by Helena Maeve
“You’re kidding…”
She didn’t know Russell to be the joking type—or the type to show any kind of emotion, really, during a fight—but this was the first time he had pulled her off an adversary who was already on her knees. True, Marshall had been twisting at her ankle, but Imogen couldn’t claim she’d felt any pain.
Could be the adrenaline. Or Russell could be trying to work her harder than he needed to just because he could.
She wouldn’t put it past him.
“I’m tired,” Imogen confessed. If she couldn’t tell him, then who could she tell? “My left elbow is—”
“You work through the pain,” Russell said, shaking his head.
So much for sympathy.
“Don’t rush, find your opening. She’s hurting worse than you.”
Etta Marshall was glaring at her over Russell’s shoulder, barely paying attention to whatever her own trainer was telling her. She didn’t appear to be in any pain, but she grimaced as she stood. Imogen saw it. She slid her own mouth guard back in and clutched it firmly between her teeth. No one had said this fight would be easy—Marshall had years of experience in the sport and she’d gone toe to toe against the greats. It didn’t matter that her hair was shot with gray. She was the real deal.
Once the buzzer rang again, Imogen did her best to put Russell’s words of wisdom into practice. She darted in and out of Marshall’s reach, trading light punches as she gauged the terrain. She kept her elbows up. One minute passed them by, then another. They were coming up on the whistle again. She glimpsed the clock, blocky letters counting down from thirty, made sure that Marshall saw her taking her eye off the ball. It was a good feint. Marshall went for it.
Quick on her feet, Imogen cheated to the left, bounding on her heels to slam her right fist into Marshall’s temple. Impact sped through her wrist like a shockwave. Imogen felt her elbow give a protesting twinge, the kind of throbbing that heralded swelling. It didn’t matter.
Her opponent slammed the mat hard, spittle flying from her mouth.
She didn’t get up again before the clock ran down.
Russell had been right.
Imogen heard the audience chant her name as if in a daze. Her arm was killing her. She winced when the ref raised her hand into the air, stretching the aching joint.
“You’re good,” Marshall said, shaking her head as she climbed unsteadily to her feet.
“What?” Imogen had heard, but she felt petty enough to ask the other woman to repeat the praise.
And Marshall did, holding out her blocky fist to shake Imogen’s in a gesture of rare sportsmanship. “I said you’re good.”
“Thanks.” Imogen couldn’t help the smug grin. Sweat sluiced down her back, stuck her hair to her brow. It wasn’t every day she came out of a fight the undisputed winner.
“Megan’s better,” Marshall added with a smirk of her own.
She was gone, her minders closing ranks around her before Imogen could muster a reply. She only moved her feet when Russell squeezed her shoulder.
“Relax your arm,” he muttered, too low for anyone to hear over the ensuing commotion as Etta Marshall left the ring.
“What?” Imogen was still trying to puzzle out if Marshall’s parting volley had been a warning or a threat. She couldn’t follow.
Russell grunted. “Relax your arm. You’re holding it like it’s broken.”
“Who cares how I hold my arm?” Imogen snarled as they hit the locker rooms. Privacy robbed her of any willingness to hold back the aggravation bubbling in her chest. Why couldn’t one victory go the way she’d hoped?
“Your next opponent,” said Russell with a scowl. He touched the aching joint with what might have passed for gentle fingers, but Imogen flinched anyway, darting out of his grasp.
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Did you hear what she said to me?”
“Doesn’t matter—”
“She said Megan Luz is better than me!”
Russell arched an eyebrow, staring at her like she’d lost her mind. It was an expression he often wore. “And that’s news to us?”
Imogen rounded on him with a glower. “For once in your life, could you try to act like you’re on my side? Not for nothing, but I’m fighting for your gym as much as I’m fighting for myself!”
The locker room door squeaked open before Russell could get a retort in. He must have wanted to, but he clamped his lips tightly shut, disgruntled when he saw Jaime enter the room.
“Oh, hey. Sorry, they said you were in here and my name was on the list, so…” Jaime glanced between them warily. “Is this a bad time?”
Russell closed his mouth with an audible click. In different circumstances it might’ve been a kindness, but as it stood, Imogen only felt the smothered flame of her resentment spark anew.
“No, it’s fine.” She beckoned to Jaime. “Hi, babe.”
If he felt the tension in the room, if he noticed the heft of Russell’s disapproving stare, Jaime gave no sign. He slid his arms around Imogen and kissed her like she’d hung the moon. “Hats off. You were amazing out there.”
“Did you see the whole thing?” Imogen pressed, fluffing up her feathers. It was good to know someone appreciated her exploits without any ifs or buts.
Jaime nodded. “Start to finish. I didn’t want to say I was coming so I wouldn’t distract you… Not that I should’ve worried. You were incredible.” His lips were warm against hers and Imogen pressed herself into his arms, heedless of their captive audience.
It was Jaime who did the gentlemanly thing by pulling away. “Oh, sorry. I’m Jaime Morris, I’m—”
“My boyfriend,” Imogen added, barely restraining a sneer. See? I didn’t make him up.
Russell shook his hand. “Russell Espina,” he said.
“No way—for real?” Jaime gaped, his jaw gone slack. “You’re the Russell Espina? The guy who went five rounds against Luther Navarro? I remember that fight, man. You were like a machine!”
Imogen was as taken aback as Russ looked, but a small, green-eyed part of her also felt hurt that Russell could steal her thunder without even trying.
“I remember that fight too,” he said, retrieving his hand. “I’ll leave you two to, um… It was nice meeting you.” His gaze lingered on Imogen for a moment longer than was strictly necessary before Russell stepped away, literally ceding his place in the locker room.
Jaime didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He stuck them in the pockets of his Burberry trench coat, pulled them out again and finally settled on tugging his fingers through his slicked-back hair in a state of restless excitement. “You didn’t say your coach was Russell Espina.”
“Didn’t know you were a fan,” said Imogen. Not that it changed anything.
“Are you kidding?” Jaime snorted. “For most of high school, I wanted to be him.”
Imogen filed the thought away along with all the other unpleasant things she’d heard people say over the years. “I’m glad you didn’t,” she breathed, grasping Jaime by the lapels. “I like you better.”
He laughed into her kiss, his hands slip-sliding through sticky sweat. “So what’s the score? You’ve got interviews to do or—?”
“Russ doesn’t hold with the press junket. I’m home free after I shower.”
“Or,” Jaime suggested, his lips tugging into a mischievous smirk, “you could shower at my place. You seemed to like playing with all the fancy jets this morning…”
With marble on the walls and chrome sprays buffeting her body from every side, there wasn’t much Imogen could find wrong with Jaime’s sumptuous shower. As long as it involved sharing the space with him, she had no reservations.
“Take me home,” she said, knowing he liked to be in the driver’s seat. She put the thought of Russell Espina resolutely out of her mind.
* * * *
Jaime drove a sleek, two-door BMW coupe. He didn’t speed, but he didn’t idle behind drivers who were obviously in no hurry to get to their
destination, either. Imogen had discovered she felt safe beside him the night before and the sentiment persisted twenty-four hours later.
She wondered if they were moving too fast, if one-night stands were the kind of foundation that could lead to something more permanent. Where is Des when you need her? Imogen’s common sense must’ve been out, too, because she didn’t drop his gaze when Jaime caught her staring at his profile.
“Something wrong?” he asked, keeping an eye on the red light gleaming up ahead.
“Just thinking.” Wondering what I did to get so lucky would’ve been closer to the truth. Just a few days ago she had been bemoaning her solitude, feeling like the ugly duckling at a wedding where more than a few people had shown up wearing leopard print—and not just the women, either. Now here she was, being chauffeured to a palatial penthouse in the heart of Chicago by a man who might as well have descended to earth from the pages of GQ magazine.
Jaime put the car back into gear, engine rumbling as they moved with the stream of traffic. “About the fight?”
“About you…” Imogen stretched, catlike, and let her knees rest against the dash. She wasn’t very tall, but she knew how to use her body to attract attention. She did it all the time in the ring. “I’m trying to figure out what you’re going to do to me tonight.”
“Do to you… Oh!” Jaime snorted. “Feeling anxious?”
“Excited,” Imogen corrected, her voice dropping to a purr as she splayed her legs. It was chancy to do this in the car, when Jaime needed to concentrate on the road, but she always felt horny after a fight—after a win. “You said something about props?” she mused, walking her fingers down her bare thighs, pushing up the folds of her wrap dress as she went.
Jaime shot a quick glance at her and swore.
“I’ve been wondering what that could mean,” Imogen went on, idly cupping her mound through her underwear. “I’m no stranger to vibrators, but…somehow I don’t think that’s what you have in mind.”
“It’s not,” said Jaime, a little choked. At the next stoplight, he reached across the gearshift and caught her wrist. “You know, this car doesn’t have tinted windows.”
Imogen nodded. She knew. She just didn’t care enough to stop touching herself for fear of being seen. And by the looks of it, neither did Jaime. He dragged his thumb down over her slick folds, pressing her sodden panties against her clit. He laughed when her hips jerked, an involuntary twitch of warmed-up muscles that couldn’t be controlled.
I bet you could teach me. I bet you’d like that.
“If you could see yourself right now, Jesus…” Jaime breathed, as though awed by the heat of her cunt, the way she responded to his touch. “You’re just begging for it, aren’t you?”
The light changed and the driver behind them leaned on the horn, shattering the sensual cocoon of Jaime’s ministrations.
“Fuck,” he swore, startled.
Imogen echoed the sentiment. She made to close her legs and drop her knees in some vague show of propriety, but Jaime stopped her short.
“No, I want to see you.”
“You want me to come?” Imogen purred, suddenly amenable to the idea.
Jaime glanced her way with eyes dark. “I didn’t say that.” His fingers, Imogen noticed, were gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles had gone white.
She dropped her shoulders against the seat, licking her suddenly dry lips. “Then what’s in it for me?” she asked even as she placed her hand over her mound, lazily stroking her middle finger down her slit.
“I’ll make you come as many times as you want when we get to the apartment,” Jaime said. “I’ll spend the night with my tongue in your pussy if that’s what you want.”
Holy hell. Imogen didn’t need much more prompting as she took to stroking herself in earnest, pinching her labia but avoiding her clit for fear of coming without Jaime’s permission. On some level, she knew it was odd—to ask for, to trust him to give her the right—but she didn’t much care. The thought of Jaime satisfying her every want for the rest of the night was more appealing than denying him for the hell of it.
Some other time, perhaps, when she was in the mood to get punished for disobedience, she would put up more of a fight. “So those props,” she murmured, her breaths growing short.
“Wait and see,” Jaime teased.
He seemed to drive a little faster now, the BMW zigzagging in and out of traffic as the wait got to him, too, but he steered clear of any daredevil nonsense. That it still seemed to take an eternity before they drew to a stop in the underground parking lot of the Fordham had nothing to do with the actual passing of time.
Imogen wrenched open the door. She didn’t bother with her gym bag or her cell phone—she could get it later. She just made a beeline for the elevator and jammed her finger against the button. Jaime was behind her in a flash, his breath hot against her ear and his hands casting down her bare arms, over flushed skin and racing pulse. He took her left wrist in his hand and made to pull her hand to his lips.
“Ow,” Imogen gasped, flinching out of his grasp.
“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
He had, but it wasn’t his fault. Imogen grasped her elbow with her free hand. “I think I pulled something in the ring.” She didn’t think, she knew, but after Russell’s reprimand, she didn’t want Jaime to think she was weak too.
The elevator doors slid open, bathing them in a soft pale glow and the warbling of nondescript jazz. Jaime nudged her inside without a word, his silence weighing heavy.
“I’m fine,” Imogen started. “This doesn’t change anything—”
“Of course not. But you’re going to let me wrap that first,” Jaime said. “And you should see a specialist, just to be sure it’s nothing more serious.” He scowled. “Russell should have arranged that.”
He might have done, if Imogen hadn’t been so quick to dismiss his input. “I sort of said it wasn’t bothering me,” she lied, waving the oversight aside with her good hand. “I’ve bounced back from worse. I didn’t know you were such a Florence Nightingale…”
Jaime didn’t seem convinced, but he allowed Imogen to tease him into forgetting his reservations. “I did a semester as a nursing student.”
“No med school?” For someone with his disposable income, Imogen was surprised.
“Didn’t have the grades for it,” Jaime explained as they entered the penthouse. “There’s a first aid kit upstairs—what I lacked in grades, I like to think I more than made up for in bedside manner.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Imogen glanced over her shoulder. “Although if you were planning to cop a feel with all of your presumptive patients, then it’s better you majored in—what was it in the end? Economics?”
Jaime gave her ass a playful squeeze. “Germanic languages. I know how to curse in Icelandic, Norwegian and Afrikaans. Unfortunately, that’s about all I remember. I got a job working on Wall Street after that.”
“Say no more,” she begged, “I’m already predisposed toward hating you on principle.”
He mimed zipping his mouth shut, which was both comical and endearing. That strange dichotomy of sentiment persisted as he sat her down and rubbed a local analgesic into her swollen elbow. He was gentle about the whole thing, but something in his method had Imogen wondering if this wasn’t the first time he’d had to patch someone up.
“I haven’t asked because I think I know the answer,” Imogen began tentatively. “But I’m not your first rodeo…am I?”
“No,” Jaime said, “I was unfortunately not a virgin until last night.”
Imogen scoffed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” He slid the lid back onto the first aid kit, smiling tightly. “And I also know there’s no right answer to the question you want to ask me.”
Imogen rolled her eyes. “You read minds now?”
“You want to know how many women I’ve brought home and fucked?”
“Ballpark figure,”
Imogen said. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” She mustered a smile, expecting Jaime to tell her point blank that it was none of her business. It wasn’t entirely untrue, but that didn’t stop her feeling curious. What she actually wanted to know was how many women he had gone all Marquis de Sade on, but that seemed like it would be prying.
Jaime shuffled his feet as he stood, discomfort oozing from every pore. “Five.”
“Oh…” Imogen felt slightly gobsmacked. “Only five?”
“That’s counting last night,” Jaime amended, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “And every apartment I’ve lived in since college over the last eight years or so. You?”
Imogen grimaced. “I’m not sure I want to tell you now.” Living with Desiree must’ve warped her view of what single young professionals were supposed to get up to in their love lives, because five wasn’t that striking by any count.
“A deal’s a deal.”
Yes, but a woman who sleeps around tends to carry a pretty specific title. Imogen sighed. “More than half a dozen, less than two.”
She watched Jaime arch a brow. “So…twelve?”
“Thereabouts,” Imogen admitted. “Too many?”
“I don’t know that there’s a golden ratio to be aiming for. You’re not sleeping with any of them now, are you? Not that you shouldn’t, but if you are—”
“I’m not,” she interjected, recalling Desiree’s intervention at the gym. As tempting as it was to leave it there, Imogen dug her fingers into Jaime’s thousand thread-count sheets and added, “Actually… Actually, I was sleeping with someone when we met. My, um, coach. But I’m not anymore, I swear. It wasn’t even a relationship, just sort of a…friends with benefits thing. Very messed up and unhealthy.” Mostly because she had the unsettling feeling that she had coerced Russ into it.
Saying it out loud made it sound so much worse. How could she have believed she could get away with the secrecy?
Because you’re a coward. Because you got lucky, so you turned stupid.
