Just for Christmas Night

by Lisa Marie Perry

  The liquid damn near sizzled all the way down, doing nothing to calm her high-octane horniness. Heat on top of heat only made things hotter…

  “Change your mind about the talking, Joaquin?”

  “Yesterday, at the gym, I acted like a jerk.”

  “Uh…I know that.” Martha pushed the margarita across the bar, then, still rocking to the music’s heavy rhythm, positioned herself in front of him. “I was there.”

  “I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry, Martha.”

  Fingers of light and shadow streaked over them as he spoke the words. “What?”

  Joaquin’s hands shot forward to clasp her hips and urge her closer. Martha braced her palms on his thighs, felt the heat of his tight muscles beneath the fabric of his pants. Yesterday, in training mode, he’d appeared menacing. Tonight, cleaned up in a suit, he was dangerous.

  Teasing danger, Martha sank her fingers into his solid flesh. Added more force to her writhing. Eliminated all the distance as she edged farther between his thighs. “Not sure if I heard you right,” she murmured onto his jaw…a resilient, angular jaw that had withstood so many harsh strikes. All she wanted was to lay her lips there.

  No women in his entourage, no willing body that he’d taken for pleasure, could give him the compassion she could with a kiss. She hadn’t planned to end up this invincible fighter’s weakness. But, since he wanted no weaknesses, he didn’t want Martha.

  Yet here they were in spite of even that.

  Countering, “You heard me,” he let his hands trail her denim. The rough pads of his fingers scraped her skin through the haphazard tears in her destroyed jeans. “Martha…”

  “Want me to stop, Joaquin? Am I easier to handle standing still?”

  Rock. Grind. Sway. Keep dancing.

  Need and resistance clashed in his irises. “I—”

  Not another rejection—and for damn sure not from this man. Moving against him slowly now, she cut off his words, robbing him of the chance to test how effortlessly he could reopen her invisible wounds. “Get off my territory.”

  “Martha.” A strong finger curled into a rip high on her hip, and his groan was so deep and intimate, she felt as though she’d made the guttural sound. “I didn’t ask you to stop.”

  Chapter 4

  “But,” Martha said softly, the margarita-scented word grazing his lips, “if I wanted to, I could stop.”

  The woman was practically in his lap, shackling him to his bar stool with lust.

  Joaquin’s first mistake tonight had been to touch her. Dipping his finger into that tear in her jeans. Raking her skin. It had been a purely idiotic thing to do when just the picture of her dancing in the crush had kicked his body into low vibration. If he’d known ahead of time that she’d be here…he might’ve shown up sooner.

  Joaquin killed the thought. It had been trying enough to battle his instincts to clear the Foundation Room and finish what Martha had begun. Groaning—letting that control slither through his grasp—had been his second mistake.

  He couldn’t allow another. Mistakes indicated disorder. Disorder was interference. Training for the most hyped-up main-card fight of his career, he needed to dodge or defeat interference.

  Dodge Martha, though? Not likely. Only hours ago she’d warned him of what he’d found to be true when he’d stepped into this room: Las Vegas didn’t harbor enough hiding places. Not for two people who should want to avoid each other, but for whatever reason didn’t. Stacked on top of that was what he’d told Marshall Blue in the ring at Jules’s gym.

  I’ll keep her close. She won’t jeopardize your business on my watch. That’s a promise.

  Sealed with a grave nod, Joaquin had given his word that he’d deliver. Before he’d fought his way to money and celebrity, the only thing of value he had was his word. A promise from him was a rare thing, but his promises were never offered lightly and were always—always—honored.

  Martha’s nails dug deeper into his thighs.

  Control kept him silent, but the impulse to manipulate that rip in her jeans until he could fit his entire hand inside had him brutally clenching his teeth. If he couldn’t dodge her, then the singular option was to defeat whatever effects she—and her soft hair, luscious frown and trouble-hungry hands—had on him.

  “A camera-phone click, and anyone can paint a picture of you giving me a lap dance at Mandalay Bay.” Even with a demanding hard-on, he could still be pragmatic. “Does that concern you?”

  “Does it concern you that a picture could be painted of you getting a lap dance at Mandalay Bay?” was her casual response. “No, right, because you’d be seen as a man just having a good time. Centuries of struggles, so much social progress, and still a man’s free to celebrate his sexuality when a woman has to downplay hers.”

  “Unfair. I didn’t say it wasn’t.” The genuine apprehension in her expression pricked his resolve, dug in where he was defenseless. “Switch places, then, and I’ll give you a lap dance.”

  The lights shimmied over her as she rolled her eyes. “Funny, Joaquin. But I like you where you are.” She jerked her body all nice and tight up against him. “Some other things I like? Flirting. Sex. Getting off. I’m turned on right now—so wet right now—”

  “This is you downplaying your sexuality?” Bold didn’t begin to describe her approach. In public, she was telling him things only a lover should hear…sharing secrets meant for a man who at least deserved her.

  He wasn’t that man.

  “These are facts. Another fact—I can let you go.”

  “Then stop, if that’s what you want to do, Martha.”

  “Or…” Her focus drifted down to his lap as her fingers relaxed. “I could come a little closer.” She pushed her hips forward, and damn him, he was urging her, deeply stroking her flesh through tattered denim. “And do this.”

  Joaquin didn’t want to give her that, the satisfaction of knowing she could reach him on some level—any level. Yet he let his gaze trip over the image of her thumbs settling on either side of the hard ridge in his pants. She firmly pressed down, moving her thumbs back and forth, further tightening the fabric that his erection was straining beneath.

  “I could, Joaquin,” she whispered, “tease you like this until you money-shot in these nice designer pants. Then I could tear you down and demand that you—and I’ll say it again—get off my territory.”

  Damn it. He was apologizing for yesterday, but all this catch-and-release teasing, all the pain she was trying to hide, was about what had happened four years ago. That one damaging night. “Screwing with men’s minds—you’ve gotten good at it. Too good.”

  Indifferent, she reached over his shoulder for her margarita. “You’re too serious.”

  Intercepting her, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, felt her pulse pound. “Who’re you here with?” When she mumbled something about being on her own time tonight, he pressed, “Drive yourself?”

  “A BMW and a driver are on call.”

  “Get your phone, take him off call. You and I need to go back to that place.”

  “Where’s ‘that place’?”

  “The gym. It’s another cold December night. Key’s in my pocket.”

  “So the stage is set for a do-over?” A mocking snort followed. “That’s bewilderingly romantic—for you, anyway.”

  “It’s not about being romantic.” He rubbed his thumb over her wrist where her pulse continued to leap quickly, resisting the pressure of his touch. “It’s about taking every measure to get you past what happened.”

  “And at the same time get you past your guilt?” Martha shrugged as though she didn’t care, and had the quick beat dancing against his thumb not betrayed her, he might’ve believed it. “Don’t judge me for holding on, when you’re holding on, too.”

  The dig rendered him mute, as he uncurled his fingers from her wrist, dropped cash onto the bar and carved a path for her through the blockade of elite guests swallowing liquor and writhing in sync with the music.


  Martha belonged here, nestled in high-stakes, top-floor Las Vegas luxury. He belonged where they were headed next—a street-level gym that was more acquainted with graffiti and games of street craps than with priceless furnishings and imported champagne. Wealth, glory, international fame—none of it had rezoned his territory. None of it had changed him.

  “Paparazzi were patrolling out front,” Martha said, her voice just behind him. “Anyone in a puffy jacket accost you?”

  “No. I have ways of making myself invisible to folks in puffy jackets who want to accost me.”

  “Can’t say the same. I posed for a picture with the guy. It seemed to pacify him.”

  “Engineer a network that operates on trust, and situations like that’ll be easier to control,” he advised. “You’re in my network, from now until I leave you tucked in safe at your house.”

  “Hey.” Martha came around in front of him. “That alpha put-helpless-Martha-under-a-man’s-protection bullshit? Save it. I may not fight for a living and step in the middle of violence every day, but I’m capable of protecting myself.”

  Having fought professionally for over a decade, he’d encountered plenty of female boxers and mixed martial artists and knew to never underestimate a woman’s physical strength and mental strategy. With her temper, unpredictable nature and the pride she took in self-defense, Martha had the tools to neutralize an aggressor.

  Those incredible legs could probably kick a man’s balls up to his throat.

  He admired her like hell for that. But when he offered his protection, he expected it to be accepted—with gratitude, not offense. “Damn straight, you can defend yourself. You just won’t need to when you’re with me.”

  “Joaquin—”

  “Thank me in the truck,” he cut her off, wrangling control of the conversation. “Let’s move, if you want to bypass another run-in with paparazzi.”

  Swallowing whatever protest waited on her tongue, Martha shadowed him.

  They were going to his uncle’s gym to retrace steps and reopen wounds—and there wouldn’t be anything pleasurable about it.

  Finally, they reached Sig, the ex-military Las Vegas security specialist Joaquin kept on retainer to manage the “street” eyes and ears responsible for eliminating any potential obstacles—from face-to-face altercations to unwanted photos—that might complicate his casual walk from the building to his ride.

  Sig had ensured that the same valet who’d parked Joaquin’s Escalade had it revved and waiting a half block from Mandalay Bay’s rear exit. Recruiting only the best security in Nevada and Florida, and keeping them loyal on his payroll, was no modest expense. But the cost was unimportant when it could deter the hellhounds his ex-fiancée had sicced on him after their last courtroom battle. Especially when it afforded him the brief moments of privacy and anonymity he stole as he walked into the glimmering night with Martha.

  Never had they had this—space and time together for something as simple as walking side by side, as adults. Equals. The differences in their ages and upbringing had from the get-go placed her out of his realm. Investing and professional boxing had monopolized his attention so completely that he hadn’t noticed Martha’s slow and steady evolution from an indulgent little girl in need of a knight, to a stunner of a woman who could fight for herself.

  Inside the Escalade, Martha tugged her seat belt into place and swiveled against the cradling leather to face him as the truck joined the flow of traffic. “No Tor and Othello hanging about?”

  “Why are you saying their names in my truck?”

  Martha’s amused grin was impossible to disregard. “If the challenge is to talk about you, and only you, while in this vehicle, then I’m extremely prepared to accept.”

  “Meaning?”

  “All right. Play it dense. Meaning, Joaquin, that I’d be happy to tell you about yourself. For starters, you’re acting like a jerk again.” She tsked. “In this case, it’s a clear symptom of jealousy.”

  Jealousy? Her question had been perfectly innocuous, one deserving of a response that wasn’t saturated with…yeah, jealousy. Shit. It was his dysfunction that he got hot under the collar at the thought of her laying her affections at the feet of any man who wasn’t him. Jealousy, he concluded, was ruthless. If he was going to open himself up to that kind of distraction, he ought to accept defeat now and not even step into the ring at MGM Grand.

  “I went out tonight to assess my surroundings, which is a process I prefer to do alone. Getting a feel for the city helps me prepare for a fight.”

  “You grew up in Vegas. Shouldn’t every square inch of this city be imprinted on your brain?”

  “Cities are fluid. They change. And I haven’t lived here for four years.”

  “Oh. Guess I can appreciate that—how something you’ve known all your life can become unfamiliar. How someone you know so well can turn into a stranger.”

  Save the blame and the finger-pointing for the gym, Martha.

  Promptly twisting to sit straight ahead, as though she’d caught his unspoken words, she commented, “This truck suits you. The sound of the engine’s part growl, part purr, as if warning of a hidden energy—maybe anxiety—beneath all the cool. It’s powerful but at the same time sleek. It’s a beast and can claim the road if it wanted to. But it has to be controlled.”

  “Contained?”

  “Cared for.”

  God. Damn. Yet again she perplexed him. It wasn’t the sugary sweetness of her fragrance, or the spice in her voice. It was her sincerity—a sharp dagger aimed right at a fissure in his armor. “Been making assessments of your own?” he remarked, signaling a turn and sparing her a look. “I am a beast—a machine. Machines aren’t cared for. They’re conditioned for optimum performance.”

  “And if the machine doesn’t reach this elusive optimum performance?”

  “If it fails to achieve its purpose? Then it’s junkyard scrap.”

  “Still basing your identity on how many championships you rack up, I take it.” There was no pitying tsk tacked on, no note of derision in her voice, but her retort was a judgment. “About the paparazzi at the hotel? They were sniffing around for you. Fight-night fever’s infecting everyone.”

  “Including you?” Why he hadn’t resolved to just drive in complete quiet, he didn’t know. The solemn question was already out there, floating between them, pining for an answer.

  “I probably won’t catch the main card. My idea of exciting entertainment doesn’t involve watching you risk your life in a boxing ring. And the play-offs have my attention. My family’s after a championship of our own. You’re not the only one with titles to win and purposes to achieve.” Done pretending that she was paying attention to the crowds and lights and downtown roads, Martha swung her body around toward him again. “Peppermint candy canes!”

  Joaquin stifled a groan. What kind of hell would she give him for keeping Brach’s in his truck’s cup holder? “It’s Christmastime. And I like candy canes,” he defended in a dead-serious tone. “Give me one? Taking off that plastic is a two-handed job, and I need one on the wheel.”

  “Ah. Ah. Ah,” she teased, grabbing the pair of canes. “You’ve got to be more resourceful than that.”

  Braking to a stop behind a row of vehicles halted at a red light, he signaled for the candy and froze with his hand in midair when she lifted a cane to her lips.

  The leather sighed under her weight as she shifted farther. “You have to use your teeth.” Leaning close, she flicked the tip of her tongue against the end of the cane. “Bite.”

  Joaquin’s hand felt welded onto the steering wheel, he clutched it so tightly.

  Martha efficiently stripped the plastic wrapper from the candy cane. Once it was bare, she motioned for him to open his mouth.

  Clamping his teeth onto the hook, he was about to turn forward when she stilled him with her hands on his cheeks. Then she bobbed, bit down and snapped off half of the stick.

  “Green light.” Martha retreated to her
seat, holding her piece between thumb and forefinger as her tongue stroked the jagged end. A chorus of blaring horns underscored her words.

  Apparently, Joaquin was supposed to drag his foot off the brake and drive, and deny that what she was doing to a piece of candy had his erection bowing up again. He sent her a glare. Anything to knock off the edge. “Why take half of mine when you have one of your own?”

  “Saving it for later.” As if suspicious he might steal it back, she dropped the wrapped candy cane into her handbag.

  “I wouldn’t have let your sly ass into my truck if I’d figured you’d pilfer my Brach’s stash.”

  “A grown man should learn the virtues of sharing PDQ.” Martha was all but laughing as she chomped down on the cane. “Besides, you love my sly ass.”

  “Love isn’t in my vocabulary.” A woman could say she loved her boyfriend and in the same breath say she loved a pair of Italian high heels. A different woman could swear to love her fiancé, only to hours later be caught screwing someone else in his house. Another woman could starve her son of love and teach him that all that mattered was fighting for survival.

  Silence dropped, settled, thickened. Martha had no response. Good. Maybe she’d let the issue pass. It wasn’t until Joaquin had swung the truck into the parking lot of Ryder’s Boxing Club, jerked the key in the ignition and watched darkness fill the interior that he realized he’d lowered the gloves too soon and she was simply awaiting the opportunity to strike.

  “Offended by four-letter words?” she said, carving into that blessed silence as she alighted from the truck. “You have no problem using other four-letter words in the ring.”

  Joaquin rounded the vehicle, stopping in a spread-legged stance in front of where she stood beside the ajar passenger door. “So you’ve been watching me fight.”

  Flustered, she stammered, bumping the door shut with her hip. “Uh—not—well, not habitually. Folks beating the hell out of each other and calling it a sport? Thanks, but it’s not for me.” Recovered now, she evaded him on her booty-swinging walk to the gym’s entrance.