by Helena Maeve
He entered her without warning, merely prying her panties aside and nudging the blunt tip of his erection against her aching hole. He was much thicker than one finger, though not, Imogen thought hazily, as thick as Russell.
She jerked forward, rising up on tiptoe to mitigate the sudden, overwhelming sense of fullness. Jaime didn’t give her much more time to get acclimated to his girth, simply sank a hand into her hair and pulled her against him with a rough twist.
Imogen cried out—it hurt, but the worst of it wasn’t the thought of being manhandled like a ragdoll. The worst was how little she minded his brutality. I must be drunk. She flattened her palms against the wall as Jaime began to pump his hips with hard, obstinate thrusts. She could feel his fingers digging bruises into her hips and recalled Paul in the club, hanging off Desiree’s shoulder like an ill-fitting coat. She recalled Russell, barely daring to touch her, as though afraid she might break.
The thought of a happy medium hadn’t occurred to her until she heard the jarring note of skin hitting skin. A moment later, heat flooded her right cheek, radiating through her body like a flush.
“Fuck,” she swore. “What—?”
Jaime did it again, his open palm striking her just south of his previous swat. The shock of the blow wasn’t enough to justify her vision blurring—she’d had worse—but it happened anyway.
Imogen scratched her nails futilely against the wall, arching her back. And still her cunt clenched, clit throbbing as she rocked back onto Jaime’s hard length, more aroused than ever. She was ready for the third stroke, when it came, gnashing her teeth as she savored the sharp sting and the rush of warmth that followed.
“Touch your cunt,” Jaime gritted out, squeezing her abused backside with both hands. She imagined him watching the flushed imprint of his palms fade from her skin, her slick, pink labia clinging to his shaft as he pulled out only to press back in again, that much harder, that much more desperate for her body. It was nearly enough to put her over the edge.
She nearly smacked her brow into the wall as she hurried to obey, her elbow bending before Imogen could steady herself. Jaime eased up immediately, sliding an arm around her waist to keep her upright. He didn’t stop fucking into her. She wondered if he could’ve done it at all at this point.
The first brush of fingertips to her clitoris was maddening. The second she tried to control by avoiding the hardened nub and stroking down her slit instead. She squeezed two fingers around Jaime’s cock as it plunged into her vagina and heard him grit out a curse.
It was flattering, but Imogen wanted to come. She wanted the orgasm building and building in her belly to spill over and render her boneless with pleasure. She pressed her fingers to the sensitive nub of flesh at the apex of her vulva and rocked into her own familiar touch, gasping for breath as she felt the dam shatter. Euphoria flooded her senses, surging like a waterfall. She felt buffeted by its waves, consumed as she cried out and tried to force her body through another quake, another blissful tremor.
Jaime thrust into her tight pussy once, twice more, his rhythm lost as he spent himself inside her with a guttural moan.
They stayed like that for a long moment, before Imogen’s knees just couldn’t hold her up anymore. She collapsed, taking Jaime with her, and they fetched up in an awkward, sweaty tangle, using the wall for a backrest.
Imogen laid a hand over her throbbing cunt, as if that might help lessen that force of the aftershocks. She felt laughter bubbling in her chest, threatening to seep out.
She resisted, for fear of what Jaime might make of her turning hysterical.
“That,” he panted, “was so not what I was planning.” He thumped his head against the wall, chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to catch his breath. His clothes were in complete disarray, which was to be expected, but Imogen was pleased to find him rosy-cheeked when she turned to glance at his profile.
“Yeah? Did it involve more or less spanking?” Imogen could feel the cold marble tiles against her abused backside like a muted, numb ache, not nearly enough to make her regret what they’d just done.
Jaime tilted his head. “I should’ve warned—”
“You did,” she recalled. “At the club.” She’d sort of known what she was getting into, even if the particulars had escaped her until the moment he’d first struck her. He was lucky she hadn’t hit back.
“Still,” Jaime insisted, pressing his lips into a taut line of self-reproach. “Did I hurt you?”
“Yeah…but I liked it.” It came as a surprise. Taking a punch in the ring was unnerving but not debilitating. Imogen couldn’t say she’d ever actually enjoyed being smacked around, but when Jaime had done it—when it felt like he couldn’t control himself, he just wanted to own every inch of her—that was something else.
She nudged him with her elbow. “Don’t give me that sad puppy-dog face. You showed me a good time, though I may walk bow-legged tomorrow… No need for the poor little rich boy routine.”
Jaime huffed a disbelieving snort of laughter and pulled her to him. “I’ll show you poor little rich boy…” There was gentleness to his kiss that Imogen hadn’t anticipated. It didn’t last nearly long enough before Jaime was breaking away. “I know your roommate expects you back, but—”
“I was promised a tour first,” Imogen recalled, both out of a desire to wander Jaime’s apartment and because she couldn’t imagine leaving right away. She hesitated. “Unless I’ve overstayed my welcome—”
“Not at all,” Jaime said quickly—too quick to be a lie. “In fact, I was hoping you might want to do this again.”
“Now?”
He grinned. “Or in an hour or two.”
Imogen returned his smile, her own a little sheepish. “Sorry, I just—I really enjoyed that.” To put it very, very mildly. Not that it was an excuse to act like a nymphomaniac.
Jaime didn’t seem to mind. “Me too,” he said, levering to his feet. “Come on. I have perfectly comfortable beds, couches… I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a bad host.”
There was no chance of that, not after the mind-blowing orgasm Imogen could still feel thrumming in her pussy, but she placed her hands in his and let him pull her to her feet all the same. She was sure that the pleasant ache in her bones would be her companion for the rest of the night—maybe even last into the day. It was a happy, reckless thought, her very own dirty secret.
* * * *
“And then?” Des asked, sitting up on the bench. Perspiration beaded on her brow, but her eyes were alert with interest.
Imogen gritted her teeth on the down stroke, pushing her palms into the mat as though trying to nudge it back an inch or two. “Then he made me vanilla tea and we stayed up all night…talking.” She left out the part where Jaime had slowly pried off her clothes as she’d told him about the MMA, all in the guise of mapping out her battle scars.
Desiree blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Why?”
“Because I like him, he’s—”
“No,” Des scoffed, “I mean why talking? He couldn’t get it up again?” She could be very blunt about sex—partly because it was her nature and largely because she spent her evenings enticing men to imagine what it might be like to have her in their beds—but this was enough to bend Imogen’s shaking arms.
She collapsed to the mat with a groan, feeling her traps burn and her cheek throb with the impact. “That was this morning in the shower. And if was definitely up.”
Desiree grinned. “Right on. I’d high five you, but I did spend half the night worrying you were lying in a ditch somewhere, so…”
Imogen winced, sitting up on her elbows. “Sorry about that. I, uh, fell asleep.”
“Thousand-thread damask sheets,” Des snorted. “Why am I not surprised? Hell, I’d sleep with him for that.” She pondered this a moment. “Well, for values of sleep that don’t involve his dick. Did he make you breakfast in bed?”
“No…”
“Order room service and hand-feed you?
”
Imogen scowled. “We’re never watching Pretty Woman again.” She was no Julia Roberts, and Jaime, for all his sophistication and his wealth, still wore dorky print T-shirts to bed and checked his friends’ tweets on his phone while he brushed his teeth. His little idiosyncrasies were precisely the kind of thing that made him so appealing.
Admittedly, the talented hands and lavish home didn’t hurt, either.
“When are you seeing him again?” Desiree asked, folding her torso over her legs.
“Seeing who?”
Imogen jumped, startled, but when she turned to face Russell, it was with a mirthless scowl. “You know, for such a big guy, you’re pretty stealthy.”
“It’s been said,” he drawled, folding his arms across the faded Nike logo on his T-shirt.
“Imogen has a boyfriend,” Desiree interjected, not quite a sing-song.
Imogen whirled around, turning to her friend so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash in the process. There weren’t words violent enough in the English language to chastise Desiree’s self-satisfied smirk. She seemed so pleased with herself as she added, “He’s smoking hot and he’s rich, too…”
It was just as well that Imogen wasn’t looking because Russell’s huff of resentment was bad enough.
“Ain’t that something,” he muttered. “Good for her. Maybe now she’s getting her itch scratched, she’ll focus on the fight.”
He stomped away before Imogen could find her voice—it was caught somewhere between disbelief and outrage, landing closer to the latter as she pulled herself upright on the mat.
“The fuck,” Desiree said, eyebrows climbing higher on her pale brow.
“That wasn’t cool.”
Des chuckled. “No kidding. What a jerk—”
“No, what you did,” Imogen clarified. Jaime was her secret. He was something good in a landscape of a whole lot of bad. Men didn’t often give her the time of day and men like Jaime—why would they bother when there were women like Desiree in the world?
Her roommate pinched her lips tight. “Why? So you could go on sleeping with Russ and Jaime at the same time?”
Imogen bristled. “That’s not fair. It’s not like Jaime asked me to go steady—”
“Are you seeing him again?” Desiree snapped.
“Yes, tonight.” It was hard to lie, having already told her roommate that she had another date planned with last night’s Adonis. A descriptor that had, truth be told, made Des laugh for a solid five minutes. “It’s still not cool of you to just—throw it in Russell’s face,” Imogen protested. She knew how Desiree felt about her trainer. There was no love lost between them.
“No, what’s not cool is you not telling Jaime you’re sort of involved with another man and not telling Russell that you’ve found someone else. And don’t give me that ‘I feel so betrayed’ stare,” Des warned, “when we both know I’m right. You’re not some two-timing ho, so don’t act like one.”
Imogen opened her mouth to retort—what, she didn’t know, only that it had more to do with her bruised ego than a difference of opinion. “You know, sometimes I think you and my mom would be besties if you ever met in person…” And if her mother could get over Desiree being one of those people, as she called the LGBT.
She could tell Desiree was trying to hang on to her righteous indignation, but her friend’s high opinion of herself won out in the end. “Ugh. No, thanks. Talking to her on the phone that one time was more than enough. Your mom’s the real deal. I’m just little league self-righteous.” She picked up her towel and water bottle and sauntered away with a wave and a too-loud, “Don’t forget to use protection, baby girl!”
Imogen pinched the bridge of her nose, torn between wanting to scream and the smile she could feel tugging at her lips. However heavy-handed she’d been about imposing it, Desiree had a point.
It wouldn’t endear Imogen any to Russell, but it was better if he knew where they stood. He should’ve been happy—now that she was getting her kicks elsewhere, he was free of the job. He’d never seemed to get much out of taking her to bed, anyway. This was the end of a bad arrangement. And yet when she entered his office, Imogen was struck by how sour he looked.
“What Des said,” she started awkwardly.
“You remembered to use a rubber?” Russell shot back without glancing up from his computer screen. It was an ancient, whirring box that took up space he could ill afford to lose, but Russell claimed he didn’t have the money for a new one. Considering how empty the gym seemed to be at what should’ve been peak hours, Imogen could well believe it.
She bristled. “Yes.”
“Good. Close the door on your way out,” Russell said.
“That’s it?” She had been expecting a sneer, maybe even questions about what depraved sex acts she’d had to perform to attract Jaime’s interest. If a shouting match was not in Russ’ repertoire, then surely he could offer his usual brand of cantankerous carping about her slacking off in her training. Even something about her taking her eye off the prize, like he’d said earlier, would do.
But when Russell glanced up, his expression was distant, his eyes cold. “Did you have anything else to say to me?”
Imogen wanted to shake him. “No,” she said instead, hesitating. “If you still wanted to debrief—”
He didn’t let her finish. “I don’t think there’s any point now, do you?”
She still had three fights to go before she met Megan Luz in the final, and plenty to learn until then. There was no predicting her opponents’ strengths or weaknesses until she knew who qualified—Russell could help her manage that stress. He was a good coach, even if he was a lousy friend.
Not that you’re much better.
“If that’s your expert opinion,” she said, hoping to rile him.
Russell didn’t take the bait. “It is.” He left it at that, turning back to the computer with shoulders hunched and his too-big hand closing around a tiny mouse.
“Do you have anything else for me today?” Imogen shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling like an intruder. “I was thinking I could—”
“Whatever you think is best,” Russ said, cutting her short. He must really have wanted her gone.
“You trust my judgment?” Since when?
His only answer was a stubborn hitch of shoulders.
Imogen folded her hands around empty air and tried not to imagine Russell’s neck in the clutch of her fists. “Fine. Then I think I’m done for the day.” She was hoping to hear one of his usual put-downs as she stomped out of the office, but Russell didn’t call after her and he didn’t mutter anything harsh under his breath—at least nothing that Imogen was meant to hear.
With no reprimand and no fetters to stop her leaving the gym, Imogen marched her way past the front desk with its pink-haired receptionist and faded posters of Russell’s glory days, and right out into the street.
She had expected the news to go down poorly with Russell, but his indifference stabbed. Well, what did you expect? Did you think he’d be pleased you’re fucking someone new? Desiree was right all along. He wants to own you.
What Desiree had actually said was more about his wanting to take advantage of Imogen, but that salient detail didn’t seem so relevant now.
Imogen dragged her sneakered feet along the concrete sidewalk and trooped down into the bowels of the nearest subway stop, feeling somewhat like she was deserting her post.
She was alone on the platform, not another soul in sight. No one would see if she rammed her fist into the tile wall, would they?
She thought better of that reckless desire when she noticed the security cameras suspended here and there, cataloguing her every move. The last thing she needed was a public disturbance charge and a fine she couldn’t afford. Jaime wouldn’t look twice at her then.
Frustrated and with no outlet for her nerves, Imogen slumped into a broken plastic seat and folded her hands over her gym bag. It took her a second to fee
l it vibrate and another to realize she wasn’t imagining the soft humming noise.
She scrabbled to pull out her phone, feeling slightly frantic for good news. It wasn’t Jaime who had texted her, though. It was Russ. Her heart sank as she clicked his message.
Etta Marshall
That was all, no good luck, no I’m sorry I behaved like a jerk. Imogen closed the message and brought up her browser. The name rang familiar, but she couldn’t place it until she dug up the rankings page.
Marshall was a seasoned fighter, about as old as Luz and her competitor in many tournaments. She had fewer trophies under her belt, but what she lacked in follow-through she more than made up for in the heft of her high kicks. A promotional video left Imogen feeling slightly seasick.
So that’s the draw. Imogen slid her phone back into her bag. Tonight’s fight had been decided, now the bookies would start collecting bets and coming up with potential victors. Something told Imogen she wouldn’t be their favorite. No wonder—she would be taking on a legend.
She let her head fall back against the rusted chair for a long, protracted moment. Well, who cares what they think? I don’t fight for the bookies. Her scuffed shoes barely grazed the concrete as Imogen rose and retraced her steps back to the gym.
Chapter Four
Adrenaline pumped in her veins like a tribal drum, blotting out the din of the crowd as Imogen turned from her opponent and the ref. She was chewing on the piece of plastic between her teeth when Russell bid her sit down. She spat it out into his hand.
“I had her,” Imogen growled.
Russell ignored her as he dabbed at her cheeks and brow. She knew she was drenched, but she didn’t need him to clean her up.
“Fuck, I had her,” Imogen swore. “Why’d you tell me to back off?”
“Because she was going to break your ankle,” he said, gallingly calm. “Your left cross is still weak. You’ll have better luck with a clean knockout.”
