The Final Fight (Fighting Series Book 8)

by J. B. Salsbury

  And I’m nowhere close to being done with her yet.

  Sometime after the third orgasm for both of us, we ate every scrap of food available on the room-service tray. Chocolate cake is good, but it’s better eaten off the smooth skin of a beautiful woman.

  Covered in sticky sweet stuff, we were forced back into the shower where we made out slowly. Fatigue washed over us, and we decided together we’d grab a quick nap, but with the sky lightening in the distance and judging by the gentle and steady breathing of the woman in my arms, that nap turned into a full night’s sleep.

  As much as I’d love to roll AJ to her stomach and enter her from behind to wake her up, I know she has a show today and needs her sleep.

  So, this’ll have to be it for us.

  Until next time.

  And there will abso-fucking-lutely be a next time.

  ~*~

  AJ

  I wake to the feeling of fingertips skating along my bare thigh and smile.

  Braeden Daniels . . . who knew a man of his size and virility could be a gentle lover? What started off as purely animalistic turned into something sweet. The way he touched me, his kisses, it was as if it all turned from rushed to slow motion, like he was savoring every second between us.

  It was perfect. He was perfect.

  “Good morning.” His lips replace his fingers as he peppers kisses along my skin. “I hate waking you up, but check out is at ten.”

  “Ten?” I yawn and stretch then roll over to see him showered and dressed sitting at the edge of the bed. I sit up, feeling the sheet fall around my waist and the cool air hitting my naked chest. “What time is it?”

  He blinks up from my breasts to meet my eyes. “Almost nine.”

  “Nine? I never sleep in this late!”

  A grin that reeks of manly pride and satisfaction lights his gorgeous face. “Good to know I’m able to tire you out, muffin.”

  “Gross.” I yawn. “That has to be the worst pet name ever.”

  “I like it.” His tongue brushes along his lower lip, reminding me where those lips and that tongue had been on my body last night.

  I squirm and press my thighs together.

  His eyes track my movement and he frowns. “Stop that or we’ll never get out of this room.”

  “Party pooper.” I scoot to the edge of the bed and snag my shorts off the floor. Sliding them up my legs, I move with my back to Braeden to get my sweatshirt and then pull my hair up in a high ponytail.

  He hands me a bottle of water, and I recognize it from the mini fridge, one of those fancy brands that probably cost fifteen bucks. The fact that he’d pay such a ridiculous price for water just for me warms my chest. “Thank you.”

  He nods to the chair. “Have a seat. I need to talk to you.”

  “Uh-oh, this sounds serious.” I try to infuse humor in my voice when my stomach is tumbling with nerves.

  This is the part where he tells me he’s married. Or he has a girlfriend, so please don’t text him. Or maybe he’s going to give me a big blow-off speech, which would suck, but it’s not like I don’t have life goals that don’t include hot Marines who—

  “I’d like us to keep in touch.”

  I choke on an incoming swallow and wipe water dribbles from my lower lip. “What?”

  He scowls. “I want to see you again, AJ.”

  He does? And oh my gosh, what is happening to my face? I’m smiling, big and all teeth and—wow, so is he. “Really?”

  “Yes.” He leans forward with his elbows to his knees, and the position speaks of such raw power I imagine he’s probably a very successful Marine. “Now, I know you’re busy and my schedule isn’t exactly relationship friendly, but something easy, with less . . . expectation?”

  I squint and still can’t stop smiling. “Is that a question?”

  “I think so.” He chuckles and scratches his jaw. “God, I’m so bad at this. I just want to stay in touch . . . if that’s okay with you.”

  “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  “Yeah? Good.” He stands and holds out a hand to pull me to my feet then into his body for a long hug.

  I nuzzle in, close my eyes, and I could drift off like this, in his arms, against his warm powerful body, and be content forever.

  “You’re a lot easier than I thought you’d be.”

  I jerk back and glare up at him. “Excuse me?”

  He pulls me back in, his laugh vibrating against my cheek, and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “What I meant is I planned on having to convince you.”

  “Oh.” I wrap my arms around his waist, which is a massive trunk of solid muscle, and squeeze. “Nope. I’m totally on board.” I pull back because the comfort he gives is too addicting, too good to let go of, and we both have lives to live. Separately.

  “So, I’ll, uh . . . I’ll text you later.”

  “Cool.” Cool? Ugh. “Please do, I’d like to know you got home okay.” And I’m going to miss you.

  He snags his military-green duffle bag off the floor and hooks it over his shoulder. “Feel free to hang here until check out. Take a Jacuzzi bath, order room service, whatever.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay, well . . .” He jerks his head toward the door. “I’ve got a five-hour drive. I should get goin’.”

  “Yeah.”

  He stalls for a few seconds and then closes in on me. Hooking one big hand behind my neck, he pulls me to his lips. “I’m glad I met you, AJ.”

  And after one solid press of his mouth to mine, he walks away.

  Seven

  AJ

  “I’m not saying that Dwayne Johnson isn’t a badass. I’m just saying that he’s not trained in real fighting, so yeah, I still think I could kick his ass.”

  It’s Thursday night, four days after Braeden left town, and true to his word he’s kept in touch. We talk every day after he gets off duty, and his deep baritone voice lights me up with memories every single time.

  I push the wire to my earbud out of the way to swipe lipstick on my smiling lips. “I think you’re the first person I’ve ever known with zero self-esteem issues.”

  “With great power comes great responsibility, muffin—”

  “Would you please stop calling me that?”

  His answering chuckle rumbles in my ear. “You like it. Don’t lie.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You’re smiling.”

  God, he’s right! “Only because it’s so ridiculous!”

  “What time do you go on?”

  “I have fifteen minutes until stage call, but I should probably stretch.”

  “Good idea. I wouldn’t want you to pull a muscle.” He lowers his voice, and if there weren’t cast members milling about around me, I’d close my eyes and let the sound wash over my body. “I’ll need you in shipshape for my next visit.”

  “When will that be?” Stupid hormones, I sound like a phone-sex operator.

  He clears his throat. “I don’t know, but as soon as I do, you’ll be the first person I call.”

  A few beats of silence pass between us as I consider what it is we’re building here. I’m not opposed to casual sex as it works best with my life plan, but does that mean he’s seeing other people? Would I care if he was?

  “Break a leg, muf—er . . . AJ.”

  “I will.” I cringe at my stupid response. “I mean I won’t really . . . and thank you.”

  “Talk to you tomorrow, babe.”

  Babe. That word from his mouth does messed-up things to my insides.

  “’Kay, bye.”

  “Bye.”

  ~~~

  An entire day off, and a Friday at that!

  I did laundry, mopped, and vacuumed. The only thing left on my to-do list before my dinner with Mr. Monroe is to shop.

  With my Emergencies Only credit card in the back pocket of my jeans, I roam through the mall, searching for a good place to buy a formal dress. I’ve never had money, but I’ve studied the rich and famous my entir
e life. I knew I wanted to be one of them someday, so I made sure to dissect them like a science project: how they talk, where they eat, what they wear. I spot Neiman Marcus and frown. If only I had five grand to spend on a dress . . . I continue down to the far end of the mall to a discount store that sometimes offers designer labels.

  One day I’ll be able to shop the racks of NM, Grace Kellying it through the place, waving my platinum credit card, but today is not the day.

  I hit the formal dress rack and sift through fabrics and sequined gowns. I finger through the labels, searching for high-end but hoping to get lucky with couture.

  “Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

  I turn toward the saleslady. She can’t be much older than I am, her dark hair slicked back in a tight bun at the base of her neck.

  “Yes.” I blow out a long breath, grateful for the help.

  “Let’s start with the occasion and go from there.” She smiles sweetly. “I’m Lori, by the way.”

  “AJ.” Oh, a BCBG red cocktail dress. I pull it off the rack. “My boss is taking me to Escalante for a business dinner tonight.”

  “Nice choice. Beautiful restaurant, or so I hear.” She leans in. “I can’t afford to eat there.”

  A relieved grin curls my lips. “So, you see my problem.”

  “What do you need, just a dress or—?”

  “Everything.”

  Her eyes pop wide. “Okay, AJ, let’s have some fun.”

  Five hours later I’m walking through the hotel casino, headed for Escalante’s bar. My new strappy black Calvin Klein heels—which I got for next to nothing because of a scuff on the toe—even sound expensive on the marble floor. I pass the familiar faces of the hotel’s employees, but none seem to recognize me. Hell, I hardly recognize myself.

  Lori helped me pick out a form-fitting black Armani dress with a high neckline and cap-sleeves. The zipper had torn away from the fabric, but I managed to fix it at home with a needle and thread while getting it for a quarter of the retail price. It’s conservative enough for a business dinner, but the lace overlay and shorter length add a feminine sexiness to the LBD. With a red clutch and a simple pair of fake diamond studs to round off my look, I finally feel like I fit in Las Vegas.

  “Good evening, ma’am.” The maître d’ greets me with a professional and warm smile. “Dining alone?”

  “No, I’m meeting Mr. Monroe in the bar.” Damn, I even sound rich!

  “Of course. I’ll show you to a seat.”

  I mentally pat myself on the back and follow him through the restaurant with dark mahogany walls and dim lighting. Classical music drifts from the speakers, the only other sound being the murmur of voices and the occasional laughter.

  “Here you are.” The man pulls out a tall-back leather stool and nods to get the bartender’s attention. “Miss . . .?” He looks at me.

  “Pines.”

  “Miss Pines is meeting Mr. Monroe. Please make sure she’s taken care of.”

  The bartender nods, which seems to satisfy the maître d’. He waits for a few silent seconds, and I wonder if I’m expected to tip.

  “Thank you?”

  That seems to be enough and he walks away.

  I order a cranberry juice, and since I’m a good twenty minutes early, I pull out my phone to kill time and check to see if Braeden texted.

  Getting ready for tonight, I missed his call, and I was so nervous I didn’t realize how much I crave talking to him until now.

  I grin when I see I have one new voice message.

  I press the phone to my ear.

  “Muffin, it’s me . . .”

  I tuck my chin and smile to myself.

  There’s a sound like he’s trying to cover the phone and then a muffled, “Yeah. I told you I’d be right there.”

  I frown when I zone in on the background noise.

  “Sorry, I’m at a sports bar, but I didn’t want to miss our call. You’re probably working so . . . I’ll try again tomorrow. Text me when you—fucking prick!”

  A roar of male laughter.

  “I gotta run. Talk to you later. You assho—”

  The message abruptly ends, and I take a sip of my cranberry juice as I consider how different his life sounds from the life I’m currently living: the life of a wealthy woman who is about to eat a meal that will probably cost more than my car payment.

  I pull up the text box to fire off a quick one.

  Hey I got your message and—

  “Adeline.”

  I flip my phone over and turn toward my boss, who’s standing to my left, glaring down at the device.

  “Mr. Monroe.” I slide the thing into my clutch, feeling my cheeks heat with embarrassment, but I can’t figure out exactly why. “You’re early.”

  He takes the stool next to mine and nods to the bartender. Must be nice to have so much money that you don’t even have to use words anymore.

  He turns his intense coffee-colored eyes to mine before his gaze dances down my body to my shoes and then back up. “So are you.” His expression softens slightly, and if I’m not mistaken, I could swear that he smiles, maybe just a little? “You look . . . exquisite.”

  “Wow.” The beginning of laughter builds in my chest, but at his scowl, I push it down and clear my throat. “Thank you.”

  The bartender places a frosty martini with a big olive in front of Mr. Monroe. “Thank you.”

  Ahh, so he does speak to the help.

  I suck down a few gulps of cranberry juice while he sips his martini.

  “I assume you’ve had a good week?” He sips again and turns his body to face me.

  Why would he assume that? “Sure. How ’bout you?”

  “Good.”

  More cranberry juice down the hatch. God, this is so awkward. Right when I’m about to ask him what the hell this impromptu dinner is all about, the maître d’ comes to tell us our table is ready. I pull a twenty out of my purse to pay for my drink, but Mr. Monroe catches my hand in his and shakes his head.

  Okay.

  I stuff the cash back into my clutch. “Thanks.”

  He nods—shocker—then places his hand on my lower back to lead me to our table.

  I’m not surprised when we’re led to the back of the restaurant into a private dining room complete with its own set of waiters. Mr. Monroe pulls my seat out for me and then takes off his coat, leaving him in a crisp gray shirt and tie. He hands his jacket to the waiter, and my eyes are drawn to his narrow waist and perfectly cut slacks, which were most likely made to his exact measurements.

  He sits and waiters drape our laps with black napkins. “Adeline, do you favor a particular wine?”

  “I’m assuming they don’t have Strawberry Hill.” My laugh is cut short by his scowl.

  “I’ve never heard of it.” He holds up two fingers, and seconds later, a man presents a bottle of red wine with French writing all over the label. A splash is poured, and once Mr. Monroe tastes it, he motions to my glass.

  I take a sip. “It’s good.” It tastes like wine-soaked dirt, but I suppose that means it’s earthy.

  Once our glasses are filled, the staff disappears, and the room seems to shrink in their absence. And it gets even smaller when my boss scoots back in his chair, crosses his legs and studies me.

  “Mr. Mon—”

  “Enough with the Mr. Monroe, Adeline. Call me Andre.”

  Andre. I never knew that was his name. I wonder how many people do? “Andre, what is the point of tonight? Have I done something wrong, or . . .?”

  He tilts his head, and again his lips pull up in a half smile. “I find you fascinating.”

  “Huh?”

  His eyebrows pinch together.

  “I’m sorry.” My palm presses to my chest. “You caught me off guard, but, um . . . is the point of this dinner not to discuss some aspect of my employment?”

  “Have you never been on a date before, Adeline?”

  My mind immediately flashes to the last
date I was on, sharing a pitcher of beer over a plate of barbeque with Braeden. That was nothing like this. “Of course I have, but you’re my boss.”

  He casually swirls his wine in the glass. “Not tonight I’m not.”

  “Not tonight . . .” I trail off as what he’s saying becomes all too clear. “You like me?”

  This time he laughs! An actual laugh, and when he smiles, he has one dimple on his left cheek that makes him look less like a mobster, which is probably why he rarely does it. Takes away from his edge.

  “I don’t know yet, but so far?” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “Yes.”

  Oh man, who turned on the oven in this place? I feel like I’m melting. “I don’t know what to say, Andre. I’m surprised, I guess. I . . .” Would it be rude to shove my napkin between my boobs? My Lord, the sweat! “I don’t typically attract men like you.”

  “Men like me, you mean successful? Driven? Competitive? Confident? Insanely good-looking?” Gah! There’s that dimple again.

  No, Braeden is most of those things, and I attracted him; it’s just I’ve never been noticed by someone so . . . “Rich.”

  “Ah, I see.” He runs his finger along his upper lip, flashing a sleek black watch with diamonds that catch the light. “Does my wealth turn you off, Adeline?”

  Wealth, a turn off? Never.

  “It’s intimidating.” I fold my napkin in my lap, avoiding his eyes. “A man like you has surely done your homework. You must know that, despite how I look tonight, I’m not wealthy.”

  “I don’t mean to intimidate you, and I have no plans to drop to one knee and propose. All I want is a quiet place where we can be ourselves and get to know one another.”

  I look up at him, and his gaze is settled firmly on my eyes. “That’s all?”

  “Of course.” He sips his wine and then leans in. “Dinner. Nothing more.”

  I hear the unspoken message behind his words. He doesn’t expect sex, thank God. Dinner, I can do.

  “Okay.”

  “Good.” He nods to my wine glass. “Now, that’s settled. Please relax and tell me something about you I don’t already know.”

  I take a calming breath, feeling much better now that all the formalities are out of the way. “I think we should start on something simple, like why in the hell you’ve never heard of Strawberry Hill.”