Fighting for Love

by Mel Curtis

  His hands drew her bra straps off her shoulders. “Ten.”

  “How about an even dozen?” Why not dream big? She unhooked the lace and let it fall to her feet. “Or you have to place the bet for me. I trust you more than any business associate of yours.” She froze at her chutzpah, certain she’d crossed a line. This was where he’d kick her out. And then she wouldn’t have anyone to place a bet.

  He frowned. “That sounds like b – ”

  She reached down to slip out of her heel before he could say bullshit. “Spoken like a man who can’t live up to a woman’s dare.”

  “Leave the shoes on,” he said darkly. “And I’ll make it a baker’s dozen.”

  “Thirteen,” she murmured as his lips found her nipple and suckled. “My lucky number.”

  ~*~

  Graham anticipated coming, coming hard, and coming often.

  He wasn't going to lose the challenge Esme had tossed at him, but he didn’t plan on depriving himself either.

  “Let’s start with the basics.” He slid his finger beneath the black silk at her hips and into her slick channel. He remembered how long to stroke, how deep to press, and which of her moans indicated he pleased her.

  “I hate the basics,” she murmured, laving his nipple. “They never work. Be spontaneous. Be dirty. Be…” Her sentence ended on a sigh that signaled she liked the basics. “You have four hours until dawn. That means you’ll need to please me…Gah! I hate math.”

  “Three times an hour, on average.” He didn’t miss a stroke. “Considering how quickly you exploded last night, that leaves you about forty-five minutes every hour to please me.”

  “Why don’t I start pleasing you now?” She slid lower, dragging his briefs off.

  He couldn’t let her win this battle. He wasn’t going to place that bet.

  But then she took him in her mouth with the same single-minded intensity she showed in the cage and he had to remind himself he had forty-five minutes before he fell behind.

  ~*~

  Score one for Esme. None for Graham.

  Meaning she’d driven him past his limits and she was still ahead of the game.

  I’m going to win.

  She could take a few punches as long as in the long run she knocked him out.

  Men. They were predictable, after all. She’d never met one that hadn’t fallen asleep after two climaxes. One down. One to go.

  “We need to even up the score.” Graham lay down on the plush Oriental rug and tugged her on top of him.

  Excellent. He was prone. He’d be snoring in no time.

  So she got shorted out on her happy place. She wanted to win this challenge. The fact that she’d gotten him to agree to it at all was a small victory.

  He positioned her so he could suckle on her nipple, creating bursts of excitement in her glory parts. First he lavished attention to one breast, then the other.

  Esme closed her eyes and let the sensations ripple through her. She felt warm and wet and excited, but not orgasmic.

  Where had she left her phone? Was it too early to check the time?

  I’m going to win.

  “How wet are you, baby?” His hands moved down her body. His thumbs stroked the outside of her lips, the inside of her lips, and then pressed inside her.

  There was an electrifying shock of heat, the feeling of being fulfilled, and then his thumbs retreated, stroking between her lips once more.

  Esme let out a small cry of need. Not fair!

  His thumbs stopped moving and she almost cried out again.

  “Kiss me, Esme. You think too much.”

  She had to think. She had to keep her eye on the goal. But her mouth lowered to his and her tongue mirrored the deep strokes of his thumbs between her legs.

  Her body was ethereal, lifted above him, yet moving in time with his. A stroke, a squeeze, a filling. Maddening, exciting, breath-stealing. She splintered above him with one thought.

  I’m going to lose.

  Chapter 7

  The sky outside was getting lighter. Graham had proven his prowess three times and he still wasn’t asleep. Everything Esme knew about men and sex had flown out the window.

  “No more.” Esme was as wrung out as a dishtowel after Thanksgiving dinner. She flopped back on Graham’s bed. “Twelve times is my limit.”

  Graham left her in the bedroom. It sounded like he was making himself a drink at the bar.

  “Rest,” she called out to him, ruing the impulsive deal they’d made. She wouldn’t be able to walk later, much less walk in heels. “We need rest.”

  “I still have time.” He appeared in the doorway holding a tumbler of what looked like whiskey on the rocks. He took a sip and came to the bed, creeping up her naked body on his elbows, the whiskey still in one hand, that slow grin growing on his face.

  Her hands reached for his bare chest. She loved the hard planes and thick muscles on his body. “Just twenty minutes and then we can go again.” In twenty minutes, the sun would be up.

  His mouth descended toward hers. At the last moment, he turned to the side. His lips were hot, but then something cold and wet between his lips touched her. He had an ice cube in his mouth. The combination of hot and cold against her skin made her shiver and arch her body toward his. When had she become so wanton?

  He dragged the ice cube down her neck to her collarbone, between her breasts, to the sensitive spot above her left hip. And then he lifted his head and crunched the rest, eyes devouring her as he took another sip of whiskey. By the way he was working his mouth, he'd taken another ice cube, too.

  His free hand settled between her legs.

  “Oh, no. Not the ice.”

  Graham paid no attention to her protest. He knelt between her legs and brought his mouth to her hot target. Liquid dribbled between her lips. Heat and ice blazed a trail across already sensitive parts. She didn’t want to lose. She wanted Graham in her corner, placing a bet with Kyle. But the sensations were too much. His touch was too much.

  A sound filled the room. Mournful, powerful, rising until someone else in the hotel had to hear her cry. Every muscle in her body rocked one last time, frozen as firmly as one of his ice cubes. Graham didn’t stop stroking, didn’t let up, didn’t show any mercy. And then there was the fluid relaxation of coming down, easing the sense of loss, the sense of failure. Esme wanted to sleep, to run a race, to hold onto Graham so tight he’d never leave her. She felt in pieces, so torn she’d never be the same.

  The sky was turning pink. The hotel ceiling lightened around the chandelier. Shadows formed around them. She knew with a certainty, her time with Graham was over.

  Graham’s whiskey-tinted breath caressed her cheek and then he slipped the last chip of ice into her mouth, following it with his tongue.

  She could kiss him every day, all the time, if only to feel like a part of him. He made her feel beautiful and wanted. And after tonight, after backing him into a bet when he’d sworn never to wager, he’d be done with her. Besides, she was no longer a one-night stand.

  Heedless of her concerns, Graham’s body covered hers, entered hers, thrust against hers. “Come on, baby. Go for fourteen.”

  They fell into a familiar rhythm.

  And Esme blinked the tears from her eyes.

  ~*~

  “You look like hell,” Steve wheezed when Graham let him in at eight a.m. He hobbled into the suite, dragging his laptop bag behind him.

  “I could say the same of you.” Graham may be exhausted, but his body felt like it’d been plugged into a live wire. Esme electrified him. When he looked out the window, he could barely see L.A.’s smog for all the blue sky above him. “Why don’t you take the day off?”

  Steve stopped his Hunchback of Notre Dame impression and turned to look at Graham. “Did you go out last night and let someone slip you drugs? Have you been invaded by a body snatcher?”

  “No…I…” His gaze drifted to the closed bedroom door.

  Steve’s gaze followed. “You sly dog.
Breaking rules right and left. I knew L.A. would be good for you.”

  Graham frowned.

  “Let me leave you the report on E.R. Jones.” Steve fumbled with the buckles on his leather bag.

  The bedroom door opened. Esme looked as delectable as she had the night before. One eyebrow might have twitched at the sight of Steve, but otherwise, she walked toward the door with confident strides. She’d never admit to the walk of shame. She breezed past Steve and would have walked on by Graham if he hadn't taken hold of her arm.

  “What? No goodbye?”

  She gazed up at him and only then did he see any hesitation. It was there, in those soft brown eyes. “You let me sleep in.” She half-glanced back at Steve. “I thought he was here to – ”

  “No,” Graham said firmly. She’d been right about one thing. Some rules were meant to be broken, especially where Esme was concerned. After a night of pure pleasure, he should have shown her the door and gotten some sleep. Instead, he’d stared at her while she slept.

  He’d been with women who were at the top of their fields in business or law. He’d been with women who were young and naïve and looking for a handout. Everyone who came before Esme was one dimensional. None of them compared to his chameleon. None of them would have risked their well-being for another in a MMA ring. For family.

  Graham walked her to the elevator. “Can I see you later?”

  Her steps slowed.

  She didn’t want to see him again?

  “I’ve got a busy day,” she said. And then added softly, “And I need to sleep.”

  “Sleep is – ”

  “Overrated. Yeah, I heard.” She smiled, but it was a half smile when he’d prefer her shining fully up at him.

  He’d taken her places. Fourteen times. Women he’d pleasured twice had thrown themselves at him afterward, wanting more. Maybe he’d given her too much.

  “Are you still willing to arrange an associate to help me?” she asked.

  Now it was Graham who hesitated. He’d been thinking about his options for a representative and other than Steve (who wouldn’t do it because she’d kicked his ass) and his lawyer (who wouldn’t do it because it was borderline illegal), there was no one he trusted to place the bet. “I could loan you the fifty grand.”

  She blew out a breath. “I’d have to fight another four to six months to pay you back.” She added, almost too softly to hear, "And stay healthy."

  “Why don’t you turn pro? It’s got to pay more than you’re making now.”

  Esme held her head high. “I’m retiring after the fight with Sarah.”

  “Because Hank doesn’t want you to fight?”

  The elevator doors swung open and she stepped inside. “I had a nice time.”

  “You know I hate that word.”

  “You’re nice, Graham.” She pressed a floor button. “Thank you.”

  With effort, he kept himself from scowling. "I won't call." Not if she left him like this. He made it a rule never to beg. He’d wait for her to come back to him.

  "I understand," she said, regret like a final goodbye in her eyes.

  The elevator doors slid closed. The unexpected emptiness of her leaving hit him like a strong prairie wind.

  Hell-fire.

  She liked him. He could tell. They’d talked. They’d laughed. They’d enjoyed each other’s bodies. Why was she leaving like this?

  Why? Because he’d beaten her challenge.

  He returned to the suite, frustration burning the lining in his gut, trying to burn through the place where he kept his rules.

  “That fighter? E.R. Jones?” Steve tossed a manila envelope on the table. “This is the report on her. It’s an alias. Emerald Rosemary Jones ceased to exist fourteen years ago. She might just as well be dead.”

  Chapter 8

  Esme was able to return home unnoticed while Pop and Daisy were at a meeting with the Dooley Foundation, working on a new business relationship with the company that helped the rich and famous clean up their acts.

  She showered and crawled into bed before the despair hit. It was an elephant-sized load of despair, dropping down on her chest and making it hard to breathe. She couldn’t look at her time with Graham with regret, although she had many. She couldn’t think about Graham and long for more, although her body reverberated with the memory of his touch.

  She knew a lot of people in Hollywood who’d credibly be able to place a fifty thousand dollar bet with Kyle. She just didn’t trust any of them.

  She couldn’t accept a loan from Graham and continue to fight to pay him back. Pop and Daisy would find out at some point or the audience would get tired of seeing her win in one round or...a well-placed kick to her lower back would make Esme and Pop wheelchair twinsies.

  The options left to her to ensure Pop walked again were disappearing.

  You could use sex as collateral, as payment.

  And lose all self-respect? Could she do that for Pop? Was her body worth fifty grand to Graham? Or would she have to make up the difference with other men.

  Her stomach felt like it’d been given a cheap shot and a body slam to the mat. She’d reached the line she wouldn’t cross. Despair pressed down on her once more.

  Hours later, her bedroom door opened on creaky hinges.

  “Don’t tell me,” Esme grumbled, tugging the comforter over her head. “Amanda called. I thought you weren’t giving me any more cupcake assignments.”

  “Amanda didn’t call.” It was Pop and he was using his you’re-in-trouble voice.

  Esme pulled the covers from over her head.

  He came into the room, legs trembling in the wheelchair. He tossed a pair of black fight shorts at her. “The cat just dragged this out from behind the dryer.”

  Esme wasn’t sure what to say, so she said nothing.

  “How long did you think you could hide it from me?” Pop swore. “When you said you were going to the gym and you sounded embarrassed, I thought you were taking zumba or jazzercise. I didn’t think you were going to a gym to spar. You lied to me.” He swore again. “And my friends…No one told me you were sparring again.”

  “I haven’t been sparring.” That was true. She did strength training and worked out with a punching bag at one of those national chain gyms. “I wear those shorts to work out.” She knew that wouldn’t be enough for him. “How do you know they aren’t Daisy’s? How do you know they haven’t been behind the dryer for a year?”

  He spun around. “I’m going out.”

  Esme tossed the covers aside. “I’ll drive.”

  “No need.” He was already disappearing down the hall.

  She wandered after him as far as the kitchen, stopping when the garage door slammed behind him.

  Pop only drove himself when he stayed off the freeways. And he only stayed on the surface streets when he visited his friends at the gyms where Esme used to train. He didn’t believe her. He was going to check out her story. Esme’s morale hit a new low.

  Marmalade wound her way between Esme’s legs.

  “Traitor.” She leaned down to stroke the cat’s bright orange fur. “Try catching mice for a change.”

  The laptop on the low kitchen counter pinged with a new message. Esme glanced at the subject line in case it was someone wanting a quote for new business. Since Pop’s phone lagged in loading emails, she’d call him if it was.

  It wasn’t: Harper Fight, List of Fighters.

  Esme froze. If Pop opened the email, E.R. Jones would be on that list.

  It might not be.

  Who was she kidding? It would be.

  Her fingers itched to open the email and look. But if Esme opened the email, Pop would see it’d been opened. He’d know.

  There was only one thing to do. Esme lunged for the keyboard and deleted the email from the inbox and then from the server. It’d never download to Pop’s phone. He’d never see it. If luck held, he wouldn’t ask for the list again for another few days. Maybe the list wouldn’t show up until after her fi
ght with Sarah.

  Her back cramped. Marmalade rubbed against Esme’s legs again.

  “Now we’re both traitors.”

  “What’d you say?” Daisy entered the kitchen with her tablet and a stack of bills.

  “Just talking to the cat.” Esme opened the refrigerator looking for protein for breakfast, while Daisy tapped on her tablet.

  “You won’t believe this.” Daisy sank into a kitchen chair. “There’s another five thousand dollars in Pop’s surgery account.”

  Esme could believe it. She was the one who put it there. She'd created the account and asked people to contribute, but she was the biggest contributor.

  “Fifty thousand dollars and we’re still short.” Daisy’s gaze roamed around the kitchen and then landed on Esme. There were tears in her eyes. “I’d sell a kidney if it meant he’d get the surgery.”

  “Me, too.” Words sat on the back of Esme’s tongue. Words like: I’m going to get the money. I need you to place a bet.

  But she let the words sit. While Daisy was willing to risk her health, she wouldn’t approve of Esme doing the same.

  ~*~

  Two days after his all night lovemaking session with Esme, the lights shining on the Harper Complex were white.

  Graham and Steve were having a dinner meeting with the Harpers. Steve had already floated some figures and terms past Kyle, but they hadn’t had a face-to-face meeting. Or included Kyle’s father, Ryan, in the negotiations.

  “Keep it close.” Graham held the keys to the Ferrari toward the valet.

  The pimple-faced teen accepted the keys with a big smile. “I’ll keep it in the front with Mr. Harper senior’s.” He nodded toward a white Ferrari a few feet away.

  Graham entered the Harper Hotel slowly, taking in the dark paneling, plush burgundy couches, and paintings of hunting dogs and waterfowl. This was a man’s domain. His grandfather’s domain. It looked almost the same as he remembered it.