by Cari Quinn
“I’m okay.” Opening my eyes, I repeated the words until I believed them. “I’m okay.”
His roughened palm cupped my cheek. “You’re more than okay.”
“So just do it already,” I muttered.
He gave me that crooked grin that rocked my world every damn time. “It’ll only hurt for a minute.”
I couldn’t help it; I laughed. And while I was laughing, he started to kiss me, just rubbing his lips over mine, his stubble gently abrading my skin. His palms cradled my cheeks while he kissed me so thoroughly that I forgot where I was. Forgot that the glass bar top was so hard and cold that my butt had already gone numb. Forgot that sex still seemed weird and unnatural to me.
Forgot that I was afraid.
He trailed his fingers down my torso to the hem of my shirt, then pushed it up over my bra. I tried to look away, but his visible reaction to the black satin and lace held my gaze in place. He dragged in air before he lifted eyes heavy with want. They were like turbulent ocean water, rolling for me.
Then he pressed his swollen lips to the top of my cleavage, covering me with kisses that made my skin pucker in the coolness of the apartment. My nipples were already so tight that they tingled. He nudged the satin down with his chin and licked and tasted until I clutched his hair and practically shoved my breast at him.
His kisses continued downward, veering off to taste each freckle and mole. He spent extra time on my bruises, and I threw up a brief thanks that Friday’s fight hadn’t left me as rainbow-colored as some in the past. At my belly-button, he paused and gave me a reassuring look, telling me without words I had nothing to fear.
If only that were true. With Tray, I had more to fear than I ever had before.
He slowly worked off my shorts. By now, I was way past the point of trying to change his mind. I just wanted to know. To understand why the girls at the bar and at the gym never talked about the awkwardness of having a guy down there, just that it felt like heaven. Hell, Kizzy could practically write a poem about a guy giving her head. I think she might’ve, actually.
More panic mental babbling. Thank God he couldn’t hear the hamster on the wheel in my head.
“Mmm. You smell good.”
And yep, there I was, flushing again. The inner chatter in my brain went into hyperdrive. Soon I’d be reciting the alphabet or counting backward from a hundred.
I sucked in a breath and the bitter scent of the spilled alcohol swam through my head. It made the room seem tawdry. Dirty. Sexy.
God, he’d just swept his arm over the bar like I’d seen in movies. It was so fucking hot. After that move, my clit had shot into constant vibration mode again. Tray blinked and I got an inappropriate zap somewhere.
Lots of somewheres.
He was currently checking all of them out, his eyelids low over gorgeous eyes sharp with awareness. He sucked on his lip as he studied me laid out before him, all pliant and shuddery like some brainless ring card girl.
But I wasn’t thinking about the cage tonight.
He bent his head and flicked his mouth over my navel, in and out. I didn’t expect to gasp. It wasn’t even a particularly naughty place. But he smiled and did it again and again, building up my anticipation while I tried not to writhe. Losing control around him seemed to be my natural response, and when he moved his face between my legs, the moan I let out acknowledged that truth.
Loudly.
“I knew you’d be wet. That’s my girl.”
My mind spun from those words. That’s my girl. Then I was spinning for a different reason.
He pressed my thighs wide open, flattened his tongue against me, and met my gaze, holding it even when I squirmed. It was so intimate. I was spread out on his bar, for God’s sake, all opened up and quivery and definitely…wet.
A little late to pretend otherwise.
“Tray.” Maybe I could change his mind, get him to fuck me instead. I lifted my hips and even tried to wiggle them in a semi-enticing way. If he’d been paying attention, he might’ve cared. At the moment, he was a little busy.
God. I hated it and loved it at the same time. Hated it because I’d never felt more insecure than when he shifted me so that my legs slid over his shoulders. Loved it because all of my nerve endings were singing—some screaming hallelujah—and warmth trickled through my veins with every swipe of his tongue.
His lips slid over me, slow and sure, drifting down the entire length of my center. I nearly flushed again when they skimmed between my cheeks, but then I decided he’d slipped and relaxed. Until he did it again.
He seemed to be trying to cover all of me with his mouth, moving in slow circles that drove me nuts in the best way. Or the worst, because it was all build-up and no satisfaction. I don’t know how long he explored me, only that eventually it got to be too much and I fell back on my elbows to stare at the circular ceiling lights.
Then he grazed his teeth over my clit and I jolted like he’d hit a hard right to my jaw. He sucked on the bundle of nerves with such obvious relish that the tingling in my nipples transferred lower. Way low, into the pit of my belly. The syrupy heat grew each time he tongued my clit, burned even hotter when he eased lower to slide his tongue inside. So deep that when I clenched, I felt him everywhere.
His groan rocketed through me. I trembled, caught on that edge again. If I’d still been able to feel my hands I might’ve reached down for my clit like I had last time, but they were useless. I could only watch as he moved back up, slipping a finger into me while he resumed licking me, hard.
The lights blurred and my trembling turned into full blown shakes. He didn’t stop, even when I whimpered.
“God, I love it when you beg. You’re so strong and seeing you like this drives me crazy,” he whispered hoarsely.
He lowered his damp forehead to my stomach. I wasn’t the only one clammy with sweat. He was too. I wasn’t alone in feeling so frantic and out of control. He wanted me. Me. Awkward, fumbling, confused Mia Anderson excited Tray Knox, a guy who could’ve had—and probably had had—any woman who drew his interest.
A strange tenderness rose in me. I cradled his head to my stomach, tangling my hand in his hair and bucking into his strokes. Then he ratcheted up the pressure of his fingers, and I jerked against him, trapped between his rigidly tense body and the bar.
Without warning, my climax broke over me, pitching me into a vortex of heat and light. I fought to hang on, lost in his eyes. There I could float without judgment or shame. I could just be.
If I’d had a rating system—or a normal sex life where orgasms happened enough to deserve a quality scale—I would’ve called it the best orgasm ever. By far.
The tears that followed surprised me more than him. I hadn’t felt like crying before the wetness flooded my eyes. At least not consciously. But sobs tore from the depths of my chest, the pain so unspeakable that for a few minutes I could only pray that the storm passed.
To his credit, he didn’t run. I knew he wouldn’t. Tray truly couldn’t see how solid and decent he was through his own self-loathing. I’d realized that tonight.
Knowing that in some way he felt the same as I did—as crazy and illogical as it seemed—had made him both more reachable and shoved him further away. Because he was wrong about himself.
I wasn’t wrong about me.
My inner fuckedupness would always worm its way outward no matter the circumstance. Even after an unbelievably amazing orgasm with a guy who probably should hate me due to the shitty way I’d treated him since day one.
“I don’t hate you. How could I?”
He kissed my cheeks, his murmured question mortifying me with the knowledge I’d spoken my worst fears aloud. Some of them anyway.
“I want to be with you. I know it doesn’t make sense. It’s too soon, you’re not ready, but Mia, I—”
“No,” I begged, pushing at his shoulder. Suddenly his big body ranging over mine became a giant slab of rock sitting on my lungs. “Get up. Get off me.”
&
nbsp; “No.” His arms banded around me, so tight that I started to choke. He lessened his hold a fraction, but didn’t come close to releasing me. “You think I’m letting you leave after what just happened between us? Hell fucking no. Stay here with me and we’ll figure it out.” His voice cracked. “Please.”
I blinked through the tears and glimpsed his pained, haunted eyes. My tears hesitated, clogging somewhere near my throat. The only sounds I could make were racking gasps.
Why did he look like he’d been through something horrific too? As if he understood what I’d been through, or maybe as if he knew—
I went wild in his arms, my shame and my terror coagulating into a sludge so thick that I couldn’t draw breath. He hadn’t expected me to go completely batshit crazy, and that was the only reason I got free. His strength was a truly awesome thing, when he wasn’t using it against me. Or maybe he was using for me. I couldn’t tell anymore.
Scrambling away from him, barely able to see through the curtain of tears, I stumbled toward the couch, nearly tumbling over the whimpering dog who kept trying to lick my bare legs. I hadn’t noticed Vey coming back into the room. Couldn’t focus on anything except the fiery panic trying to eat me alive.
Somewhere in my rational mind I remembered the glass when it bit into my feet, but the pain only cemented my resolve. I had to get away. A total breakdown was coming, barreling toward me like a train jumping the tracks and heading straight for Crazyville. If I didn’t get home and sleep it off, I’d be in a padded cell before morning.
“Mia. Baby, wait.”
Every piece of clothing I picked up, he took back. We traded them back and forth until, at wit’s end, I balled up my fist, pulled back, and swung.
His head snapped back, his pupils going wide. He cupped his jaw, staring at me with a mixture of shock, irritation and…admiration? He was a sick fuck if he was impressed by a girl cold-cocking him after he gave her oral sex. Incredible oral sex.
Sick and sorry and so freaking perfect for me that I only cried harder.
“You could’ve broken my jaw.”
The awe in his voice slowed me down long enough to shoot an incredulous glance over my shoulder. Yeah, I could’ve broken it and my now swollen hand, as well. Somehow I’d managed to get on my bra and the shorts and instead of him looking at me like I was Batshit Crazy girl, he was fixated on my ass.
Hysterical laughter poured out of me, tangling with my leftover afterglow and the torrent of tears. Making me sound as insane as we both looked. There we were, standing on a floor full of broken glass, me laughing and crying, him with a bruising jaw and swollen lips that had to still taste like me. His eyes were still full of want. Maybe even more than before. He hadn’t undressed, and yet he might as well have been naked before me, as humbled and as bare as I was.
It made no sense. None of this did. He was healing and killing me with the same blows.
He worked his jaw, wincing, and guilt welled up in me. Cornered animals strike out without compunction, but he deserved better than that. Better than me. “Tray, I’m so—”
“No.” He cut me off. “Don’t apologize and don’t go.”
I nudged Veyron aside and tugged on my jeans. My hands were shaking too hard to work the zipper on the first try. And the knuckles on my right hand were fucking throbbing. It felt like I’d punched a slab of concrete. “I have to.”
“Bullshit. That’s a choice you’re making, just like you decided to come here tonight to yell at me over the gloves. But that was an excuse. You missed me. Just like I missed you. Like I’ll miss you the second you fucking walk out that door.”
I didn’t reply. What could I say? That he was right? That it didn’t matter even if he was?
“I’m going to be in damn knots until I see you again. Do you get that, Mia?” He grabbed hold of my shoulders and flinched, probably from his torn-up hand. Resignation drifted over his features. “And you’re still going to go.”
Desperate for space, for air, I elbowed him away and pulled on my hoodie. I yanked on the zipper and the piece of crap broke off in my hand. The worn silver plating mocked me as I stared at it in my palm. Tarnished and cheap. Not worth saving.
I turned, pushing past Tray’s sweet dog and my own inadequacies. Shoving them back into the box they’d been in all these years. If I could just force the lid down, I’d be okay. I’d survive this too.
Something soft fell out of my pocket onto my bare feet. The gloves. Without looking, I bent to gather them up and clutched them to my chest. I knew them by feel, by smell. I’d torture myself by wearing them, by pretending I understood even for a moment what it was like to have someone care about me. All of me, even the dented, damaged beyond repair parts. I’d sleep in his jacket and remember his reverence and his eyes and the way I’d felt cherished before the truth of what I held inside had rejected it all.
In one week’s time, he’d pulled the best and the worst out of me. This torturous back and forth had to end. The price wasn’t my body, but my psyche. My physical form could withstand way more damage than my mind. Once it shattered completely, I wouldn’t come back from it.
The irony was that what had nearly sent me over the edge wasn’t hate or rage or pain. Those I understood. It was love.
Eyes blurring with tears again, I went back to the couch to get my socks. I’d almost walked out barefoot. I tucked them in the pocket of my raggedy hoodie and burrowed my bare, bleeding feet into my sneakers. I’d probably have to throw those out too.
“Mia.”
I stopped at the door without looking back. We’d had so many goodbyes in such a short time. So much drama and angst, so little laughter. But what we had, I’d hold close for the rest of my life. Maybe someday I’d even find the strength to be grateful.
So why the next words left my mouth, I’ll never understand. I knew what had to be done. He was right about choices. It was him or me—that simple.
“That’s not my name,” I whispered, aching to turn around and run right back into his arms. He’d catch and hold me, despite everything. That lingerie weirded me out and brought back memories that tormented me in my sleep, that I cried when I came, that I was frigging insane.
“The fuck it isn’t,” he rasped. “You’re Mia. Mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tray
Fight night. Again. I was trapped in a real life Groundhog Day. Blood and bruises not optional.
Bouncing on my heels, I crossed the jump rope in front of me, going through the reps methodically. In reverse, crisscross, side swing. By two hundred jumps, I was suitably winded and my still raw hand was screaming its displeasure at its latest abuse.
It had suffered a lot in the past week. So had the rest of me, my chest most of all. And I wasn’t talking about my pecs.
I dropped the jump rope and peeled off the fresh bandage around my palm. Well, it had been fresh an hour ago. Now it was turning a charming shade of pink.
“Still running yourself through the grinder?” Slater swaggered across the locker room in a pair of super tight bike shorts that basically put his dick and nuts on parade. The guy had no shame. And no stomach for blood, which was kind of funny considering our profession. He paled the instant his gaze dropped to my oozing hand. “Jesus, speaking of meat…”
“Pussy.”
“Masochist.”
“Your point?”
I dug through my bag until I found the antibacterial cream. After squeezing out roughly a third of the tube on my mangled palm, I slapped on a thin gauze pad that wouldn’t inhibit my range of motion too much and tried to unwind the bandage roll against my thigh.
Slater appeared at my side and sighed. “Give me that.”
“Since you ask so nice.” I tossed the roll at his chest and grinned when he flinched. Slater was more suited to his preferred sport of surfing than our sanctioned bloodletting, but he hung in because of me. And when I left—soon, so fucking soon—he’d go with me.
He’d probably end up on a beach in
Cali with his new live-in babe, and I’d get smiley postcards every few months that would make me want to go back to knocking skulls. And I’d…what? Stay in New York while I researched sports medicine and talked myself out of every damn thing that involved taking a risk?
This indecisive streak I’d developed lately was fucking depressing.
“Now who’s a pussy?” Slater arched a brow. “Stop tensing up. The bandage won’t lay right. Though I don’t know why I’m bothering, since you’ll need a new one after the pool.”
“It’s not nice to bleed all over, I’ve heard.”
“Since when are you nice?”
“Shove it.”
“Ah, your sunny personality lights up my life, Fox.” He sobered at my growl. “You really in that much pain from this? Or is it the jaw?”
“Nah. I’m good. Just do me up already so I can get my laps in.”
I’d gotten lucky that tonight’s match was just down the street from a gym with walk-in privileges, making my pre-fight routine a lot easier than commuting from The Cage. Chlorine and my injured hand weren’t necessarily a good mix, since the concept of a waterproof bandage had turned out to be a giant sham, but I needed the stress relief. Either I jacked off in the shower or I took my chances in the pool.
Since jacking off hadn’t worked the other four times I’d tried it this week, the pool it was.
Finally finished wrapping me up, Slater pressed his fingers to my jaw. I feinted as if he’d taken a swing. “Hurts, huh?” He shook his head slowly. “Look, man, I’d never try to tell you what to do, but maybe you should call off the fight, reschedule for—”
“No. Don’t start that shit. I’m fine.” I flexed my fingers, impressed as always by Slater’s way around a wrap. He could handle blood and guts in the ring, but out of it, he paled every time he had to bandage my injuries. Didn’t mean he didn’t do an incredible job, though. “How does Costas look?” He’d already been whaling on a bag when I came in. It looked like he’d been at it for a while.
“Cocky motherfucker. He’s out there crowing that he could kick your ass blindfolded.”
