by Meg Maguire
“What are you doing?”
“Faster than bringing the condoms to you.” He pushed the door to his dark room open with his shoulder and set her on his bed. It felt sexy, sitting there, smelling him everywhere in this private space. Still, Jenna wasn’t sure how comfortable she actually wanted to get.
As he rooted through a dresser drawer, she said, “I wasn’t upset about not having condoms.”
He turned to her, streetlight glinting off the shiny plastic square in his hand. “Oh?”
“Give it to me.”
He crossed to the bed and handed it over. Jenna tucked it beneath a pillow. “I’m in charge of when that thing gets used. If it gets used.”
“The woman always is.”
“Good.”
“Where were we?”
In a breath they were on their sides, legs tangling, hands exploring. The kissing grew shallow and their breathing heavy. Everything about him was sexy. His wet hair, the firmness of his shoulders and his chest, the heat of his skin. Memories flashed through her head, of watching him in the gym not even an hour before. He could do extraordinary things to an opponent with that deadly body. What on earth could he do to her?
She sighed as Mercer cupped her breast and edged his body lower, kissing her collarbone as he fondled her. She shifted her legs, welcoming the taunting brush of his erection against her thigh. She tugged the front of his shirt up a few inches and stroked her palm over his bare, hard stomach, fingertips brushing his waistband and the soft hair hiding just behind it.
“Jenna.”
There was a rasp to his voice, the same gruffness she imagined might possess him as he stepped into a ring. Damn, she was objectifying him again. But she’d never moved this fast with a guy before, and he was the perfect man—the perfect body—to be reckless with. Whatever they had, it was bigger than either of them.
Charged with lust, she tugged until he peeled his shirt away. With a coaxing push, he rolled onto his back. Jenna slung a leg over his waist to straddle him. She couldn’t get close enough to this man.
He swore, hands flying to her hips to hold their bodies tight, center to center. She pulled her camisole up and off. They were bathed in yellowy streetlight, harsh and gritty and urban, just like the man beneath her. The honk of a car horn, the screech of brakes, the quarreling of strangers below on the sidewalk...bring it on. Whatever happened, she wanted the quintessential Boston experience, as brash and unapologetic as this fling.
Mercer’s hands slid up her belly to her breasts, kneading as she undulated her hips, torturing them both with the friction through her damnable pajama bottoms.
“Let your hair down,” he said.
She tugged the elastic from her ponytail.
“Jesus, you’re sexy.”
And you’re extraordinary, she wanted to tell him, as she memorized every exceptional, intimidating contour of his bare body. She missed his hand wraps, even fantasized what those padded gym mats would feel like under her back... There she went again, with the fetish she hadn’t even known she had.
“Take those frigging pants off, for the love of Christ.” He tugged at the drawstring and she rolled to the side, both of them fighting to be the one to strip them away. No man had ever made her feel this wanted before, as if he couldn’t control himself, nor had any man made her feel the same in return. A need this fierce and primal.
He climbed on top of her, shoved his knees beneath her thighs and ground their bodies together, just slightly too rough for comfort, just exactly perfect. His breaths became grunts, so like the noises she’d heard him make when he was working out. She scraped her nails down his side, angling her hips and welcoming the rough drag of his hard cock against her soft folds. He tilted his hips back, letting her feel the insistent press of his head between her legs, the thin barriers of cotton as maddening as a straightjacket.
“This is such a stupid idea,” Mercer said, sounding happy about it.
“I know.” She got lost staring at his torso, at the explicit flex of his chest and abs as he rubbed his erection against her. All this plus an even more enticing sight, if she chose to make use of that all-access pass she’d tucked beneath the pillow. With another man, she’d have said no, save it for the next date, savor the baby steps. But this might be—this should be—the only night she and Mercer made this mistake together. If she was going to binge, no point stopping at a slice; she’d eat the whole damn cake.
She pushed at his chest. “Get your shorts off.”
She joined him, both of them sitting up and wrestling away their underwear. Then he was on her again, the hot press of his bare cock against her thigh tightening her like a spring.
“Mercer.”
A groan answered her as he fumbled his hand between their bodies, centering his shaft along her lips. She was beyond ready, and with one, two, three strokes he was slick from her, their friction wet and dangerous and hotter than the best sex she’d ever had. He clasped her knees, gaze locked on the action happening between them. That fascinating face looked strained and fierce, lips parted. He was intriguing at rest, handsome when he smiled. But this...this was the only expression she ever wanted to see him wearing. Only one look could possibly thrill her more, and that would be the one he wore when he slid inside her.
She shoved her arm under the pillow, and the crinkle of the plastic snapped his attention to her hand.
She ripped open the condom and he took it from her, leaning back to roll it down his length. He was a bigger man than she’d had before, but the intimidation was fleeting. Before she could take a final, bracing breath, he was at her entrance. No asking, “Are you ready?” No caution. No resistance or protest from her body as he pushed inside, so deep their hips touched.
He swore again, and she dragged her nails down his ribs and sides. Even in the sickly ambient light she could see the red stripes that rose on his skin.
With a groan he braced his arms at her sides, thighs nudging hers wider, and began to thrust. She wrapped her legs around his waist, angled her hips to welcome him as deep as she could. She’d never felt this need before, this urgent craving to be possessed by someone. He was surely wrecking her for every slender, deferring academic who might come after, wrecking her entire perception of what her “type” was.
“You feel amazing.” His eyes were shut, as though he wanted nothing distracting him from the sensation.
“So do you.” He felt exactly as he should—big, rough, forceful. She watched his body owning hers, her pleasure mounting.
His eyes opened. “You need anything special? To get off?”
Not exactly poetry, but his words encapsulated what this was, a mutual itch-scratching, two animals taking what they wanted from each other.
“My clit.”
Mercer leaned back on his haunches, slowing his thrusts, catching his breath. When it seemed the madness had left him, he put his palm to her mound, thumb on her clitoris. “Tell me how,” he said, starting to rub.
“Lighter. And faster.”
He followed her instructions perfectly, the rough pad of his thumb stroking her even better than she could do herself. And it went far beyond the touch—it was the sight of his body, the smell of him, the slap of his skin against hers. The least romantic, most frantic sex of her life. And it blew every slow, candlelit seduction clear out of the water.
He felt right. So right it scared her.
As she edged closer to release, she fantasized about how he would be when he neared the finish himself. Fast. Fast and vocal. Picturing it had her speeding toward orgasm, imagining his face, mean and needy. She swore as the first spasm struck, grasped his arm and neck and held on, riding the pleasure until it turned to pain, his thumb against her clit too much to take. She pulled his hand away, panting and dizzy.
“Jesus, Jenna.” He surprised her then. He kept
his hips still, dropping to his elbows to slide his hands beneath her back, kissing her neck and jaw as she caught her breath.
She cleared her throat. “You were right. You’re even better at sex than you are at kissing.”
He made a satisfied, happy noise against her throat, then rose on straight arms and looked her in the eyes.
She stroked his arms. “Your turn. What do you need?”
He laughed. “About eight seconds of your time, I suspect.”
“What would you like, then?”
“To make you do some work.”
“You’re on.”
He slid out and they switched positions, Mercer piling three pillows at the head of the bed so that as he lay down, he was only half-reclined. He put his hands to his hips. “C’mere.”
She straddled him, welcoming his hard heat back inside her body. He couldn’t ever be deep enough, close enough.
He brought his knees up, cradling her in his lap. Bracing her hands against the wall, she found her rhythm, thrilling at his grunts and groans and the way his eyes seemed to record everything she was doing. She paused as he unhooked her bra, then she slipped it off for him. As she began to move again, he put his hands to her breasts, not holding them, merely letting her nipples brush his palms with each roll of her hips. She could feel her excitement mounting all over again, from his touch, from the taunting friction of his base on her clit with each withdrawal. Raw brick beneath her palms. Raw, male breaths punctuating their sex.
“That’s so good. I’m so close,” he muttered.
So was Jenna. Her body craved the same motions his did, and as her second climax began to rise, his pleasure was reaching its own crescendo. He grasped her hips, issuing orders, forcing the speed and aggression he needed.
“Yeah.” His teeth were gritted, eyes narrowed. His hips trembled beneath her, body begging. The look on his face excited her more than any physical sensation.
She came apart just as he neared the edge. He realized what was happening, the idea of it seeming to strike him like a whip. He swore. He held her hips still, thrusting up into her as he came, holding her hard.
When he let her go, she flopped to the mattress beside him. He left her only for a second to ditch the condom, and for minutes on end the room was filled with their heavy inhalations, occasionally accompanied by the odd voice from the street, the flare of an engine starting up, the slam of a car door.
You can’t wake up next to him tomorrow. She had to get back to her own bed....
She blinked, realizing she’d nodded off. Better find her clothes and...
Again she jerked awake. Mercer’s deep breathing said he’d succumbed to postsex male narcolepsy. Sounded awfully inviting. Still, she really ought to...
The thought abandoned her, and Jenna fell asleep, logical brain finally silent.
* * *
“WHOA.”
Mercer woke early, surprised for a moment to find a woman beside him. And not just any woman.
The clock said it was five-forty and the room had gone chilly. He wanted to pull the covers over Jenna, but he couldn’t free them without waking her. And waking her would probably rouse her from her orgasm-induced judgment lapse, and that would send her lovely, pale, naked body retreating to her own room. Tricky one.
Slow as tar, he crept from the bed, then padded to the living room and grabbed the old afghan from the back of the couch. He managed to drape it over her, but she roused as he climbed into bed beside her. Damn.
She made a soft noise of alarm.
He brushed the hair from her face. “Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly six. You sure you didn’t mean to ask, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’”
“I know exactly what I’m doing here,” she mumbled. “Arguing with you, which is no surprise.” She yawned, then tucked herself tighter under the covers.
Pleased she hadn’t bolted awake and out the door, Mercer relaxed, feeling warm from far more than the blanket.
Such a bad instinct, though. There was a semiuniversal rule observed by professional fighters—no sex in the three weeks preceding a match. Just stay away from women, period. They made you nuts, screwed with your focus, cooled your fire. All that pent-up testosterone was best saved and redirected to make yourself go berserk in the ring. Mercer hadn’t had a paid fight of his own in three years, but he still thought it was a wise philosophy. He loved women in all kinds of capacities, but life was infinitely simpler when there wasn’t one in the picture. Jenna complicated his life plenty with their clothes still on, and it was probably the worst romantic decision he’d ever made, waking up here naked with her. Though it hadn’t felt like a decision. Felt like goddamn force of nature.
Just as Mercer was settling back down for another hour’s sleep, reality intruded. Loudly. His phone buzzed on the side table, and when he saw Rich’s number on the screen, it could only mean one thing. He hit Talk before the ringer could kick in, then left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Lemme guess—your crappy-ass car’s broke down on the Tobin Bridge.”
“No, I’m downstairs. I just forgot my gym keys.”
Mercer rolled his eyes. “We’ve gotta get a keypad.”
“C’mon, man. Bobby’s down here. Don’t make this OCD bastard late for his workout.”
Mercer heard the man in question grumble something in the background.
“Fine. Lemme get some clothes on.” He clicked the phone off and headed back to his room. Jenna was sitting up, afghan hugged to her chest.
“Sorry. Rich locked himself out. I have to go down and let him in.”
She nodded through a yawn.
Mercer yanked boxers up his legs and grabbed a T-shirt. “Go back to sleep.”
He jogged downstairs and glared at his friend a moment through the glass door, then flipped the bolt.
“Thanks, man.” Rich swept in, giant Bobby and his gym bag right behind him, and Mercer led them down to the gym and unlocked the double doors.
Bobby was as OCD as Rich made out, and as soon as the lights were on he was heading for the warm-up area, clearly irked to be two minutes behind his daily regimen.
Rich gave Mercer and his outfit a glance. “Don’t dress up on my account. But now you’re awake, you wanna put some pants on and run drills with me?” He swiped a couple elbows in the air between them.
“Hell no. I’m going back to bed.”
“Wow, grumpy. I interrupt something good?”
It was a joke, but Mercer flinched, a deadly tell to a fellow fighter.
Rich’s face fell. “Oh shit. Sorry, man. I did, didn’t I?”
“Never mind. I’ll see you at ten with coffee.”
“Coffee and all the horny details,” Rich teased, but when Mercer didn’t reply quick enough, Rich’s expression shifted again, realization dawning. “Whoa. It’s not Jenna, is it? Did you bone Jenna?”
Mercer caught Rich in the shin with a kick. “I didn’t bone anybody.”
“Did you make sweet, sensitive love to Jenna, though? Because that is weird. Monty’s daughter... Basically your dad’s daughter. That makes her, like, your stepsister, Merce.”
“Shut up.”
“He would murder you if he was alive.”
“I’ll murder you right now if you don’t shut the hell up about it.”
Rich put his hands up. “Fine. But it’s wicked creepy, just so you know.”
“See you later.” Mercer jogged back up the stairs, annoyed. And was even more annoyed to hear the shower running when he got to the apartment.
Probably for the best. Maybe they’d been spared an awkward shared waking, or some quick tumble that would’ve only made things more confusing. He wouldn’t have minded a peek at her naked body in
the daylight, though.
An idea he’d been toying with resurfaced, and Mercer decided it was a good one. When Jenna emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around her trunk, he offered her a goofy smile. She returned it with something a bit cagier, a good-natured smirk.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning. Sorry about that. Not the most relaxing way to wake up.”
She shrugged and Mercer wished he hadn’t noticed the dots of water on her shoulders, or how goddamn sexy she looked with wet hair and eyelashes and no makeup.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Probably good that I’m up so early. I have a million things to do today.”
“I’ll bet. And actually, I’ll make all that a little easier for you, and get out of your hair for the weekend.”
“Oh?”
He nodded. “Delante could use a couple nights away from his family drama. I’m gonna drive him down to Hartford, have him spar with a couple guys a buddy of mine trains there. Get him focused. Plus it’ll get me away from you, since my boy’s not the only one around here who’s losing their focus.”
She blushed, and Mercer wondered if she thought he meant her, or himself. Both of them, probably. And it looked as though it’d take nothing less than crossing state lines to keep them apart.
“Not the worst idea,” she agreed.
“Probably be back Sunday noontime. If I don’t run into you before I head out, have a good weekend.”
“You too. You want coffee? I’ll start it once I’m dressed.”
“Nah, I better get downstairs. Start figuring out how to get my shifts here covered on such short notice.”
“Okay. Well, have a good trip, if I don’t see you.”
“I will.”
With a nervous-looking smile, she headed for her room, closing the door softly. Mercer’s breath had been high in his chest, and he let it out with a noisy sigh. Definitely for the best that he clear out for a couple nights. One look at her and he’d remember everything that had happened the night before, jump her and either get himself slapped or laid again, and he wasn’t honestly sure which was preferable.
