Feint and Misdirection

by Helena Maeve

  “We should celebrate,” she gushed. “Oh, or we could go dancing?”

  Holding the car door open for her, Russell shook his head. “You need sleep.”

  “Oh, come on!” Imogen slumped her shoulders, tempted to wheedle and dig her heels into the concrete sidewalk. “You’re killing me with this Zen bullshit. We had a good night…” A knockout in the second round—the first of her career—and Imogen felt way too keyed up for sleep.

  It was to no avail. Infinitely patient, Russell waited until she obediently ducked into the passenger seat, then closed the door behind her with a click. He didn’t react when Imogen propped her feet against the dash in silent protest. He knew her too well.

  She groaned when they pulled up in front of her apartment building. It wasn’t exactly home sweet home, and Imogen would’ve defied anyone to be excited to return to a smashed front door and crumbling walls festooned in garish graffiti.

  “Up you go,” Russ said, as the car engine idled with a thick plume of grayish smoke from the exhaust.

  Imogen fluttered her lashes at him. “Come with? I have coffee. I’ll make coffee and we can share a cupcake or something and then you can go.” She didn’t know what Russell did in the evenings, but couldn’t imagine it being very interesting. Maybe he went home to meditate. Maybe he sat very still, contemplating new ways to make her life miserable. “Please?” Imogen begged, pressing her palms together in mock prayer.

  It was a cheap ploy, but it worked. Russell slid the key out of the ignition. “Five minutes,” he said, wagging a finger.

  Imogen looped an arm around his and tugged him into the building. There was no light in the stairwell and the elevator had been out of commission for some time, but the manager had promised he’d fix it. They passed a handful of eviction notices on the way up to the third floor, by which time Russell was puffing for breath and Imogen couldn’t stop recapping the fight.

  “Did you see me in the first round? Man, I thought I she had me on the ropes—bet she didn’t think I’d drop a knee, huh?” She liberated her keys from her jacket with an absent hand and dropped them twice before Russell took over. “And that left hook? Christ, it hurt like a bitch. I didn’t think I’d get up. Des?” she called out into the silent apartment.

  No answer came.

  “She must be out. New girlfriend, you know what that’s like…” Imogen sauntered inside, flicking on lights as she went. “Actually, maybe you don’t. Do you even date anymore, Russ?”

  He sighed, latching the door behind him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but…no. Not for some time.” Not since the ex-wife, he must’ve meant and Imogen knew not to pry further.

  “Bummer,” she drawled absently, peering into the fridge. There were no cupcakes, but Desiree had just bought a six-pack. She’d sprung for something worthwhile, too, none of that cheap stuff Imogen was used to her drinking. Girlfriend must have good taste. Nudging the fridge door shut with a lackadaisical hand, she held out a bottle to Russell—just the one, she wasn’t allowed alcohol while she was training—as a sort of peace offering.

  He shook his head, looming in the kitchen doorway like a mountain of a man. He dwarfed the squat countertops and the narrow window without trying. “Look,” he sighed, “you fought well tonight, but—”

  “No buts,” Imogen said. She didn’t want to talk about the fight anymore. Her thoughts were grasshoppers darting aimlessly from topic to topic, until suddenly they settled and Imogen reached for Russell’s belt buckle. “No more talking.”

  “What—?” he started, but the question never manifested. Breath left Russell’s lungs on a sigh as Imogen cupped him through his jeans. His cock was still soft, but it stiffened steadily as Imogen squeezed her fist around it, giving him a few light, aborted pulls.

  He seized her forearm, but he didn’t make her pull away. “I thought we said we wouldn’t do this again,” he murmured, almost but not quite the admonishment she’d feared.

  “Then I guess you should stop me,” Imogen countered, rising up on tiptoe as if to kiss him. She didn’t—she never did because it would’ve felt too intimate—and was gratified to see him bend to her will, his lashes fanning low over his cheeks as he watched her mouth.

  You want me. A spark of something almost like pride kindled at her core. Desire pooled in her belly. She knew Russell would let her have her way.

  In this, at least, they were birds of a feather. Adrenaline pumping in her veins, Imogen fumbled open his fly and reached casually into his boxers.

  She heard Russell’s breath catch, saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard, but otherwise he remained still in anticipation. You never do like to rush me. Her cunt clenched when he canted his hips into her touch. She glanced down, knowing what she would see. Russ was thick, but not very long, the angry, red flush of his length a stark contrast against her ivory skin.

  “Yeah,” Imogen moaned as pearly wetness beaded at the tip of his erection. She wanted to get on her knees and lick it off. She wanted to slick her fingers with it and fuck herself while he watched. She did neither. “Bedroom,” she said instead, and, “let’s go.”

  Russ offered no protest, but it took him a moment to move out of the kitchen door and stumble drunkenly down the hall into Imogen’s room. He knew the way.

  They made it into bed in a tangled heap. Russ landed on his back, mattress springs squeaking under his not-unimpressive girth as Imogen removed her tracksuit bottoms and peeled off her sopping underwear. The scent of her arousal was impossible to conceal. She didn’t try.

  She had to spread her thighs wide to straddle him, but the stretch felt good, like pushing her body to the limit of what it could take when it had already suffered a beating. The sensation left her moaning, whole body tipping into Russell’s as she sank two fingers into her pussy to slake her thirst for touch and taste, for his body.

  She felt wicked and debauched, not least because Russell was fumbling with a condom he’d just procured from her nightstand. “You know your way around now, huh?” Imogen grinned. “Boy scout.”

  Russ never dropped his gaze from hers, however fast the pink sheen of a blush might have spread from his cheeks to the open V of his plaid collar. He was clumsy with the condom, dropping it twice, but eventually he rolled it down his shaft, clenching his fist tight around the root as though to stop himself coming.

  The sight of it went straight to Imogen’s pussy, igniting the banked coals of her need. “I turn you on that much, huh?”

  He nodded as though afraid speaking would shatter the magic of the moment, and settled a tentative, callused hand over her hip. Imogen felt a flood of tenderness surge in her breast as she gripped hold and unceremoniously worked herself down his length.

  The sensation of fullness, of being split open by a hard cock, was almost enough to tip her into climax. “Oh, fuck,” she groaned, pinching her clit with slippery fingers to take the edge off.

  “You okay?” Russ asked, patting tentatively at her bruised thighs. “Genie—” His face resolved into sharp relief as Imogen blinked open her eyes. She couldn’t say if it was pleasure making her see things or the rosy lens of her recent triumph, but she was suddenly struck by how handsome Russell seemed. There was a strange dignity in his features, his proud Patrician nose, his full lips—even his soft blue eyes were gorgeous in their own right. The scars he bore caught under her fingertips as she touched his marked brow, the permanent scruff of stubble on his cheek.

  “Fuck me,” Imogen begged, his question already forgotten. He need not be so careful with her. She didn’t break when she got slugged in the arena and she wasn’t going to fall apart now, as his cock stretched her in all the right ways.

  Russell got the hint. The timid thump-thump of his shoes hitting the floor confirmed as much, but instead of flipping them over and taking Imogen like she expected him to, he pinned his socked feet against the mattress, rocking his hips up and into hers.

  “Oh—” It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t what she’d been gunni
ng for, but it would do. Imogen raked her fingernails down his chest, her breaths hitching as she felt him rub against her G-spot.

  “Good?” he murmured, choked and panting roughly with every thrust.

  “Y-yeah. Fuck, keep going.” Imogen grabbed for the headboard, rising onto her knees then slamming back down into his lap. The slick sound of skin slapping skin was both divine and familiar. It struck something deep at her core, a need for physicality and passion that she couldn’t otherwise satisfy.

  Russell gnashed his teeth, inching closer and closer to the edge. He seemed to be struggling to hold on already, which excited Imogen even more.

  She reached for his hand and pressed his thumb awkwardly over her clit. “Touch me there,” she gasped, knowing he’d shy away from taking the initiative if she allowed it.

  There wasn’t a lot of finesse to his touch as he rubbed her, his fingers too rough, his hand shaking in her grip, but it didn’t matter because Imogen could feel release within her reach. She chased it single-mindedly, sweat beading on her scalp, dripping onto his clothes. His cock jerked inside her as she began to tense. The expression on Russell’s face when it became too much all but robbed her of breath. Imogen moaned, a faltering burst of sound that cut off completely as she hurtled over the edge.

  Pleasure flooded her veins, spilling from her core all the way into her fingertips. She lost her rhythm as she bucked and trembled, only distantly aware of Russ’ orgasm as his body went rigid for a few precious moments before relaxing beneath her own.

  She let his hand fall out of her grasp and slowly levered out of his lap to collapse beside him on the sheets. Russ was still wearing most of his clothes, but he was a warm, soft cushion to which she could cling as she came down from the height of climax. Pleasant exhaustion slithered into her bones, replacing the surge of adrenaline.

  Imogen yawned, burrowing into the curve of Russell’s shoulder. “I was awesome tonight,” she slurred. “Say it.”

  “Are you drooling on me?” Russ mumbled instead, still laid up on his back, unmoving like a statue.

  Imogen mustered an acquiescing sound, too drowsy to come up with anything witty. She wanted nothing more than to lie there with Russ and fall into a dreamless sleep. For a few moments, she thought she might have some chance of getting her way. Then the mattress dipped and she felt Russell shift beside her.

  “You could…if you want to stay,” Imogen started. Not her most eloquent effort, but it was all she could manage after coming harder than she’d ever managed to on her own.

  Russ offered her his back, but the crinkling sound of him balling the condom up into a wad of tissues was hard to miss. “Get some sleep,” he said at length, zipping up.

  “Russ—”

  “I have some work left. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn’t exactly run out of the bedroom like a whole host of devils was on his tail, but he didn’t linger or kiss her goodbye, either. Imogen told herself it didn’t matter.

  She waited for the click of the front door, then gave it another handful of minutes before rising from the bed on wobbly knees. The sheets were a mess anyway, and she couldn’t sleep wearing her sports bra. She emptied the trashcan first and foremost, as if that might erase the memory of what she’d done, before heading into the bathroom for a shower.

  Russell did not materialize in the tub with her, so after five minutes, Imogen turned off the tap and found her way into a pair of soft cotton pajamas that left a lot to be desired on the sexy front. Who’d know?

  Hell, even if Russell did know, he probably wouldn’t care. They weren’t like that.

  It was many minutes before Imogen returned to bed and slid under the covers. Megan Luz glared down at her from the frame of a collector’s item poster, fists raised in challenge. Imogen closed her eyes, willing sleep to free her of her meandering thoughts.

  If she tried hard enough, if she didn’t acknowledge the scent of Russell’s aftershave on her pillows or the sweet, lingering ache in her cunt, she could almost convince herself that the past twenty minutes had all been the product of yet another vivid fantasy. That it might well have been the kind of thing she conjured behind her eyes when she was horny—which was often enough.

  The alternative was more than embarrassing. It was plain dumb. Surely she hadn’t just seduced her coach into bed once again knowing full well that he didn’t think much of her.

  Imogen buried her face into the pillows, smothering a groan in cheap daffodil print.

  Chapter Two

  The clang of the front door opening and closing was enough to pull Imogen from the edge of sleep. She shot a baleful glare at her alarm clock, but its blocky digits spelled out a perfectly dignified eight-fifteen. The oblong of light spilling through her bedroom window confirmed the hour.

  “Oh my God,” Desiree chirped from the doorway. “You’re still in bed? What happened?”

  So much for trying to get some shut-eye. Imogen rolled over onto her back. Her roommate came into view, a curvaceous blonde clad all in biker chick black leather. All she was lacking was the bike.

  Desiree bit her lip. “Did you get your ass kicked in comical yet tragic fashion?”

  “No,” Imogen groused

  “Okay, so let me get this straight,” Des said, cocking her hip against the doorjamb. “You’re through to the next round, four fights away from meeting your idol and having her beat you to a pulp…and you’re wallowing? That must’ve been some wedding!”

  Imogen pitched her pillow in Desiree’s general direction, but dodge ball had never been her strongest suit. The projectile missed, upsetting one of the energy drinks on her dresser before dropping mournfully to the ground.

  “Whatever you do, don’t go into basketball…”

  “I slept with Russell,” Imogen announced, dragging the confession from deep within her gut. She’d tried to bury it last night, to pretend that a one-time mistake was, in fact, all it had been.

  She didn’t need to see the smirk on Desiree’s lips to know she’d been struggling in vain.

  “Good for you, sister. I got some myself.” Des rapped her knuckles against the door. “Come on, get up and I’ll regale you with the deets over coffee.”

  It was enough to tug at Imogen’s heartstrings. She pulled herself upright and kicked her way free of the covers.

  “You didn’t make cupcakes,” she mumbled, following Desiree into the kitchen, where she slumped into a rickety chair at the breakfast table they’d barely managed to fit into the far corner.

  “No time,” Des said over her shoulder. “We’re also out of baking powder. But we had some healthy greens—”

  “Midnight snack was beef jerky.” Imogen yawned. “By the way, we’re out of beef jerky.” She always felt ravenous the first couple of hours after a fight. She reserved the morning after, as bruises from the night before swelled into ugly bumps, for apathy about everything, including food.

  The sweet scent of freshly brewed coffee was the closest thing to a pick-me-up she had—at least of the ones that Russell would authorize.

  “…and she’s got this tattoo on her—” Des stopped herself, turning. “You’re not listening, are you?”

  “I am!” Imogen protested, though it was a lie.

  Desiree knew her too well to buy the indignant protest. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. If you don’t want to fuck Russ, you shouldn’t. This thing you’re doing? Hoping he’ll go from frog to prince if you just hassle him enough? It ain’t gonna work.”

  They had, in fact, talked about this before, but every conversation on the subject usually ended with Imogen scowling and saying she knew what she was doing when she really, really didn’t. “I’m not trying to change him,” she protested. “I know it’s just sex.”

  “And he trains you and you owe him money—”

  “It’s not like that,” Imogen interjected.

  Des rolled her eyes. “Not like what? I’m not saying you’re sleeping with him to cover a debt, but we both know you’re b
roke and you couldn’t afford him even if you got a second job.”

  It was true, but it wasn’t the full story.

  “About that,” Imogen started. “I may have quit the McDonald’s gig.”

  “Yeah, right, like you’d join the ranks of the unemployed for the sake of…” Desiree trailed off. “You’re not serious.”

  “Kinda?” More like yes, yes, I am, but Imogen’s courage was lacking outside the ring. “I have enough saved for my half of the rent and utilities, so don’t worry—”

  “I’m not worried, but what the hell are you going to do, Genie? If this MMA thing doesn’t work out, you’re going to need references. Shit, next thing you know they’ll be asking for a culinary school degree before they let you flip burgers.”

  “Maybe they’ll take English Lit,” Imogen gauged. The joke fell flat.

  Her roommate sighed, shaking her curly blonde head. “Does Russell know?”

  “Yeah.” It was hard not to notice that it read like a betrayal to have told him but kept it from Des. Imogen opened her mouth to apologize, but her roommate held up a hand.

  “I’m only going to say this once and then we won’t mention it again because I’m too hoarse for another shouting match. You listening?”

  Imogen nodded.

  “Russell Espina is taking advantage of you.”

  “He’s not—”

  Desiree held up a hand, cutting her short.

  “But he’s not!”

  “What did I say about another shouting match?”

  “Des, come on…” Of all the allegations to be laid at his door, that seemed the most gratuitous. Imogen folded her arms over her bruised knees. “If he was, don’t you think he would’ve called by now to ask where I was? Or, shit, tried to show me off at parties?” She pouted. “He didn’t even take me out to celebrate last night.” Something she was sure had nothing at all to do with the fact that she wasn’t allowed to drink any liquor.