by Box Set
“I won't punch you,” he says. He bows under the ropes and steps into the ring, every muscle in his body contracting. “Anything else, I can't be held responsible for.” He winks at me.
I feel my cheeks warm up, and I hope to god he doesn't notice.
“Okay.” I step back, rolling my shoulders. “Let's do this.”
“Fifteen minutes,” he warns, pointing at me. “After that, I'll have you cumming in my mouth.”
Charlie tries to slap my face, but I catch his wrist and boot him in the stomach with a loud, “Aargh!” making him groan.
“Jesucristo!” He folds over, winded.
I don't even think about my next move. I grab behind his left knee and Karate chop him in the throat with my other hand, slamming him back on his ass. He's so heavy that it takes all my lower body strength to put him down, but I do. He lands with a profound thud. I bolt forward to escape him, kneading out my hand because it hurts. It's like he's made from bricks rather than muscle.
Safely in the corner of the ring, I face him, my chest heavy with adrenaline. He's lying on his back with his knees pulled up, and he looks a little stunned, blinking up at the ceiling.
Well that's a sight for sore eyes, Charlie bested.
“I reckon that's thirty seconds,” I say, the smuggest smirk plastered across my face.
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “You're fucking quick.”
I wander across the ring and crouch down to him, leaning on my knees with my elbows. He lets his head roll to the side, catching us in a moment. Our eyes flicker between each other’s, and I'm surprised to find he doesn't look bested anymore. He looks glad as he smiles at me.
“I hope your ego isn't too bruised,” I say, my goal being to rile him because I want to go again, though longer this time if he can handle it. “I hear it hurts getting beaten by a girl.”
He isn't bothered by my arrogance. He asks in a low, raspy voice, “Didn't you want to stretch that out to show me how good you are?”
“You already know how good I am.” I don't look away from him as I say that. “My objective in a fight is to win, not to pussy foot around.”
He hums in agreement, glancing down at my mouth, then back up at my eyes. “Where'd you learn to fight?”
“Somewhere you didn't.” I stare down the length of his tall, muscular frame, at the defined muscles in his stomach. “Do you want to go again? Whoa!” I squeal as Charlie grabs my legs and yanks them out from under me, dropping me to the bouncy surface. He's on top of me, seizing my wild, combatant hands in both of his.
“You're like a feral little cat,” he says while laughing, struggling to get me under control.
Growling and straining, I kick the ring surface, giving myself the strength I need to turn us over. He's under me now, so I jump to my feet, my thigh muscles burning from the abrupt movement.
Charlie catches me. I didn't even notice him getting up. He wraps his big arms around me from behind, squeezing me against his powerful chest.
I tighten my fists, readying to elbow back, but he whispers in my ear, “You win. Stop. You win.”
I swallow down a mouthful of air. His cock is hard in his joggers, pressing into my back. My stomach rolls with liquid desire, the memory of having him in my mouth taking over all thoughts. Why do I find it so hot when he dominates me?
“And...and you won't...” I start to say, but I can't concentrate on my vocabulary. I wish he didn't affect me on this level.
“And I won't, what?” he says softly.
“You won't”—I swallow a second time, gripping his hand over my chest—“touch me like that anymore?”
He doesn't say or do anything for a moment, just holds me, closing his fingers over my grip on his hand. I relax against his body, his touch melting my will.
“Not if you don't want me to,” he says on my neck, his hot lips making me squirm in his grasp.
“No,” I say, though I hardly sound convincing. My voice comes out too girlish and husky. “I-I don't want you to.”
Silence. It's not awkward silence. It's...I don't know. I'm not sure if it's the adrenaline or desire running through my veins, but I have a sudden urge to kiss him. How fucked up is that?
“You gave me your word,” I say, peering up at him from over my shoulder, finding his expression is tight with control. His lips aren't far away. I stare at his mouth.
“Yeah, I did.” Charlie lets me go then, and jumps out of the boxing ring. His motions are fluent and gracefully masculine. He pivots to me, his black hair dripping around his handsome face, framing those stark blue eyes. “You can trust that I'll keep it,” he says, and while I'm weak in my pose, we look at each other.
The silence becomes a living thing with unspoken words and tension—you can trust me on that.
I feel a little lightheaded, falling under his spell, unable to look away from him. He's the one to break the moment. Reaching down, he scoops up his t-shirt from the floor and flings it over his shoulder, nodding at me. Then he turns and exits the gym.
I lean back against the ropes, trying to gather my wits, my chest rising and falling with heaviness.
I'm not too sure how I feel right now. That fight just changed the dynamics of our situation.
17
Night falls while I'm meditating outside in the cold, the dark sky glowing silver with a full moon.
I've been meditating since besting Charlie earlier today because my thoughts have been whirling over what the next few months are going to be like. Now I know, or assume, he won't touch me in a sexual manner, I can't help but wonder.
Will he start beating me now? Is that how he plans on getting his kicks? Because I can't imagine he'd make a deal like this without a backup plan to ensure his appetite is satisfied. I'm not sure, so I let the energy that is my thoughts course in and out of me with each breath I inhale and exhale, and every slow movement I execute. I go at it for hours, until my stomach howls for food. I haven't eaten all day. I didn't even have breakfast, which isn't like me. Breakfast is the most important meal to me. To anyone, really.
Gathering my trainers in my arms, I patter barefoot up to my room where I take a quick shower, washing away the saltiness on my skin. I dress in my usual black sports trousers and a black long-sleeved sweater, still appreciative that Charlie went and got my clothes for me. They make me feel like me and not some cheap whore he bartered.
Tying my damp hair back with the tie Charlie gave me, I head downstairs to the kitchen.
“Evening, Blaire,” he says from the cooking space, wearing only a pair of gray joggers, his ink black hair curling loosely around that gorgeous face.
I stop on the threshold, startled that he's here. Then I carry on toward the table, ignoring my intentions for the fridge. I'll fix myself something to eat when he's gone.
“Hi, Charlie,” I say. My voice comes out softer than I was trying for. It's because I'm looking at him from the corner of my eye, at his tan, powerful body, sprinkles of black hair across his chest and under his navel. He's one of the most exquisite men I've ever seen. I can't deny it.
“You must be starving,” he says, and grabbing a plate out of the oven with a kitchen towel, he proffers it to me.
He's cooked dinner?
I nod and shrug at once, slipping behind the dining table, my cheeks a little hot. There's a jug of water in the middle of the table and two glasses. I fill a glass, glad the water is at room temperature. It's easy to guzzle down and quench my thirst.
“You all right?” Charlie says. He rounds the kitchen and puts a plate down of chicken, potatoes, and green vegetables in front of me. Exactly what I said I eat at home. “You look a little flushed.”
“I've just had a shower,” I say softly, putting down the glass of water.
“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes following my tongue as I lick my lips dry. “Do you mind if I eat with you?”
I raise my eyebrows, and it seems to pull his attention from my lips to my eyes.
“Or do
you want to eat alone?”
Extending a hand, I urge him to sit across from me. I don't mind having dinner with him, I suppose. There isn't anyone else to talk to. At home if I got lonely, I'd give James a call. Here, there’s only Charlie to speak to because I don't have my phone.
He smiles down at me before sauntering back across the kitchen. I feel warmed from that smile. He grabs another plate from the oven and comes back to the table. He's not wearing any shoes, and I can't help noticing that even his feet are masculine.
“Do you realize you've been meditating all day?” he says, passing me some cutlery over the table.
“How do you know that?”
“I was watching you.” He gestures with the cutlery.
I take the knife and fork from him in a state of dismay, barely registering the way he runs his thumb over my fingers. Is he constantly watching me?
“You need to be careful you don't burn yourself out.” He sits opposite, in my line of vision. “Especially if you don't eat properly.”
“There's nothing else to do here but train.”
Resting his elbows on the table, he cups his square chin. “Well, what would you normally do to fill your days? Bar serving Maksim,” he adds with bitterness.
My stomach is in knots. It's the way he's looking at me, utterly focused on my face, curiosity and ardor glittering in his eyes.
“I guess I'd train in my gym at home.” I cut off a piece of chicken. It's tender and juicy. I think he's cooked it in some kind of butter.
“Yeah, I saw that you've got a gym in your apartment. You train with Wing Chun, don't you?”
“You've been in my apartment?” I almost spit out my food, so I cover my mouth with an open palm. That's a personal thing for him to do, snoop through my home.
“Yeah,” he says candidly. “I got your things for you, remember? I brought some of your books too, so you could read when in your room here.”
“Oh.” I blink at him, that feeling of appreciation all too real. He didn't have to fetch my things. “How do you know what style of fighting I do?”
“You've got wooden dummies, balancing tackle...” A long list of my gym equipment rolls off his tongue in that Latin accent. “You're a bonita controlled fighter.” He shrugs. “Call it a hunch.”
I realize I've just been staring at him, at his lush mouth, listening to him waffle on about my equipment, so I drop my gaze to focus on my food.
What made him go upstairs in my apartment? It's an open balcony top and anyone at the front door can see that it's a gym up there. Also, I'm sure I left my bedroom doors open the last time I was home, so he would have noticed my room as soon as he walked through the front door. He's not stupid. He knows my clothes would be in my bedroom.
“Your place is incredibly clinical,” he says.
“I bought it like that.” I reach for my glass and have another mouthful of water.
“So, you bought it?” he asks, cocking his head.
I swallow down the water before saying, “Well, yes.”
He nods, like he's confirming something to himself. “How long have you lived there?”
“Two years.”
I don't think Maksim will mind me saying that. It's hardly a secret. Two years ago, he told me that if I wanted to, I could have my own place. As anyone could imagine, I jumped at the opportunity. Not because I didn't want to be around Maksim. I just wanted my own mental space. I've always suspected his boss Tatiana had something to do with the decision, but I never asked.
“Wow, that young?” Charlie glances away from me, his jaw ticking, and when he looks back at me, his expression goes flat. “What else do you do, Señorita, other than train physically?”
“I study a lot,” I whisper.
“What do you study?”
I lift my shoulders, trying to avoid the blueness in his eyes. “Whatever Maksim wants me to study, really.” A light goes off in my head. “My last project was Mexico.”
“Mexico, huh?”
I nod, forking some vegetables.
“What about Mexico?”
“The culture and the geography. I came across a newspaper article about the economy and decided to study the country,” I flat out lie.
“So, you studied it of your own accord?”
I nod. I shouldn't say what I'm about to but I want to see Charlie's reaction. “I've learnt a lot about the Los Zetas, amongst other things.”
He sits back, keeping his hands on the table. “Is that right?”
I nod.
He watches me for a moment in total silence.
“What did you learn about the Los Zetas, hmm?”
“Nothing special, really. They're a criminal syndicate much like any other.” I'm trying to mock his organization, to rile him into saying something. Sure I know he’s the leader, but I want more intelligence on him.
“What else does Maksim have you study?” he says, unbothered by my mockery. Picking up his cutlery, he cuts into his food.
“This and that.” I slice into the fluffy potatoes. “I tend to focus on technology.”
Charlie turns up his lips and shrugs in agreement. “Makes sense, given your talent.”
I smile with arrogance. Yeah, I'm not just a fuck toy.
“You know,” he says, “you were recommended to me by three different leaders to execute the job.”
I frown at him.
“To shut down London,” he adds.
I don't react to that. I know I'm good at what I do, as do a lot of others. I could spend years without so much as touching a computer and still do what is asked of me. Studying and hacking are my forte, even before my fighting skills.
“What's happening with the job?” I ask between bites. “I assumed that by rushing me to attain your fifteen minutes, you needed it done as soon as possible.”
“It'll happen when it happens,” he says. “I just needed you to be ready.” He doesn't give me any more than that. He begins telling me about himself, that he doesn't usually spend a lot of time in England. “I'm almost always in Mexico—my home country.” He talks about this for quite a while amid eating his dinner, saying he doesn't typically deal with Westerners because they're chauvinistic pigs.
What does he think he is then?
“But sometimes,” he says, “it's inevitable.”
I think I know where he's going with this. He wants me to verbally connect the dots between him, Mexico, and the Los Zetas—who are based in Mexico—but he's doing it in a coy manner.
“Why are you here now then?” I ask, pushing against my plate. I cannot eat anymore.
Smirking, Charlie flicks up his eyebrows. Me. He's here because of me.
“Don't let me get in the way of you going home to work.”
He tips his head, chewing on a piece of chicken. “I never said I work in Mexico.”
“I just assumed.” I straighten up in my seat. “You just told me that you're almost always in Mexico, that you don't usually deal with Westerners.”
He hums in concurrence, also pushing against his plate. He hasn't had any trouble with his dinner. He's polished off everything with gusto.
“Do you know how Maksim and I met?” he asks, sparking my interest.
I shake my head minutely.
“Well, Blaire”—he puts his elbows on the table and winds his fingers together—“when I chopped off my father's dick for trafficking little girls and watched him slowly bleed to death, I obtained a list of his associates.”
My stomach bottoms out of me.
“Maksim was on the top of that list.”
Silence. We're just looking at each other.
“And yet, you-you let Maksim live?” I ask bravely, immediately wishing I didn't. I don't want to piss him off, not now that I know he cut off his own father's cock.
He nods, resting his chin on his hands. “I had details to a job in Russia, and given Maksim's influence over there with Tatiana, I thought I could use him.”
I can feel my cheeks turning white.
“I pardoned Maksim for his word that he'll stay away from children, and brought him in on the job.” Charlie goes quiet, and his eyes seem closer than they really are.
“Why...” I start to say, but I just can't find the courage to finish.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Blaire...” His voice deepens as he says my name in a summoning manner.
“I just”—I gulp, and he sees, his eyes dropping to my throat—“why did you kill your father?”
It's a while before he answers me. He's assessing the situation, as I would, wondering if telling me is of any benefit to him.
“I had a sister once,” his voice is soft as he says this, grief flashing through his blue eyes. “And now I don't.”
“Oh.” There is a semblance of emotion in my voice, which is strange, given I don't give a shit about Charlie or his sister. “What happened to her?”
“Can't you guess?” he says, giving me his hardest stare.
I look away from him, a niggling feeling telling me that Maksim might have had something to do with Charlie's sister not being around anymore. Maybe that's Charlie's real agenda with me. Maybe this isn't about Maksim double crossing him after all. Maybe his agenda is about getting some justified payback for his sister.
“Tell me, Blaire, you've known Maksim since you were, what, seven or eight years old?”
“Why would you think that?” I screw up my features. “I never told you how long I've known him.”
“I've asked around about you, and one person told me that he stole you ten years ago.”
Stole me? That's news to me. Maksim said I was sold to him.
Another long pause. The silence between us is stifling, and my thoughts are rambling.
“Why would you ask around about me?” I say eventually.
A smile plays on Charlie's lips. “Curiosity. What else?”
I scoff again, though in irritation. I don't like his prying.
“Is it true?” he says, looking between my eyes. “Have you known him since you were that young?”