Against the Ropes

by Jeanette Murray

  “Driver,” she said, taking her own seat in the front, “let’s roll!”

  * * *

  TRAVEL, Greg decided, was basically no different whether it was for a training operation or for a boxing match. Bunch of sweaty, smelly Marines on a bus, singing stupid songs or laughing about the same five jokes they’d been telling each other since the beginning of time. A few humble brags, a few not-so-humble brags. Some talk about friends everyone had in common, some gossip—oh yeah, Marines could outgossip a granny.

  It wasn’t that bad, all in all. But the worst was . . . he couldn’t sit next to the one person he wanted to.

  Reagan.

  Reagan, who looked so proper in her business suit and neat ponytail. Who wore heels that were completely impractical for travel and a suit that had to be stifling and uncomfortable as she sat up there with the coaches and Marianne. Reagan, whose voice was so deep and husky while she was in her professional mode, it gave him the most untimely boner of his life.

  Nothing said awkward like popping wood in the back of a bus with a dozen other guys.

  “How’s Garrison?” Sweeney leaned over the top of his seat, arms folded. “Was he booting in the head?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Greg wrinkled his nose. “Not cool. He’s an okay guy, but man, his nerves aren’t really where they should be.”

  “Or maybe he’s just that bad outside of the ring, and once he’s in the ropes, he’s got nerves of steel.”

  Possible. Greg shrugged. “Either way, I think he’ll be happy when it’s all over.”

  They were silent a moment. “How’s Reagan holding up?”

  “She’s holding.” He wouldn’t let her crack. “How’d babysitting go the other night?”

  Sweeney grinned. “That kid’s hilarious. Seriously. And hey, did you know there are, like, fifteen different substitutes for peanut butter?”

  “No . . .” Greg said slowly. “I don’t suppose I did.”

  “Some aren’t all that great in your regular PB and J, but are good for cooking. Others suck in the cooking department, but are better on bread.” He held up his hands when Greg stared at him. “What? The kid’s got allergies. We talked. I learned a few things. Have you read Kara’s blog?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “It’s really interesting. And sort of awe inspiring, all the stuff she’s had to go through because of his allergies.”

  “Well, she’s a good mom.” Anyone could see that after two minutes with her and the kid.

  “She is.” Graham was quiet for a minute. “Think she’d say yes to a date?”

  That had Greg swiveling his head back around. “With you?”

  “No, with Coach Willis,” Graham said dryly.

  They both looked forward, watching as Coach Willis leaned over his knees and discussed something with Coach Cartwright across the aisle. The man was like the Lorax come to life, with his shocking orange beard and short, stalky stature.

  “I think she’d say no to Coach Willis. Just a hunch,” Greg said, grinning. “But with you, I dunno.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” his friend asked defensively.

  “So much,” Greg said with a grin, dodging his friend’s joking punch. “So much.”

  “Cool it, or the coaches are going to come back here and separate you two.” Brad leaned over from across the aisle. “We’ve got a match tomorrow. Don’t be a bunch of assholes and ruin it for everyone.”

  “Speaking of ruining it for everyone . . .” Graham dug through his bag for a moment and pulled out the morning paper. “Anyone read about the protests? It’s that guy again, the same guy who wrote the first article.”

  “It occurs to me,” Brad said as he took the paper from Graham, “that this guy is getting a lot of play off what looks to an outsider to be a bunch of harmless pranks. He’s really pouring the gasoline on the fire.”

  “And why?” Greg asked, angling himself to read over Brad’s shoulder. “There are more interesting things to write about.”

  “Maybe he’s the one creating the story in the first place,” Graham said, voice dark. When both the other men stared at him, he added, “What? It’s a theory.”

  “And hardly that,” Brad added, dryly. “He doesn’t have base access most of the time. And he barely seemed interested at all in us until those paint balloons hit. That’s when he saw gold.”

  “He’s an asshole,” was all Greg felt confident in adding to the mix. He was too close to the situation—okay, too close to Reagan—to be unbiased. He couldn’t care less what people wrote about him, about the Marine Corps, about the team. But he knew it hit her so much harder than it hit any of them, and he hated that for her. “But I doubt it’s him.”

  “So maybe it’s someone who got cut.” Graham stretched. “They’d have motive. That whole ‘bitter ex’ complex.”

  “But not opportunity.” Brad folded the paper neatly, offered it to Greg. He shook his head, so Brad handed it back to Graham. “They all had to report back to their own commands after getting cut. It’s not like they have the chance to run around here without getting noticed. We’d have heard if one of our guys went AWOL.”

  “Auxiliary staff,” Greg said, stating his own opinion. “Someone who works in maintenance, or maybe one of Marianne’s interns.”

  Brad mulled over that a moment. “Opportunity,” he admitted, “but no motive.”

  “Motive is as simple or as complicated as someone wants it to be,” Graham stated, sounding every inch the lawyer he normally was. “He cut me off in traffic, she stepped on my foot as she walked by and never said sorry.” He shrugged. “It’s not always a mortal wound that scars, boys.”

  “Point taken,” Brad said, crossing his arms. “It’s pissing me off, whatever it is.”

  “I have a feeling it’s costing Reagan,” Greg added. When both men looked interested and leaned forward, he added, “I think she’s struggling with it. She’s got to handle the fallout when something negative happens, and her superiors keep harping on her to make it stop.”

  “As if she has that power,” Graham muttered. “How do you know all this?”

  “We talk,” Greg said defensively. “We talked last night.”

  “Just talked?” Brad asked with a teasing kick.

  “You know as well as I do I was in my room last night. Alone,” Greg emphasized. “Reagan had an early start so she wasn’t going to hang out last night. She’s freaking out about making sure everything lands in place and nothing is disturbed for this trip. So if you see something suspicious, stop that shit in its tracks before it gets to her. She might lose her mind otherwise.”

  “Yeah, of course.” Brad sat up straighter.

  “Whatever you need, man.” Graham clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We want this team to be successful, and we don’t want her to get fired. She’s nice to look at.”

  Greg growled, and Graham chuckled and settled back in his own seat.

  Brad leaned in closer. “You having any problems with the whole dating-someone-close-to-the-team thing?”

  “No,” Greg said with a laugh. “That was your problem, not mine. We’re adults. She’s already given it the okay, and we’re good. But thanks anyway.”

  Brad scowled. When he and Marianne, the team’s athletic trainer, had first started seeing each other, they’d hidden their romance, concerned it wouldn’t look good to others. Instead, the romance itself hadn’t been the problem, but the secrecy. “Yeah, well, shut up. Not all of us are perfect, Higgs.”

  “I know. Not everyone can be as lucky as me.” He grinned as Brad threw him a glaring look. “Get over it, Marine. You got the girl, so move on.”

  “I did, and I am. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t walking into the same trap I was.” His roommate shrugged. “But since you seem to have it all under control, mazel tov.” Brad slipped earbuds in his ears and closed his eyes.

  Brad thought he had it all together? Ha. Not even close. He was a ball of nerves around Reagan, not that he’d let
her know that. She had enough on her plate without worrying about a nervous Marine. She’d make that her problem, too. No, he was nervous not because of the team, or boxing, but because of her.

  He’d never held off this long from sex when he’d really liked a woman. Not that he’d been a man whore either, but when they’d both felt the urge, they’d taken the plunge.

  He felt the urge with Reagan, in a big way. But it was what that urge combined with more than lust that had him holding back. He wasn’t prepared to make a mistake with her. Normally, he was of the “live and learn” philosophy when it came to mistakes in life. But with Reagan, there was an extra layer of caution in their dealings. As if both were afraid that a single mistake, no matter how small, might shatter the tentative bond they’d been building.

  The only bright spot was that she seemed as aware of it as he was. And was just as reluctant to make a misstep as he was.

  That did not, however, solve the problem of when they would actually take the next step in their relationship. Would she be ready soon? Or not until after their season was over?

  Please, God, not that.

  He could be a patient man, but even his patience had limits.

  He watched as Reagan stood to reach over the next seat and ask Marianne a question. Her laugh caught the ear of several Marines, and they all turned to watch her speak.

  Yeah, look all you want. But she’s mine at the end of the day, boys.

  He’d just have to walk them past the point of fear and into certainty to make it happen.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Reagan knocked on the final door, closing her eyes for a moment and praying the inhabitant answered while wearing pants.

  The door cracked, and a young Marine poked his head out. “Hey, Ms. Robilard.”

  “Hi, Jonathan.” She smiled. “Everything okay? You have everything you need for tomorrow?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, but didn’t open the door wider. For that, she was grateful. “You doing bed checks? Coach Ace was already by like half an hour ago.”

  She held up the clipboard. “Just part of the service here with the Marine Corps boxing team. I’m in 112 if you need anything.”

  He nodded, then closed the door quietly. She made a check mark next to his name, then started walking back down the hallway. Counting with her pen, moving down her list, she did her best to estimate how long it would take to do a wakeup visit to everyone in the morning. If they had to be up by six thirty, then she’d need to start at—

  She didn’t have time to shriek as an arm whipped out from seemingly nowhere and yanked her into a room before shutting the door. She gathered enough oxygen to gasp, but not shout. A hand covered her mouth and she started to bite down . . . until she recognized the scent. Then her eyes adjusted to the dark room, and she identified the outline of the man pressed against her.

  “Meph?” she managed to get out.

  The dark figure chuckled. “Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t want you to sound the alarm before you realized it was me.” His hand dropped away, smoothed over her frazzled hair and down to cover her still-frantic heartbeat. “Easy now.”

  She took a deep breath in and out, then repeated the gesture until she felt confident she wouldn’t vomit or pass out. When her arms felt strong enough, she punched Greg’s biceps as hard as she could with her left hand.

  Given how he laughed, it felt more like swatting at a fly to him. Damn the man.

  “You suck so bad,” she bit out, then tried to bend down to grab the clipboard she’d dropped. But he wouldn’t let her budge. “Greg, stop. I have to get back to my room.”

  “You will . . . eventually.”

  “Greg,” she protested, but stopped trying to fight when he kissed her. She couldn’t think when he did things like that to her mouth. He played with her tongue, traced the edge of her teeth, swallowed her little moans and gasps of pleasure as his hands cruised up and down her body.

  “Greg,” she finally managed to gasp as his lips worked their way from her mouth to just below her earlobe. “Greg, we can’t. We’re here for work.”

  “I’m not working right now. Are you?”

  She kicked at her clipboard, barely nudging it an inch. “I should be.”

  “You know what I love about you and your obsession with heels?” he asked, completely ignoring her protests. “They put you right at the best possible height to kiss.”

  “Which was my intention, of course,” she said dryly, biting back a moan while he sucked on her earlobe. “Gre . . . oh God. Okay, you have to stop that.”

  “No,” he said, then gripped her butt and pulled her to him. On instinct, she wrapped her legs around his hips and clung.

  “Oh my God. Greg, you can’t carry me like this. I’m too heavy!”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Put me down,” she hissed, then gasped when he dropped her. She bounced on the bed once and then was covered by his hard weight, pressing into her. She cradled him, her hips opening in welcome before she even realized what she was doing. “We can’t.”

  “We can.” He kissed her, while using his fingers to undo her suit jacket buttons.

  “We shouldn’t,” she tried again.

  “We should.” He pushed the jacket off her shoulders, rotating her until he could peel it off and toss it aside.

  “We could get fired,” she whispered as he traced the lace of her camisole tank. Its neckline was high enough to be business appropriate, but when he dipped his finger down under the lace, it felt far less than decent. It felt decadent.

  “We won’t.” He pressed a kiss in the center of her breast bone, moving the tank down with him. “Are you going to do a bedroom check on yourself?”

  She thought about that for a second. Was it worth the risk that someone might need her? Was this man worth it?

  Before she even knew she was doing it, she knocked on the nightstand twice. “Reagan? Are you in there? Yes, I’m here.” She grinned. “All set.”

  “God, woman.” He kissed her hard, ending with a playful smack. “You kill me.”

  * * *

  GREG had realized, as he’d sat in his small private room that night waiting for Reagan to finish bed checks, that the problem had been him all along. He’d been pushing back the inevitable for so long, it built up to a bigger deal in his mind than it needed to be.

  So the solution? Get back to the basics. Take back what they needed to begin with. What they needed . . . was each other. And they needed each other tonight.

  He pushed her tank up to rest just above her breasts, then leaned over and kissed the spot between each rib. She squirmed, but he didn’t relent until he’d driven her crazy.

  “Greg,” she whined. “Greg, don’t tease. Please.”

  She ripped off her camisole and tossed it in a corner. He nearly chuckled at her impatience. But the sight of her gorgeous bra stopped him from laughing. As serious as the woman was with her shoes, she put equal dedication into her underwear choices.

  The bra was like a cupcake, with how gorgeous and pretty it sat there. Black, like her suit, but with threads of silver highlighting a flowery pattern throughout the cups that molded over her generous breasts. And each side topped not with a cherry, but a sweet pink bow.

  “Tell me,” he said, pausing to swallow. “Tell me you are the kind of woman who matches her underwear sets.”

  Catching the hitch in his voice, she smiled like a woman who knows she has a man caught in her traps. “A woman like me, going out without matching underwear? Unheard of.”

  “Amen,” he said, and reached under to unsnap her bra. The cups relaxed enough for him to remove the bra entirely, and he rubbed a thumb over each pink line over her creamy flesh. “Why do you wear it so tight it presses in on you? Seems like it hurts.”

  “Curse of the curvy girl.” As he passed a thumb over one nipple, her eyes closed in bliss. “Gotta keep it tight enough so the girls don’t escape.”

  “That’s not very nice.” He presse
d his lips to one particularly dark pink line in apology. “Sorry, girls. I’d let you free way more often than she does.”

  “Are you talking to my boobs?” She laughed and swatted at his shoulders. “Weirdo.”

  “But you like it.” He took one tip in his mouth, ran his tongue over it, and felt her sigh of agreement. Moving on to the second breast, he did the same, and placed the palm of one hand over her racing heart.

  Her hips thrust up, grinding against his stomach with every suck, every tug of his mouth. He knew what she wanted, but she’d have to wait. He did, however, reach down and pull on the zipper to her skirt, giving her the chance to wriggle out of it. Her bottoms did, in fact, match the bra. Another confection waiting to be delved into.

  She moaned, then lifted her legs to kick her heels off. He wanted to ask her to keep them on, but too late now. But when he leaned back to take in the entire picture she made in nothing but her panties, he realized he didn’t miss the heels as much as he thought.

  Quickly, before she lost that look in her eyes, he undressed and grabbed a condom from his bag. When he turned back around, he found she’d stripped her own panties off and had tossed them aside. Sheathing himself, he slid back on the bed and nudged his way between her thighs.

  “We waited way too long for this,” she breathed as he nudged the head of his penis against her opening.

  “My bad.” He pressed in, and she moaned. “Yeah, definitely my bad.”

  When he was fully inside her, he forced himself to stay very, very still. Absorb as much of the sensation of her surrounding him as he could. As she writhed beneath him, trying to get him to move, he watched. Her skin glowed in the weak light. It was pearly, the purest sort of alabaster that sun had barely touched. Marred only by the lines from her bra—poor boobs, trapped in your prison day after day—he couldn’t absorb enough of her.

  Then she rolled her hips, squeezed him deep inside, and he was screwed for waiting. He moved, and she found his rhythm perfectly, wrapping her legs around him, pressing her heels into the backs of his thighs as he pushed and pulled.