Below the Belt

by Skye Warren

  A choking sound escaped her. “You need to stop.”

  He froze.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t be with you at all.”

  But he didn’t look offended, just confused. “I know you like me.”

  She laughed a watery laugh. The cocky bastard.

  “It’s not that. You don’t understand.”

  “Then make me understand. Tell me what’s going on.”

  He looked so puzzled, adorably puzzled.

  “Not the ballroom,” she explained, grabbing his hand, drawing her away from the crowd.

  She turned off into a smaller corridor with a single door. She peeked inside, found it small and empty, and then pulled him in behind her.

  The room was dark and filled with stacks of ballroom chairs, but that wasn’t important. She turned to him and took a deep breath of dust.

  “The thing is,” she said, “I’m a black belt, too. Second degree.”

  He stared at her. “That’s your big secret? That you’re a black belt?”

  “Well…kind of.” Part of it, at least.

  “Most of the people here have a black belt. Why did you think you needed to hide it?”

  Here was the hard part, the part she’d been dreading. “I’m not practicing, not really. And I don’t want to. Not ever again. So being with you, going on tour with you…it would just be too much.”

  “I didn’t ask you to join up,” he said. “You don’t have to practice to be with me. Just come with me. Hang out. Knit a sweater. I don’t care what you do, just be with me.”

  She gathered up all her courage, whatever was left of it. “A few years ago, there was this guy I liked.”

  Abe’s face darkened forebodingly.

  She gave a breathless laugh. If only that were the worst part of the story. “I was training pretty much all the time back then. And if I wasn’t training, I was helping out in my family’s gym. But he was persistent. He actually went to the gym, too—that’s how we met. He was an athlete, a runner, but not a martial artist. It didn’t matter to me, but…”

  Abe had grabbed a chair and gently pushed her into it. That settled her enough that she could continue. She tried to smile, but even she could tell it drooped perilously close to the haunted expression she’d seen in the mirror, the one she’d tried so hard to banish.

  “I guess he was threatened by me, by the fact that I did Taekwondo. He’d always ask me about it, joke that maybe I could take him if he were drunk. In bed he always wanted to hold me down, but I didn’t like it that way. It got to the point where he was belligerent, as if he actually wanted to start a fight with me.

  “So I broke up with him. Then one night, about a week later…”

  Her voice broke. Her heart broke with it, telling the story she’d never told anyone before, not even Addie. A choked sound cut through the thick fog of remembrance, and Paris realized it hadn’t come from her but from Abe. She’d almost forgotten he was there. No, that wasn’t right. He’d always been there, but not as a separate presence. He was part of her, the courageous part. The part strong enough to finish the story and finally get it out of her.

  “Then one night he came to my apartment. He was angry at me. I shouldn’t have let him in. But he was yelling and I thought he’d wake up my neighbors. I don’t know. I just thought I could calm him down. So I let him in.”

  She looked into Abe’s eyes. He knew where the story was going. But he didn’t know how it ended. She could tell that based on the worry there. The fear, the misplaced pity.

  “He forced himself on me,” she said flatly. “And I fought back. At first it didn’t work. He had a good fifty pounds on me, if not more, and he got me on the ground. But then I kneed him in the stomach, twisted his wrist. He wasn’t expecting that. I jammed my palm up into his nose and twisted his balls. Yeah –” She gave a humorless laugh. “They don’t teach that move in the dojang, but it was most effective, let me tell you.”

  Finally she looked up into Abe’s eyes. He had crouched down in front of her, his own eyes suspiciously damp.

  “That’s my girl,” he said thickly.

  “He got himself up and left, and I never saw him again,” she ended the story.

  He took her hands in his. “I’m so proud of you. But…I don’t understand. If you fought him off, if Taekwondo helped you, then why did you quit?”

  She tried to explain, even though she wasn’t totally sure herself. “It happened because of that. It goaded him on, made him think I actually wanted a fight, wanted violence—”

  “No,” Abe cut her off. “He did that. That bastard—” He broke off for a minute, breathing harshly. “That was all on him, not you. Don’t you see? You did nothing wrong. You did everything right.”

  She could see that he was right, knew it all along maybe, but she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t believe it. Could she? Believing that meant trusting herself again. Trusting Abe.

  “God, Paris. God,” Abe said. He rested his head upon their clasped hands, making Paris think of a knight kneeling before his queen, even though she was a nobody in a storage closet. “You’re so strong and you don’t even see it, do you?”

  She shook her head because it was true. All she’d ever thought was that if she’d just paid more attention to being a girl, to being a girlfriend, that this never would have happened. Instead, she’d been so wrapped up in her life, in her art, as she’d thought of it, that there’d been no room for him at all. But it wouldn’t be like that with Abe. Somehow Abe lived and breathed Taekwondo, but he still found time for her.

  “I want to come with you. I want to be with you,” she said haltingly, thinking that it might be true. Unbelievably, it might be possible.

  “Then do it,” he said urgently. “Don’t doubt us, don’t doubt me. Just come with me. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. And if I ever step out of line, you can kick my ass.”

  “You know I can,” she said, a small smile playing at her lips.

  “Yes. I always knew you could. All along.” Abe was smiling back, his eyes bright.

  “Now.”

  “What?”

  “I want to kick your ass right now.”

  His eyes widened as he understood her meaning. The sexual one. “Are you sure?”

  She’d never been more sure. She wasn’t scared of sex, and she wasn’t scared of Abe. All she’d ever been scared of was herself, what she was capable of. What she wasn’t capable of. But not anymore. Abe had given her that, but she was greedy after all, because she wanted more. She wanted all of him, maybe forever.

  “Yes. Now.”

  He didn’t argue anymore, smart man. He grabbed one of the chairs and stuffed it up under the door handle. “No interruptions this time.”

  “Thank God.” Paris grabbed his jacket lapels and pulled him in close. She kissed him. No, she devoured him.

  He took it and gave it back to her. Licking and biting along her collarbone, her shoulders, and down her arms. Crouching down, he bunched up her skirt, running his hands up her legs. “You’re so sexy.”

  She loved how he sounded, hoarse and strained. He’d get his, eventually. Giving him pleasure was a massive turn-on for her. But in the meantime, she liked it that he suffered. Just a little and just for her.

  “If you want me, maybe you should work for it.” Her voice came out unaffected. Almost.

  His eyes flared. “Work for it how?”

  “Show me that you’ll make it worth my while. I’m sure you can think of something.” Who was this woman making demands in a low, almost sultry, voice? What a monster Abe had created.

  He didn’t seem to mind, though, because he smiled a slow cat-in-the-cream smile. “I can think of plenty. But this is your show, so how about you tell me what you want.”

  She wanted him, his body, his heart, everything. And her greed for him transformed her into some other person. Someone who told a strong man what to do. “I want you to taste me.”

  She felt it and heard
it—his breath hitched. He skated his hands up her thighs to her hips, and then froze. He reached around her ass. She knew there was nothing. “Jesus. You did this for me.”

  “I had a hunch you might get some tonight. But that’s yet to be seen.”

  His eyes widened. And then he shut them, letting out a low moan. Eager, she grasped the fabric of her skirt and held it up for him. He opened his eyes and the way he looked at her—there—so focused, so reverent, made her hot. She stepped her feet apart to give him access. He licked lightly all around her cunt, the flesh of the outside, the sensitive folds. His tongue reached in, but not enough.

  He pulled back. “Just a sec.” Pulling another chair off the stack, he set its back against the wall. “You can put your leg up here.”

  She placed her foot, high-heeled shoe and all, on the fabric of the ballroom chair. Her other foot remained on the dusty floor. Spread open like this, she should have felt nervous, but all she could think about was getting his mouth on her. Quickly, please, before she reached down to fix the ache herself.

  He obliged her thoughts and knelt again, leaning into her and immediately going to work. His tongue could reach all the way through her folds now. It found her clit, alternately circling and flicking. This teasing was making her knees weak, threatening her already precarious stance. “Wait,” she gasped. “I can’t hold this.”

  “Sit down. On the chair.” His voice was muffled, still working her, but he paused to let her sit. She sank into the chair, grateful for its support. Then both his palms spread her thighs wide and he leaned back in, tonguing her deeply.

  She’d never been given oral this way, seated with him kneeling before her. There was something almost royal about it, the way he supplicated himself for her pleasure. If she were a queen, she thought, she would do this on her throne. Forget court jesters, this was the real entertainment.

  Her hips bucked up slightly in the seat, in time with his tongue in her cunt. She heard a zipper and realized he was releasing himself from his pants. It was probably for the best, still… “No,” she said. “Don’t touch yourself.”

  Abe groaned in clear protest.

  “Shh. Don’t whine. You just have to,” she gasped as his lips covered her clit and sucked, “focus.”

  She needed him higher, and faster. Couldn’t talk, though. Her hands tangled in his hair, guiding him. Like this. And he obeyed, working her like she wanted, and with his hands on her body, not his. One of his hands reached up to cup her breast while the other pushed two fingers in and out rhythmically.

  She was close, unable to talk or direct him or do anything other than wait for the final push. It came as more of a slide, a conscious transition from insanely aroused to almost there to full blown orgasm. He rode her through it, touching and sucking and thrusting until she was too tender for him to continue.

  Paris felt like she was floating, that’s how amazing her orgasm had been, and she came back to awareness with reluctance. Abe was breathing hard, his face tense. He reminded her of a race horse, eyes focused, nostrils flared, muscles taut. Tenderness washed through her at how much he’d given her, her newfound confidence, both her life and in sex. She hoped to return the first one, with time, but the second she could take care of right now. “Stand up,” she said softly.

  He moved slowly, stiffly, to a stand. His cock jutted out of his tux, looking red and angry. Painful, and she didn’t even have one to empathize with. She grasped it, and his entire body jerked. She leaned forward, sucking the tip gently into her mouth. His entire body bowed outward, and he let out a stuttered breath. This wasn’t soothing him. He needed release, and probably the force of thrusting, to sate him.

  “Condom?” she asked up to him.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled one out. She opened it and rolled it onto him, his body jolting with every touch. Then she stood in front of him and turned around. Bending over, she rested her hands on the flesh of the chair, her ass raised in invitation.

  She turned and looked back at him over his shoulder. Her eyes gave him permission. He didn’t need to be told twice. Looking fierce, he grabbed onto her hip with one hand and positioned his cock with the other. With one smooth motion he entered her to the hilt. Thank God she was wet and relaxed from her climax. Even so, it hurt, but it was what he needed.

  She was grateful she had been looking back at him. His head was tilted back, his eyes were half closed, and his mouth was opened on a groan of relief. He was beautiful. And he was hers.

  “Good. That’s good,” she whispered.

  She wasn’t sure if he’d heard her, but he pulled back and slammed in again, his balls slapping her.

  Emboldened, she said, “Harder. Do it harder.”

  He did. He fucked her harder. And that’s what this was, fucking. Nothing as lax as sex or as sweet as making love, this was something primal. A claiming, the way a man does a woman, except she felt like she was the one marking him. Making sure he’d never forget her, because she sure as hell would never get over him no matter what their future together held.

  His moans filled the small room, but she didn’t give a damn if anyone heard him. Abe was definitely a bad influence on her sense of propriety. She loved it.

  She wasn’t going to come. She could, maybe, if she reached down and touched herself, but it wasn’t important. What was important was letting herself be thrust into. She arched her back, tilting her hips, and pushed back. That was the point—to be thrust into. Besides, she needed both hands on the chair to keep herself from hitting the wall.

  His hips moved from a long, smooth motion to a short, choppy one. He was close.

  “Paris?” he asked.

  “What?” But it took her a couple of seconds to realize she’d only mouthed the words, that there wasn’t air in her to speak. She tried again. “What?”

  He seemed to be similarly inhibited, because after a couple more jerky thrusts and panting breaths all he said was, “Paris?”

  What did he need? He needed to come, she knew that. But he wasn’t coming. Almost there. That was it, yes, he wanted permission. Yes, yes. “Yes. Come now.”

  Never more obedient than right then, mid-stroke, he pushed all the way into her and held there for a long groan.

  After Abe had finished, his head rested on her hair. His breaths tickled her nape as his breathing evened out. She felt him slip wetly from her, and she shivered. The fierce coupling had left her stiff, but Abe righted her and straightened her dress.

  He pulled off the condom and then held it in his hand, looking around the small storage closet.

  “Damn,” he said. “This place really needs to invest in trash cans.”

  Nine

  Paris left in search of her mother. He wasn’t sure this was the right time to break the news that her daughter would be going on a world tour with some guy, but Paris said she really needed to patch things up.

  Abe speared through the mass of people toward his friends. Blake was standing apart from the rest of the group. Considering how crazy Blake had been acting, he’d made it to the second day. He’d placed higher than the rest of the guys from his school, aside from Abe.

  When Blake saw Abe approach, he stiffened. “I’m asking you now,” Abe said. “Come with me. Open the school with me, work with me.”

  Blake sighed in answer. “It’s not just because you didn’t ask me. I mean, I wasn’t really sure you wanted me to come, or whether you’d just feel obligated.”

  “Well, I’m telling you now.” What the hell did Blake want from him? Did he expect him to beg? Because Blake could go fuck himself if he thought Abe would do that. He’d asked him, and Blake was shutting him down.

  Blake tilted his head toward a set of open doors, and Abe followed him just outside them. “I know. And I…I appreciate that. More than you could know. But that’s not really why I can’t come.”

  “You can get out of it. I’ll help you.”

  “No. You’re not listening to me. I don’t want to get out of it. I can
’t go with you. I can’t work with you. I can’t be with you!”

  Abe’s head snapped back. Blake was yelling, and Abe wasn’t even sure he realized it. “Shit, man. I’m trying to listen. I’m just trying to understand what the fuck is going on.”

  Blake shook his head, eyes flashing in a warning Abe didn’t give a shit about. “Forget it. This was just a courtesy, me telling you. It is what it is.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.” Abe was one step away from beating the answers out of Blake, closer to violence than he’d felt in a long damn time. Except back when he’d been a stupid kid, Blake had been on his side. “What the fuck happened to you? We used to be friends. You had my back and I had yours. Then…what? What changed? It wasn’t me, man.”

  “Fuck that. You changed.”

  “Fine, I changed. I grew up and you did, too, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends anymore. Just tell me.” Abe softened his tone, turned it to asking, pleading. Blake was leaving them, leaving him, and this would probably be his last chance alone with him to find out what was really going on. “Would you just tell me the truth, goddammit?”

  “You want to know the truth? The truth is right there. Sa Bum Nim knows, even though I never told him. I think Rafe knows, or at least suspects. But you, you just go along, and have no idea what’s going on around you.”

  “Okay. So, I’m clueless. I’m a jerk. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I’m gay.” Blake’s shout echoed in the empty hallway.

  A snort burst from Abe. “No, you’re not.”

  Blake gave him a bored look. What a faker. What a goddamn faker in everything.

  “You’re not gay.” Abe spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ve seen you with girls. Lots of girls. I’ve slept next door to you fucking a girl.”

  Blake narrowed eyes glittered with challenge. No, with victory. Whatever he was about to say, he’d already scored. Abe held his breath.