Fighting the Fall

by Jennifer Snow

  His eyes widened in surprise, but he wrapped a hand around her thighs, pulling her closer.

  “Don’t be sorry for what happened the other night. Be sorry for the fact that you are so determined not to give in to the attraction you have for me,” she said, softly tracing his bottom lip. She longed to feel them pressed to hers . . . the other night they’d been so close. If the effect they’d had against her neck was any indication, she wouldn’t be disappointed.

  He placed his hands on either side of her face, looking into her eyes. “Trust me, fighting this crazy urge to touch you, kiss you, explore every inch of your body is driving me out of my mind. But Parker, I meant what I said. I’m not a relationship kind of guy . . .”

  “Who’s asking you to be?” she whispered, lowering her mouth toward his.

  His eyes shifted from her eyes to her lips. “I thought you wanted to read lines,” he murmured, the sound coming from deep in his throat as his hands tightened around her legs.

  “I just said that to see how sorry you really were.”

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second before crushing her mouth with his own. Her hands went around his neck and she pressed her chest into his, every inch of her body aching to be close to him. His hands cradled the back of her head, deepening the kiss as his tongue separated her lips and explored her mouth. She moaned and felt him come alive against her thigh. The kiss was intoxicating, making her feel dizzy as she hungrily demanded more.

  He groaned as he broke away moments later, resting his forehead against hers, his breathing fast and hard. “Damn, Parker. This is not a good idea.”

  “Fine,” she said, as she stood. Taking his hand, she pulled him to his feet. “Then let’s go for a swim.”

  “I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” he said, stepping toward her.

  “I’m not seeing a problem.” She reached for the button on his jeans, then slowly lowered the zipper, her gaze locked with his.

  “Okay, but if I’m going in my underwear, so you are,” he said, sliding his hands along her ribcage slowly, painstakingly lower, reaching for the edge of her tank top.

  She lifted her arms for him to pull the fabric over her head. Then taking a step back, she unbuttoned her jean shorts and wiggled free.

  Tyson’s stare grew intense as he watched her, stepping out of his own jeans.

  She turned her back to him, revealing her bare ass in a black, lacy thong that matched her bra.

  “Fuck me,” she heard him grumble before she dove into the warm water. The ripples of the waves caressed her bare flesh, making her shiver in excitement. She’d been fully naked in her pool before but even that sensation failed to compare to the tingling coursing through her body as she waited for Tyson to join her, the man who sent her common sense on a vacation and made her body long to be enjoyed.

  He had the rest of his clothes off in an instant and she treaded water in the center of the pool as she watched his body dive low beneath the surface.

  When he came up again, his arms were around her.

  He pulled her close to him until she could feel his solid erection against her leg. “You shouldn’t suggest something like this unless you’re prepared to deal with the consequences,” he growled, staring at the exposed flesh of her breasts above her thin, lacy, see-through bra.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and bringing her body even closer, she lifted her legs to wrap around his waist as he supported both of their weight. “Bring it on.”

  His eyes widened and darkened at the same time. “Parker, I’m serious . . . Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

  Reaching below the water, she moved his underwear aside and gripped the length of his cock, stroking gently.

  He closed his eyes and moaned, his fingers dug into her ass as he leaned his head back. “Fuck,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Watching him fight to maintain control was intoxicating and she stroked faster, circling the tip of him with her thumb.

  Reaching her other hand below, she gently cupped his balls through his underwear as she continued to move her hand up and down his long shaft. He tightened and pulsed against her hand and she knew it wouldn’t take much more to get him there. She slowed her pace a little, liking the control she had at that moment. The look of wanting in his eyes as they remained locked with hers made her ache with her own longing to be touched, teased, and satisfied.

  A second later, his head fell against her shoulder and his grip on her waist was so tight, she expected bruises the next morning, but she didn’t care. His fingers grazed her inner thigh and she swallowed hard. His hand moved to the edge of her panties and his fingers dug deeper into the flesh at her hip. Her breath caught.

  “Am I hurting you?” he murmured.

  No . . . yes . . . who cares? The intense pleasure of anticipation waiting for his touch outweighed the slight discomfort of pressure as his fingers pressed into her skin.

  “Let’s go to your bedroom,” he said, wrapping his hands around her thighs and effortlessly lifting her out of the water and setting her onto the pool deck. He hoisted himself up over the edge and then lifting her into his arms, he headed into the house. “Where is it?”

  “Upstairs, first door on the right,” she whispered, her body shaking in anticipation. She kissed the edge of his jawline, liking the feel of his stubble against her lips—the perfect permanent five o’clock shadow she’d longed to reach out and touch since the day they’d met. He ascended the stairs and she traced her fingers along his neck, feeling him swallow hard.

  “Parker, if you don’t stop, I’m taking you right here on the stairs.”

  “Mmmm, haven’t done it here before,” she whispered, biting the edge of his ear.

  “Challenge accepted,” he said, lowering her to the stairs, midway from the top.

  She laughed as she lifted her hips. He grabbed the edge of her wet panties and pulled them down her legs. Tossing them to the bottom of the staircase, he knelt on the lower stair in front of her. His big, rough hands traveled the length of her wet inner thighs, chasing the drops of water away, and she let out a deep breath.

  Come on, Tyson. She was aching for his touch . . .

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said, his hand sliding down her stomach and resting against the pale mound of swollen flesh between her legs.

  She moaned as she felt him parting her, then the pressure of his fingers as they entered her. She lifted her hips, wanting him to go deeper, farther, faster, harder . . .

  “I need to taste you,” he murmured as he placed a trail of kisses along her inner high. His fingers continued to explore and his thumb teased her clit.

  “I don’t know if I’ll last that long,” she said, the ache inside of her growing stronger with each flick of his thumb.

  He slowly slid his fingers from her and she moaned. “No, don’t stop . . .” But a second later, his head was between her thighs and his tongue licked over her . . . inside of her . . . sucking gently at first, then harder . . .

  She felt dizzy as she gripped the edge of the stairs at her sides. This was it. This was really happening. Two weeks of foreplay ensured this first time with him wouldn’t last long. She felt herself tighten and clench beneath his mouth. “Tyson . . .”

  Then he pushed his fingers back inside, and there was no stopping the rippling sensations of ecstasy that overtook her. “Fuck, yes, Oh my God, Tyson, yes . . .” she cried out, her hands gripping the stairs as her body shuddered in release.

  He took his time leaving her, licking gently as he eased his fingers back out. When he raised his head to look at her, the need and want in his eyes made her ready for him again immediately.

  Would she ever get enough of him?

  Rising slowly, she took his hand and led the rest of the way down the long hallway to her bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door and dropped to her knees in front of him. “Your turn.”

  * * *

  “So what is it about fighting you love so much?” Parker asked hour
s later, her head resting on his chest in her king-sized four-poster bed. She traced circles around his nipples, tickling him, and he reached for her hand, holding it to his chest.

  “Are you trying to get inside my head?”

  She laughed. Moving away and grabbing a pillow, she tucked it beneath her chest and propped herself up on her elbows. “That would be impossible. No, I’m just curious. Consider it research for the role.”

  He rolled to his side, resting his head on his hand. “Fighting was never really an option—when you come from a family of athletes and a father who was once considered best in the world, you have an obligation, an expectation, to continue that legacy. It’s not that I love to fight . . . it’s just that it’s in my blood.” He didn’t expect her to get it. No one really did unless they’d come from a similar background and upbringing. It wasn’t about enjoying dominating an opponent, it was about knowing he could.

  She nodded. “Makes sense. So, where did the fight name ‘The Sledgehammer’ come from?”

  “When I first started fighting, people just always called me ‘Baby Reed’ . . .”

  “Because of your dad’s career?”

  He nodded. “Man, I hated that name. Then after my fourth straight knockout win with an overhand right, dad had ‘The Sledgehammer’ embossed on all my fight gear.” He hadn’t chosen the name for himself, but it had fit and it stuck. And it sure as hell was better than “Baby Reed.”

  “That’s how you usually end a fight? With an overhand right?”

  “Yes. About 80 percent of my fights go that way.”

  She frowned. “By now, aren’t your opponents expecting it? I mean, they must have watched your previous fights. Wouldn’t they just move out of the way?”

  As if it were that easy. She was cute. “Yes, they do expect it and they do move out of the way—the smart ones, at least. That just means I need to work on learning how to attack against their defense of the move. The guys at the gym avoid getting hit with it all the time and I train harder to learn different ways of setting it up.”

  “Why not just win a different way?”

  “Who says I know how to win any other way?”

  “I’m not going to feed your already overinflated ego,” she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder, revealing the soft, irresistible skin at her neck.

  He leaned forward to kiss it, but she held him away. “I’m not finished with my questions yet.”

  “Seriously? You’d rather talk?” he asked, pulling her toward him.

  She resisted. “Yes.”

  He sighed. Talking it is. “All right. What else do you want to know?”

  “Has your dad always been your trainer?”

  “I don’t trust anyone else. I mean, I have coaches for each aspect of my fight plan, who specialize in different areas and I spend about 90 percent of my time with them now, but ‘The Steel Fist’ is the only one I know has my best interests at heart . . . even if he goes about things a little differently than most coaches.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He hesitated, glancing quickly at the clock on her bedside table. Pillow talk after mind-blowing sex was not his thing, but she was staring at him with open curiosity and interest. “Well, for example, my first real fight at sixteen. I wake up at dawn, we drive to the gym, and start training. About two hours in, he says, ‘By the way, it’s fight day.’”

  Her eyes widened. “He told you that day?”

  He nodded, the memory of it returning. He’d been nervous to get in the cage but eager to prove himself at the same time. “Yeah. He didn’t want me to know weeks before and stress myself out. He wanted me to train every day the way I had been without the worry of an upcoming fight in the back of my mind.” His father had taught him to train as though every day was fight day and therefore he knew he was ready that day when his dad had announced the fight.

  “What happened?”

  “I won,” he said with a smile, remembering that first taste of victory. The cheer of the crowd as his hand was raised. He’d won with a TKO after several combinations had staggered his opponent—a kid two years older.

  “And you’ve been winning ever since?”

  “Not exactly. I lost my next fight after that. It was the same as the first—I was told the day of, I hadn’t spent hours watching my fighter’s previous fights . . . and it turned out the guy was a submission specialist, a Gracie family member.” The Gracies were well-known in the sport for having their own style of jujitsu and if a fighter hadn’t trained to fight one of them, they were sure to be submitted. Just as he was—with an arm bar in the first round.

  “Was your dad upset?” she asked, looking genuinely intrigued by his story.

  “No. He was happy. He said that now he had the ammo he was looking for to help me get better. He’d seen the flaws in my fighting and now he knew where to focus. Losing also humbles a fighter. It shakes the confidence, and weaker fighters will sometimes quit or let the defeat get to them, making it impossible to get better. Dad taught me to use the loss as fuel—to train harder, learn more, always walk into the cage knowing I was more prepared than the other guy.” He had no idea why he was telling her any of this. He wasn’t even sure why he was still lying in her bed. Hit it and quit it, wasn’t that his thing? “I’ve never lost since,” he said with a smile as he tossed the bedsheet back and sat up, swinging his legs to the opposite side of the bed.

  “You’re leaving,” she said behind him.

  It didn’t sound like a question, as though she’d expected it. Which made him feel even worse. “Yeah . . . I should.”

  She propped herself up against her pillows and nodded. “Of course.”

  As he pulled on his boxer briefs, still damp from the pool, he turned and the sight of her trying to act nonchalant was too much. Kneeling on the bed, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “I had a really great time.” Immediately, he wished he could pull the words back. After-sex etiquette wasn’t something he was good at . . . but even he knew what “I had a really great time” meant.

  Her eyes clouded. “Me too.”

  “Look, Parker, I . . .”

  She shook her head, tossing the bedsheets aside as she stood. “Don’t sweat it, Tyson. I know what a one-night stand feels like,” she said, reaching for her T-shirt.

  He fought the urge to grab her and insist that wasn’t what this was. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—put himself or her in a position where they went too far too fast and couldn’t get out. She picked up her phone from the bedside table and frowned. “I just got a text from Dane. He says he’ll be back tomorrow, so that’s good news . . .” she said, not looking at him.

  He crossed the room and his arms encircled her waist. “Fuck that. You’re not training with Dane anymore. From now on, I’m your trainer.” He may not be able to commit or promise her anything more than passion inside and outside the cage, but he’d be damned if he let anyone else be near her.

  “You have enough going on . . .”

  He silenced her with a kiss, because he wasn’t great with words. He hoped the kiss said everything he was feeling—that it didn’t matter what else he had going on, she was a light in all of that. He was desperate to hold onto her; he just had no idea how.

  * * *

  The lights were off in the apartment and everything was quiet when Tyson unlocked the door. A sinking feeling of anxiety washed over him. He instinctively reached for the bat, and this time it was still where he’d left it. Picking it up, he flicked on the light.

  His brother was alone, his back to him, sitting on the sofa. He released a sigh, and set the bat back down. “What are you doing in the dark, man?” He tossed his motorcycle keys onto the counter and opened the fridge.

  When Connor didn’t answer, he turned around. “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t do this . . .” His brother’s face was as white as the thin blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders. His trembling hands clutched his waist, his knees tight to his chest, as he rocke
d back and forth on the couch. “I can’t.”

  Not now. He was not equipped to deal with this. He shut the fridge door and went into the living room. “You can,” he said firmly, standing in front of his brother, feeling useless. He’d seen his brother like this once before and he’d had no idea what to do then either.

  He wished he had known; then maybe his mother wouldn’t have stepped in as the strong one, the one determined to make sure Connor stuck to his commitment to get clean that time. The one by his side night and day, making sure he didn’t give in to the intense withdrawal symptoms plaguing him and testing his will, destroying whatever strength he had left. His mother had been Connor’s only support for weeks while he battled through his demons.

  Maybe if Tyson had known what to do she wouldn’t have been the one who had to sit on Connor, keeping him safe and secure in the small bedroom he’d shared with him, stroking his hair and ushering soothing words of encouragement, wiping his sweaty forehead with a cool cloth, and cleaning up the mess whenever he got sick.

  She wouldn’t have been the one who had to take Connor’s anger and hurtful words then forgive him when he’d cry and beg for her forgiveness.

  And she wouldn’t have been the one he’d pushed down the stairs in an effort to escape the house in his desperate need for a fix to quiet the aching in his body and the torturous screaming in his mind.

  His mother wouldn’t have suffered a concussion that had led the doctors to discover a life-threatening blood clot in her brain that claimed her life six months later. Her death hadn’t been Connor’s fault, but it was hard to forgive him for being the cause of their awareness, the cause of the pain and suffering they’d lived through knowing she was living on borrowed time.

  He stood staring at his brother now, every part of him wanting to walk away and let him get through this on his own. But he just stood there.