Blaire Dark Romance

by Anita Gray

  Guest?

  Resisting the urge to point out that I'm not a guest, more of a prisoner—now, a half willing prisoner who might want him—I try to walk past him so I can get out of his ozone.

  “Not so fast.” He catches my wrist and urges me back a step, then nods at the fridge. “Get two beers out.”

  Tugging out of his grasp, I grab one bottle of beer out of the fridge, twist off the cap, and put it on the side by Charlie.

  “You're not having a drink?”

  I shake my head, stepping away to put some distance between us. I don't need anything impairing my mind right now. Charlie does that alone.

  “Ohhh, go on.” He gestures at the fridge, his blue eyes shining with amusement. “Live a little. It might help you relax.”

  “I don't need a beer to relax.” Crossing my arms, I rest against the sink in resistance.

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He chuckles, his cheekbones sharp with that large smile. He then peppers me in questions, first asking if I learnt anything from our sparring session this morning.

  “Nope,” I lie. I learnt that, if one is going to kiss another as a distraction, do it quickly and without adding desire to the mix.

  I won't tell him that.

  More questions; he's still intrigued by my fighting skills. “Are you gonna tell me who taught you yet?”

  “Nope,” I say again, my expression flat of emotion. It's better this way. If I can steer clear of that lusty zone he puts me in, I can maintain control over us. I won't end up kissing him again.

  Charlie smirks at me. “Okay then, if curtis how youwant to play it.” He turns down the heat to put the potatoes on simmer, then he steps in front of me, mimicking my pose by crossing his arms. “If you don't want me to touch you, why did you kiss me earlier?”

  My stomach rolls with embarrassment. I don't for a single moment want to talk about that, but I won't keep letting him chip away at me. He has to know that I'm strong minded and more perceptive than he gives me credit for.

  “I took advantage of you.”

  He flicks up his eyebrows. “Smart girl.”

  I huff. That has to be the most modest compliment he's ever given me.

  “You know, Blaire, I think you like it when I kiss you,” he stares down the span of my body, then back up, “you just won't admit it because what I make you feel confuses you.”

  Could he be anymore arrogant—or right?

  “I think it's the other way around, Charlie.” I'm being brave, trying to take him down a peg, but on the inside I'm so embarrassed it's stupid. My stomach is in knots. “I think it's you who likes kissing me.”

  “Sure I do.” He glances between my eyes. “You're a nice looking girl. I wouldn't kick you outa bed for love nor money.”

  I look away from him, my cheeks burning. How can he say things like that to a girl with such cool composure? I'd never have the guts to tell him how I feel.

  “I give you one week before you're revoking our little deal,” he says softly, with a hint of sarcasm.

  I swallow, keeping my eyes down. “I think you'll be sourly surprised when I don't.”

  “You're right,” he whispers, leaning into me, “I will be.”

  18

  The next week passes slowly.

  Charlie wakes me up the morning after pledging I'll revoke our 'little deal' with a cup of coffee and I'm so startled to see him in my room before the sun has even risen that I just lie here leaning up on one elbow; stare at him in the doorway. He saunters in to put the coffee down on the bedside cabinet and as soon as he looks down on me, my stomach twists with knots. There's this familiar pressure in the pit of my core too. Sexual anxiety. I think he's come to do something to me. To satisfy his appetite—or mine.

  “What-what are you doing in here, Charlie?”

  “Don’t look so nervous. I’m just bringing you a coffee because I know you like it. You all right?” he says this sounding concerned. Though it's quite dark in here with only a burning pink sky peeking in through the window, I can see he's frowning.

  “Yeah,” I croak out because my throat is a bit sore, “why wouldn’t I be?”

  Standing there at my bedside, he watches me for a moment in total silence. I don't know where to look—I feel as if I'm naked and on trial when he looks at me like that—so I sit up against the headboard and reach for the steaming cup of coffee.

  “Be ready in half an hour for the gym,” he says eventually in a low, soft voice, “I've made you some breakfast. It's in the oven.”

  “Um... okay.”

  “If you everwant to eat breakfast with me, let me know and I'll wake you up earlier.”

  Eat breakfast with him? Why would I want to eat breakfast with him? I barely make it through dinner mentally unscathed.

  Hugging the blanket to my chest, I nod to answer him, and then he leaves.

  That was really weird, but it doesn't end up being so. This becomes a pattern and I’m less and less nervous by the day. Six A.M. wake up calls with a coffee and Charlie asking if I'm all right, then breakfast alone in the kitchen. We fight in the gym after, our sweaty bodies often rolling around the boxing ring in a battle of power, then I spend the deaden part of the days reading in my room. We have dinner together every evening where he teases me about apparently fancying him; wants to know why I don't come down for lunch during the day. He hasn't clocked on to the fact that I need that time alone to mentally come down from whatever he makes me feel. Conversation starts to flow more freely and I gradually ease into spending time with him. Might even look forward to spending time with him. I’m not totally sure yet.

  Though he was sold on the idea that I would revoke our deal, I don’t. As much as I want to because our sparring sessions are almost unbearable with this sexual tension that's now constantly between us, and at dinner he talks me under a charm that I start to enjoy, I don't revoke.

  Not that it really matters though because with every day between us, the old me is drifting further and further away like a soul being swept by the wind. I find myself getting weak to Charlie's charming seduction, holding conversations with him rather than letting him take the lead. I’m awake before he even comes into my room in the mornings now. I'm desiring him more and more... sneakily looking at him... enjoying the way his body flexes when he moves about... basking in his attention when he talks to me... Hell, I'm even dreaming about him in the most risqué manner—that's what wakes me up before sunrise—and I never usually remember my dreams.

  Everything in my mind is narrowed in on him now.

  I don't know how this happened. I should fucking hate him—he stole me away from everything I know—but I don't.

  The line has gone blurry.

  ———

  “It seems I'm gonna have to work a little harder,” he says, wrapping up my knuckles with stretchy medical bandages. I've been going at it with the punch bag this morning, trying to relieve some of this sexual tension that's in me, and my knuckles are bloody. Charlie took one look at me and said I'm not to fight with naked hands anymore. Not while I'm living here with him. I tried to resist letting him touch me but it was fruitless. By the time his fingers were on mine, I folded.

  I cock a brow at him, assuming what he's talking about. The deal. It's the only thing on his mind lately, other than teasing me. He's always teasing me about something; usually over the fact that he knows I fancy him. Or, assumes. I haven't told him the truth.

  “I'm sure you will,” I say.

  Chuckling to himself, he works on my left hand. I watch him with careful meditation, nodding and shaking when he asks if the bandages are too tight; too loose. He's got his hair tied back today and while this is my favorite look on him, all I can think about doing is yanking out his ponytail and raking my fingers through the strands, steering him to my satisfaction. I want to touch him. I want to run my hands over every bulging muscle under the t-shirt he’s wearing... feel the power in his body... I dreamed about touching him
last night; felt the callousness of his body hair under my palms—maybe that's why my mind is twisted this morning?

  Charlie glances up at me from my hands and holds my burning hot gaze for a few seconds. “You shouldn't stare at people like that, Blaire.”

  I give him a funny look, drawing in my eyebrows. Does he know I'm thinking about him being naked?

  “Your eyes are haunting...” he says softly, his blue stare flickering all over my features, “possessing...”

  I glance away from him then. When he says things like that it's as if he's an incubus talking to my unconscious soul.

  “You don't even realize what you're doing, do you?” he whispers, pinching my chin between a finger and a thumb, forcing our gaze to align once more.

  “I don't even know what you're talking about.” I tug out of his grasp to break the spell.

  “No,” he says under his breath. “I know you don't.” He finishes bandaging me up, then he gives my hand a squeeze, nearly making me moan. “Before we spar, Iwant to do something with you.”

  I back up, my stomach contracting with frustrating wishful anxiety.

  “Nothing like that.” He laughs, a wide smile dominating his face. “Iwant to see how high you can kick.”

  “Oh...” I blink at him, coming down from that rush of anxiety. I've come to like that rush. I like everything about the way he makes me feel now. “Okay,” I say. “Sure.”

  He nods left, so I follow him across the gym, fisting and unfisting my hands to loosen up the bandages. Charlie rustles through the cupboards on the back wall for something, saying that once he's satisfied with seeing how high I can kick, I can show him a few tricks.

  “Tricks?” I say in a distracted fashion because he's got a Wing Chun ring on one of the shelves in the cupboard.

  “Yeah,” he sounds like he's trying not to laugh, “I'm sure you have many.”

  “Why do you have that?” I ask. Picking up the Wing Chun ring, I run my fingers over the smooth bamboo outlay.

  He smiles at me. It's his deathly handsome smile that makes me feel all warm and tingly. “I got you some Wing Chun equipment so you can train. Don't want you getting bored now, do we?”

  “I was going to say,” I glance up at him, putting the ring back in the cupboard, “you're into boxing, right?”

  He nods, smirking at me like he's got a hidden secret.

  “You know, you're going to have to learn a different style of fighting if you want to beat me.”

  He doesn't look offended by my arrogance. If anything, he looks amused. “Yeah, I'm well aware.”

  Grabbing a remote control out of the cupboard, he uses it to move a punch bag up the wall. The bracket hums with electricity as it ascends, until Charlie clicks the stop button, leaving the bag hanging just above my head.

  “Is that too high?” he asks, ushering me back across the gym with his hand on the low of my back.

  I shake my head, walking with him, training my attention on the bag. I can high-kick around eight feet in the air if I run up to a target.

  “All right then,” he says. “But if you want it lowered, just tell me.” Wandering past me, he checks the bag over, grabbing it with both hands and shaking it so vigorously that the wall shudders. I assume he's making sure it's safe to use. He then crosses his arms and moves back to give me the space I need, telling me, “Go on then.”

  He's curious to see me do this, I can tell by that fire in his eyes.

  I bend over to stretch out, ensuring I have no knots in my muscles. There's nothing worse than getting cramp mid-fight. Charlie is watching me—I can feel his eyes on my ass—but I knew they would be. In fact, I'm taking great pleasure in winding him up, especially when he clears his throat.

  My muscles now loose, I jog back for some distance, getting in position by slightly bending my knees. Then, to gain the strength and speed I need, I run up to the punch bag, my muscles easing into my motions. Two feet away, I leap into the air and kick the bottom of the bag. A warm surge of adrenaline shoots through me as I softly land on my feet, my interest centering on my training. I've missed this—the relaxed routine of training in this manner. It reminds me of home.

  “Yeah, you're quick,” Charlie says, seeming to be confirming his own thoughts.

  I glance at him, smirking with conceit.

  “Go again,” he says, gesturing for the bag, his arms still folded over his chest.

  Backing up, I pull in a large breath and run up to the punch bag, jumping into the air with an athletic kick when I'm within range. Again and again I attack, each kick executed more brilliantly than the last. I spend the next forty minutes doing this, flashing Charlie the odd smile as he tells me that he could watch me do this all day. “I don't think I've seen a girl so disciplined.”

  I know there's an ulterior meaning to what he's just said, but I'm having such a good time that I don't want to spoil it by being snarky.

  I keep going at the bag, and when I'm a little puffed out, sweat dripping down my back, I have a go at teaching Charlie. I don't know why. I just fancy it.

  “Everyone can learn, but you should lower the bag a bit,” I say, estimating that it's got to be six feet in the air. “That's quite a fall if you miss and drop on your ass.”

  He arches a brow at me. “Are you sure you don't want me to make it higher then?”

  Pursing my lips, I hum in a musing fashion. “Second thought, you should make it higher.”

  “I knew you'd say that.” He playfully pinches my side, making me squirm.

  I kick his feet out from under him and he drops with a heavy thud. I burst out laughing, grabbing my stomach because it aches, hardly containing myself. This is the oddest thing. I've never laughed like this in my life.

  Charlie shakes his head at me, and I think he's trying not to laugh too.

  “Go on,” I say amid laughing, gesturing out, “form position. You can't kick the punch bag from down there.”

  Grinning, he gets up from the floor and stands before the punch bag, rolling back his shoulders. I love watching him do that. Every muscle in his back waves and flexes beneath his t-shirt.

  I tell him to warm up with a few axe kicks, that he doesn't need to jump up and kick the bag until he's ready, but he's terrible at taking advice.

  “Do as you please then.” I shrug, walking back and forth with crossed arms, observing him.

  My face drops when he strikes the bag with a high-air-kick, landing perfectly on his feet. Another kick, and another, every one achieved with focus and refinement.

  My mouth hanging open, I glance between him and the punch bag.

  “Didn't expect that, did you, little Blaire?” he says, triumphant plastered across his face. He walks into me, playfully slapping my face.

  I flick away his hand but he catches my wrist. We start fighting then and we're not even in the ring. We are all legs, trying to knock each other over—I guess because we've been practicing our kicks. I put Charlie down more times than he does me but I have to admit, I underestimated him a little. He's not as good as me, though he's not as bad as I thought either, and he's definitely into more than boxing.

  Sweating, Charlie yanks off his t-shirt and flings it at me. The smell that hits me in the face is overwhelming—his clean-sweaty, musky scent.

  Jesus...

  Before I can toss his t-shirt aside, he runs at me and hooks one arm between my legs, gripping my ass.

  “Charlie!” I squeal, grabbing his shoulders, the feeling of him between my legs all too familiar.

  He fists the back of my hair with his other hand, yanks me up off the ground, and slams me down on a training mat.

  “Aargh!” I groan out, arching.

  “Shit!” He crouches over me on all fours, his knees pressing into the mat on either side of my body. “Are you all right?”

  “The mats aren't that soft.” I roll onto my side, my face taut with pain.

  “Ohhh, Blaire, I'm sorry, baby.” He runs a large hand down my spine, over every curve, k
neading out the pain. “I didn't mean to hurt you. The mats are supposed to be quite thick.”

  I start to say, “Well they're not,” but then I find myself leaning into his touch like a dog getting petted, my stomach coiling with sinister desire.

  Why the fuck is this happening to me? Why can't I go one day without desiring him? What's his poison?

  While I'm bathing in his touch, practically humming in delight, he whispers in my ear, “Are you gonna kiss me again so you can beat me? Because I really don't mind.”

  I smirk up at him from the side, and I can't help thinking, does he want me as much as I want him? I sense that he does but I can't be one-hundred percent sure that this isn't his agenda—to have me utterly under his spell.

  Charlie looks like he's going to kiss me, his face dripping in want as he comes closer to me, his eyes flickering between mine.

  I playfully tell him to piss off, pushing his mouth to the side. One more kiss and I'm not sure I'll be able to stop.

  Taking my hands, he helps me to my feet. “You all right?” he asks with genuine concern, giving me the once over, his eyes sweeping up and down my body. “Does your back still hurt?”

  “No.” I roll my shoulders, trying to iron out the tension in me. “I'm fine.”

  “Here,” he says, circling with a single finger, “turn around.”

  “Why?” I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. “What are you going to do?”

  The way he smiles at me...

  “Turn around,” he still circling his finger; flicks up his eyebrows, “you'll be glad you did.”

  A bit wary, I do, and just to really fuck with me, he puts his large hands on my shoulders. He massages me there with gentle fingers, getting into knots and kinks that I didn't even know existed. It feels so good that I sigh and let my head fall back. I can't resist closing my eyes for a moment either, imagining that he's doing this to me while I'm naked and withered after an orgasm.

  “Feels good,” Charlie whispers in my ear from over my shoulder, “doesn't it?”

  I'm living in my own sexually repressed hell and it feels like things are just getting started.