really hadn’t exerted herself yet, it was hard to deny that he was the cause, his bare muscles and patient, encouraging words. “I want to hit it for real now.”
He stepped back. “Go for it. Just take your time.”
Staring at the bag, Becca released a deep breath. Her right fist shot out, made contact, and retracted. A wave of giddiness flashed through her. Position, breathe, punch. She did it three more times, then grinned at Nick.
Liquid heat filled his gaze. He nodded. “Good. Again.” Was she just imagining it, or did his voice sound deeper?
Her heart pounded in her chest. She threw four more punches, lifting a light sheen of sweat from her skin. “I don’t feel like I’m hitting it very hard, though.”
Nick moved to her right side. “Do it in slow-mo again. Just a right punch.”
She did.
His hand fell on her hip, stirring up a nest of butterflies in her stomach. “When you punch, make sure you’re involving your hip. The power is coming from your back foot. Let it move your body with the punch. Slow-mo again.” He pushed her hip further into the movement. “Now, do it.”
Concentrating, Becca threw a punch. She threw her gloved hands into the air. “That was harder.”
Nick nodded. “Again.”
Becca pounded the bag in slow repetitions. She’d have to figure out how to add this to her regular exercise routine, which mostly consisted of running a few miles around the park by her house. Because, damn, it felt good. The movements required her concentration, shutting out all the crap that had been bombarding her brain.
“I think you’re ready for more,” he said after a while. “Try the one-two.” For a moment, she shook out her arms, then got back into position. “Only small steps with your feet, and twist your body into the bag. Try it slow first.”
Demonstrating the one-two, she liked the way the fluid action made her body feel, especially when Nick stepped behind her and placed his hands on her hips, encouraging her to turn more into the punches. She shuddered, her mind conjuring all kinds of really distracting images. Him, gripping her hips from behind while he—
“Okay, give it a go.”
She blew out a breath. Heaving her mind out of the gutter, she directed the pressure cooker of her lust and anxiety at the vinyl and struck out. Left-right. Left-right. Left-right. “Feels . . . freaking . . . awesome,” she gritted in between punches. And it really did. She pictured Charlie’s apartment, thought of someone breaking into her house, recalled the precise moment she’d learned that her mom had died of an aneurysm when she’d been thirteen. And Scott of a totally mind-boggling overdose. And her father of an enemy attack. Smack-smack, smack-smack, smack-smack. Her fists pounded harder.
Sweat dripped down her face and her mind raced. Where the hell is Charlie? God, if somebody took him, hurt him . . . She punched faster. What else can I do? There’s got to be something. Why didn’t I listen to him? What if I never see him again? A moan echoed from somewhere, but all she wanted to think about was the amazing release pummeling the heavy bag brought.
&n
Without the exertion to distract herself, she came slamming back into her body. It wasn’t sweat alone that covered her face but tears as well. A sob worked up her throat. Nick turned her into his body, cradling her head against his chest as best he could with the thick gloves. “Sshh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
She shook her head and gulped down the jagged ball of emotion, afraid that if she started letting go, she might never stop. “I’m okay. I’m all right,” she rasped against his hard chest.
“I know,” he murmured against her hair.
Becca’s breathing hitched, and she sucked Nick’s masculine scent—all clean sweat and spicy soap and leather—down deep. After that, the rest of her senses came online in sequence. The feel of his hard chest against her cheek, warm and pulsing with life. The heady sight of his inked shoulder, bringing his arms around to hold her. The sound of his heart, picking up steam beneath her ear. That only left taste . . .
Out of nowhere, her emotions lurched in a new direction. Her tears dried up, but just the thought of acting on the urge to press her lips, her tongue to his skin had her body growing damp elsewhere. God, as wrong as it probably was, she had no doubt she could lose herself in him, that being with him would take away all the crap filling her head and weighing on her chest. Even if only for a little while.
Heart slamming against her breastbone, panting breaths falling against his pecs, she looked out over the edge of the responsible thing she should do and leapt. “I want to kiss you,” she whispered, the room spinning around her at the admission. If he hadn’t been holding her, she was sure she would’ve fallen.
On the outside, he didn’t seem to react, but their position gave him away. His chest rose and fell more quickly, his heartbeat thundered. The pressure of his growing cock nudged her belly.
The thrill of arousing him made her bold.
She pressed her lips to his chest, once, twice. On the third kiss, she let her tongue drag against his skin, drawing the salt of his sweat into her mouth. His taste—the very fact that this was happening—blew her mind, especially as his thick erection grew harder against her. Her hands yearned to clutch him, to feel every ridge and cut of muscle, but the gloves made it impossible.
“Becca,” he growled. A warning.
The need to have him inundated her. She couldn’t deny it. Didn’t want to. Her mouth came down on his nipple.
The groan that ripped out of his throat shot right between her legs and filled her with an empty ache that begged for relief.
Hands tight on her upper arms, he shoved them apart but didn’t let go. Mouth open, breathing hard, muscles rigid everywhere, he glared down at her with a lethal look that did absolutely nothing to deter her lust.
He ripped off his gloves and threw them to the floor, blazing eyes never leaving hers. And then he was on her.
Hands in her hair, he tilted her head back and devoured her in a kiss. Hot. Hard. Commanding. Her lips fell open on a gasping moan and his tongue slipped between, stroking against her own. He tasted of mint and man and sinful promise, and Becca couldn’t get enough.
The room spinning around her, she grasped at his shoulders—and groaned at the gloves. “Off, off,” she rasped around the edges of the kiss.
Nick pulled back, his face a dark mask of desire. He removed her gloves in about two seconds and tugged her into his chest, holding her tighter than before, kissing her more deeply.
Becca’s hands were immediately in heaven, caressing and grasping at the bunched muscles of his chest, his shoulders, his back. He was hard everywhere, and the strong, aroused feel of him curled heat low in her stomach.
One hand holding her head, his other hand slid down her body and cupped her breast. She moaned as he massaged her through the layers of her clothing, his thumb stroking over and over against the hard nub of her nipple. Her hands found his hair, soft and thick, and grasped and tugged at it as he tormented her with his mouth and fingers.
His hips rocked against her belly, and Becca gasped and shifted against him. Groaning, he dropped the hand from her hair to her ass and urged them more tightly together. Wetness created a maddening need for friction between her legs. God, this was crazy, but she wanted him like she’d never wanted another man. She dragged her fingertips over his chest, slipped her hand between their bodies, and grasped his cock through the denim. Oh, he was a delicious handful. She couldn’t wait—
“Stop.” He pulled back and grasped her wrists.
“Why?” she asked, missing his heat against her.
Chest heaving, he rolled his tongue over his bottom lip, like he was tasting her there. “Because you’re upset and vulnerable. And I shouldn’t take advantage. I won’t.”
“It’s hardly taking advantage if I want it.” And she did. She just wanted to lose herself in his body, his intensity, his strength, for a long while.
His fingers dug into her wrists, just shy of painful. “It’s not a good idea.”
Her gaze dropped to the bulge filling out the left front of his jeans. Jesus, if he straightened himself out, she had a sneaking suspicion the rise of the denim might not cover the whole of him. Her mouth watered. “Looks like a pretty good idea to me.”
“Damnit, woman.” The percussive blast of his curse drew her gaze back to his face. “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
“Why? If I don’t want you to—”
“Because I want to make you hold onto that bag while I bury myself in you so hard and so deep you don’t know your own name. But then tomorrow, in the light of day, when your brother’s still missing and we’re still trying to figure out the mystery of who broke into your house, getting fucked by a stranger in a warehouse will be just one more thing you have to deal with. And I won’t do that to you.”
The words absolutely stole her breath. She tugged out of his grip. His words dragged Charlie back to the center of her thoughts, where he should’ve been all along. Guilt sloshed over her arousal and pricked at the backs of her eyes.
“Fine.” She scooped her gloves off the floor and crossed the room to return them to their shelf, then made for the door. “What’s the code to your apartment?”
“Becca,” he called, a note of regret in his voice.
She lifted her gaze to him, and his face was all shadows and hard angles. Harsh, but beautiful. “No, I should thank you. You’re right. The code?”
He braced his hands on his lean hips. “Zero-five-zero-one-two. But Becca—”
“I enjoyed the boxing, Nick. You’re a good teacher.” She pulled open the door and decided to just leave it all out on the floor. With everything he was doing for her, he deserved the truth from her. One last time, she looked his way. “But you should know. You fought beside my father. And you’re helping me when you don’t have to. You don’t feel like a stranger to me.”
Without waiting for his reaction, she stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 8
“Way to fucking go, Rixey.” He blew out a long breath, eyes still glued to the door through which Becca had just departed. “No matter which way you have to march, it’s always uphill. Shit.” He stalked across the room and slammed his gloves down on a shelf.
He thought about going after her but quickly dismissed the idea, because he wasn’t sure he could resist finishing what they’d started.
Watching her punch that bag, her eyes blue diamonds of concentration, her curves moving and flexing under that thin T-shirt, small grunts of exertion spilling from her open lips. It had been about as much as he’d been able to bear. Then, when he’d realized she’d been crying, that she’d literally been beating the emotions out of herself, a surge of protective possessiveness had run through him so swift and potent all he’d known was the need to get her in his arms.
And then she’d kissed him. Licked him. Sucked on his skin.
All those urges he’d had while she’d boxed had grown darker, needier, irresistible. Between his injuries and the ginormous mindfuck he’d been grappling with since his discharge, it had been more than a year since his body had last known the tight pleasure of a woman. And she’d stirred up a freight train of lust he hadn’t been able to hold back.
Jesus, her taste, her heat, the feel of her lush curves in his hands. Sweet fucking perfection.
When her hand had fallen on his cock, the touch had jolted a measure of awareness into his brain. He hadn’t been kidding about what he wanted to do to her. Even now, the mental image of her hanging onto the heavy bag while he took her kept him hard and aching.
But there were too many reasons to shut that shit down before things went balls to the wall, not the least of which was the fact that her father had torn apart his life, killed six of his closest friends, and turned him into a man he barely recognized anymore. A jagged hole of guilt and loss opened up in the center of his chest. Why hadn’t he seen Merritt’s lies sooner? Seen them for what they were? He shook his head and rubbed against the squeezing ache under his sternum. Given who she was, he should stay away from anything physical. Besides, with all the ways he’d failed—himself and his men—he didn’t deserve the comfort of her warmth and light anyway.
Not to mention the fact that after what had been done to the team, he hated lies. And the NDA meant he couldn’t tell Becca the truth. Another good reason to keep his dick in line. He scrubbed his hands roughly over his face.
With a last look around the gym he’d slowly but surely assembled since his return to the real world, Rixey killed the lights, crossed to his place, and made his way to the back of the quiet, still loft to his office. No sense going through the façade of lying down to sleep. The land of nod wasn’t on his current radar, not with how cranked his body was.
He fell heavily into his desk chair and pulled his drawing into his lap. Following from Jeremy’s rough sketch, the half fireman, half soldier tattoo was nearly done, though that didn’t mean he understood why he kept letting his brother talk him into doing this. Part of it was that art had always been the one thing he and Jer had in common. Well, that and video games. That was about where it ended. Only a year separated them, but Rixey had been sports, and his brother had been books. Rixey had been parties and drinking and hell-raising of the usual teenage variety, and Jeremy had been quiet around everyone but his small circle of Goth and punk friends.
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