Dare

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  Josh groans, “Oh my God, you’re like velvet.” He grips the flesh of my hips in his rough hands, pulls them up so I meet his hips, and pumps faster.

  With each of his thrusts, my entire body is caught up. My inner walls quiver and I orgasm, calling out his name. “Josh! You feel so good!”

  “Holy fuck, baby!” His own head falls back in pleasure.

  A moment later he changes it up and pulls his divine, rigid cock out so slowly, to the farthest point, before pausing and then thrusting hard back inside of me.

  The noises that rip from my mouth are animal.

  “Oh, Christ!” he cries and does it again.

  “Fuck!” I moan.

  “Grab your tits,” he orders me. “I want to watch you pinch your nipples.” Josh drives his unyielding dick back in, forcing me to cry out in ecstasy.

  I’ll play his game. “I’ll do anything for more.”

  I squeeze each of my nipples between my fingers as my eyes lock onto his and he pounds inside of me with wild ferocity.

  “Oh God, don’t stop!” My eyes roll back and I’m gone—lost in the sensations he’s causing.

  “Sophie, I can feel every ridge and curve of your perfect pussy.”

  “We’re never using a condom again!”

  “Christ,” he grunts. “There’s nothing else like you! You’re so fucking hot and wet and tight.”

  I can’t stop the staccato sounds escaping my chest with his every crash against me.

  “I’m dying from how your pussy spasms and is milking my dick.” Now he slowly grinds his hips against my thighs so his cock is stirring inside me. He’s moaning and his eyes hood over.

  I love his dirty talk and I know he likes it right back. I whine, “It’s all you. You make me so wet.”

  He’s so freaking amazing! He makes me feel so sexy.

  “Tell me what you like …”

  “I love how your long, hard cock feels as it’s stroking me,” I whimper. “Oh please … don’t stop, Josh! Give it to me hard.”

  Effortlessly, he lifts my legs so they’re locked onto his shoulders, then he lays over the top of me, pinning me with the heat and strength of his muscles. He pistons hard and fast with so much torque he’s going to make me scream!

  Holy hell! The man is so strong and can manipulate my body so fast. I LOVE being on the sexy end of Josh’s MMA abilities.

  “Oh my God, you’re so deep!” I whimper as his cock fills me.

  His pelvis is massaging my clit; he’s crushing my breasts, and his sultry breath is playing hot against my ear. The rush of sensations coursing through my sex lights the fuse to my dynamite.

  We’re going over together. A guttural roar thunders from Josh’s throat. His cock pulses and his muscles seize—gooseflesh ripples across his skin.

  When he releases my legs, we’re both spent in the most euphoric way.

  We hold each other and fall asleep, cuddled up on the couch, until the sun rises.

  He stirs awake first, I feel him laying kisses on my face, whispering how much he loves me.

  There is nowhere on earth I’d rather be.

  *****

  Josh makes a quick protein shake, while I flip Charlie’s mini whole grain pancakes.

  “Yummy!” Charlie opens Josh’s fridge like she owns it and takes out the maple syrup. “Want some, Joshy?”

  “Thank you, beautiful.” He lifts his drink. You can see the egg yolk floating against the side of the glass. “But I have to have this breakfast today.”

  “Poor Joshy.” Charlie shakes her head.

  I smile. “Today’s the big day with all the reporters. Are you excited?” I ask Josh as I pour us each a to-go tumbler of coffee.

  He puts his mouth to my ear. “After being inside of you, skin on skin, nothing is going to excite me except for the prospect of getting in there again.”

  “With talk like that you’re going to be late,” I say in a hushed tone.

  He plants a kiss to my lips and smiles. “God, you’re incredible.”

  He turns around, scoops Charlie into his arms and swings her once around.

  “I love my girls!” he says, kissing the top of her head. “See you both later this afternoon.” He grabs his gear bag and is out the door.

  Charlie’s lip pouts out like she’s going to cry.

  “After you’re finished eating, would you like to shop for the new princess Elsa doll?” I bribe her for a smile.

  Josh

  Reporters from Sports Illustrated, Fight Magazine and the UFC, along with several newspapers will be showing up in about three hours. That gives me the perfect amount of time to get in a morning run and maybe even a shower. The photographers like getting pictures of me sweating over the bags or sparring, so either way it’ll all work out.

  I walk into the gym, and it’s already cleaned spotless and somehow doesn’t smell like sweat and gym socks. Silva, McGee and Caruso have the entire gym set up with seats for the guests and tables on the side walls with water pitchers and paper cups. I actually love getting interviewed before a fight; it pumps up my amperage that much more. Only two more weeks before I meet my opponent in the octagon, and this will certainly fuse adrenaline into my upcoming workouts.

  After changing into my cold weather running gear, I hit the pavement for a five miler. All I think about is Sophie.

  So, Sophie Bolen. I consider her true last name.

  North.

  The thought pops into my head, and I realize it feels like a welcome friend.

  “Sophie North,” I speak it out loud. It sounds pretty damn good.

  First things first, I have to get her free from the son-of-a-bitch that had ruined her life. And she needs time to really feel free—to savor that she’s safe. She needs her power back.

  I hear a text come in, and I check my phone—it’s my dad.

  He’s already got calls in, using his chain of connections, to find out if the dickhead contacted the courts or reported Sophie and Charlie missing.

  Josh, you need to see this.

  The Boston Globe Newspaper headline reads, When Trusted Cops Go Bad.

  Officer Jim Murphy, wanted in connection with several crimes …

  I stop running, catch my breath and click the link. The article talks about how Murphy was a trusted police officer in a small town near Boston, but the county district attorney’s office subpoenaed officials when reports and allegations went public about Murphy accepting bribes and torturing prisoners held in lock-up. He was also being charged with several counts of domestic violence and child endangerment.

  Once I quickly finish scanning the article, I call Sophie.

  Voicemail. Fuck!

  “Sophie, my dad sent a newspaper article about Murphy. I’m going to be going batshit crazy until I talk to you! Hurry and call.”

  I keep reading. When the town got a new police chief, Murphy was arrested for beating his girlfriend and her five-year-old son. After suspending him, the chief ordered a full investigation into all of Murphy’s activities. He’s now wanted in connection with drug trafficking, bribes, assault to prisoners, domestic violence …

  Jesus Christ! He skipped bail six months ago, and there’s a nationwide manhunt for him.

  I dial her number again. “Sophie, he’s a suspect in your disappearance. You were never wanted for kidnapping. Goddamn it, Sophie, answer your phone!”

  Immediately I head back to the gym.

  One mile down, and she hasn’t called back.

  I redial. Voicemail. Shit!

  She’s probably in the shower or taking a walk with Charlie. I know she’s fine, it’s just that reading all that set me on edge.

  Another mile closer to the gym, and I think of trying Ayana’s cell. Maybe Sophie went home. But I get her voicemail too. I check my watch. Yeah, she’d be at work by now.

  I get to the gym, which is crawling with reporters. I go through the back door and remember that Sophie should have dropped Charlie with Britt by now, so I call Britt.


  “Hi, Sophie,” Britt’s voice rings out cheerfully.

  “It’s Josh. How long ago did Sophie drop off Charlie?” I ask.

  “Hey, Josh. Actually, I thought she was with you. She was supposed to be here over a half hour ago. But you know, I was stuck in traffic from the construction on Route 2 this morning. It’s a good half hour wait.”

  That sounds about right. She never answers her phone in the car either. “Thanks for reminding me. When you hear from her, tell her to call me right away, it’s important.”

  “Of course.” Britt hesitates. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s great actually—I just have some serious info she needs to hear.”

  I hang up and think about it. I definitely don’t like the fact that Murphy’s disappeared and there’s a nationwide manhunt for him, but if he has—or had—a girlfriend, it means he’s moved on from Sophie. And the fact that Sophie isn’t wanted is so fucking liberating, I can’t wait to tell her!

  *****

  After cleaning up and putting on the sponsor labeled clothing and gear I’m to be photographed in, I go out to face the human circus. Reporters are everywhere. Immediately, the photo session starts—me throwing punches at the bag, me and McGee sparring in the ring, me lifting weights—it’s an hour before we finally move on to the interview questions.

  Another half hour later, I’m still answering questions into the thirty microphones positioned to catch my every word. I hold my phone in my hand—it’s on vibrate. Although nothing has come in, I keep looking down to check it.

  Caruso announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to take a ten minute intermission.”

  Everyone disperses for the moment. I stay where I am and try Sophie again. I’m anxious and on edge and thinking I should beat it the fuck out of here to find her. Then I realize the sweet pain in the ass probably just didn’t keep her phone charged and it’s dead now.

  I leave another message that sounds like a public service announcement to keep your phone charged!

  My fingers go to my recent contacts, but before I hit Britt’s number, McGee hands me a white envelope with my name on it in Sophie’s handwriting.

  When I throw a questioning look at Caruso he says, “It was in the front mailbox.”

  But it was obviously personally delivered, because the envelope is blank except for my name. I rip through the seal.

  Josh,

  I’m sorry I led you on. I can’t stay here anymore. Please just forget about me, it’ll be easier that way. Don’t come after me, you know I know how to disappear.

  Goodbye,

  Isabella

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Josh

  “Are you concerned about fighting Dalloway after having seen him put Whalen in the hospital?” the UFC interviewer asks.

  Isabella?? Why the fuck did she sign her name Isabella??

  I feel like I’m in a trance—or having an out of body experience. I lean in toward the microphone. “Honestly, he doesn’t scare me. Whalen has serious weaknesses and Dalloway found and exploited them, it’s that simple.”

  What the fuck? How does she leave me a note like that? Even if she got scared again, I thought what we had was a hell of a lot fucking more than a four sentence note!

  “Josh, what are you eating during these two weeks before the fight?” the reporter from Fighter asks.

  Why didn’t she sign it Sophie? Was using the name Isabella supposed to be some kind of reminder that she’s not the Sophie I think I know?

  “Um … low carbs and high protein to make weight,” I say, distracted.

  I’m sorry I led you on?? My brain is all fucked up. Forget about me? Is she fucking serious?! That’s what the lateness was all about? She fucking left me!?

  My mind races over the last few days. Had she been acting nervous again, like she was ready to run? It sure as hell hadn’t seemed like it. But, she’d spent three years running, hiding from that bastard, and she’d admitted to me that it was hard for her to let go and stop looking over her shoulder all the time. Maybe she’d gotten skittish again and decided she just couldn’t do it …

  A guy from the Williston newspaper asks me about my motivation for this fight.

  The answer is Sophie.

  Every answer to every question is Sophie—her smile, her laughter, the beat of her heart, which races when we finish making love, the expression of love in her eyes when she looks at me. It is real, goddamn it! What we have is real!

  “Mr. North?” A woman from The Bismark Tribune says my name. I hear it, but I don’t reply. McGee’s voice follows her question.

  How am I going to find her? How am I going to get her back? I can’t sit here anymore. I look down at my phone—no incoming calls, no texts. How could she do this?

  My mind is going like a fucking runaway freight train. It still doesn’t compute. What the fuck made her run? After all of the confessions and promises?

  I’m not sure what I can do, but sitting here isn’t it.

  “Josh, we have Silva, Caruso and McGee here with us today, the valued members of your team,” a reporter with USA Today is saying. “Where is the newest member, Ms. Garner?”

  That got my attention. “What did you say?”

  He’s holding up a photograph of me and Sophie.

  “Where did you get that?” I’m out of my chair.

  The reporter’s expression turns from the excitement of uncovering a juicy side story to looking very nervous, as if he’s close to stepping on a landmine. “The photograph is all over the internet and social media. The articles surrounding it talk of a new member of your team, a massage therapist and girlfriend,” he says, and everyone wants to know more.

  Silva quickly retrieves the photo and passes it to me. It’s of me, Sophie and Charlie. Charlie is up on my shoulders, and Sophie and I are holding hands, shopping in downtown Williston.

  Holy fuck! That’s why she ran.

  I look over at Silva and lean away from the mics. “I have to go find her.”

  Silva nods. “I got this.” He holds his hands up to calm the crowd. “Let’s settle it down, please. Josh has been called away on urgent family business, but we’re here to answer any of your questions …” I hear him talk about Sophie’s part on the team and my recovery from the fire as I pull on my coat and slip outside the back to my car.

  *****

  I’m begging for a ticket, going as fast as I am, but I have to make up for lost time. There are only a few ways out of Williston—94 is her best bet, and because the photo and articles place her here in Williston, N.D., my guess is she’s going to take the fastest way out of state possible, and that’s the Montana line. She might even use Route 2.

  Which do I take?

  “Fuck!” I slam the steering wheel. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

  The phone rings. I answer on speaker. “SOPHIE?!”

  “No, Josh, it’s Britt.”

  “Have you heard any—?”

  “Get to Sophie’s apartment as soon as you can.” I think she’s crying.

  “What’s wrong? Is she there?”

  “No … but Ayana is … she’s …” Britt’s voice wavers.

  “What is it?!” I’m aggravated as all hell.

  “Ayana is dead!”

  Ayana is dead. Ayana is dead. “What? How is she dead?”

  “She’s been shot, Josh!”

  Dread consumes me. It starts at my heart and spreads through me like a fire.

  “Is there any sign of Sophie or Charlie?” I press.

  “They aren’t here,” she says, crying hysterically.

  I spin the car around, fishtailing in the middle of the roadway. Drivers blare their horns at me and swerve to miss me. Righting the Vertigo, I tear across the road and accelerate in the opposite direction.

  “Britt, have you called the police?”

  “No, I just got here! The door was unlocked and partly opened. I thought maybe one of them was heading out, so I let myself in.” Her voice is shakin
g, and it’s near impossible to make out everything she’s saying.

  “Try to calm down,” I tell her.

  “Josh! Ayana was … shot in the head—I can see where the bullet went through … oh God … there is so much blood.”

  I careen through the next two red lights and dodge an oncoming semi.

  “Look around for clues, Britt.”

  “I can’t move,” she answers, obviously panicking.

  “Do NOT hang up on me!” I order.

  “I can’t move my legs.” Her breathing is erratic. “I’ve never seen … a dead …”

  “Britt, listen to me, you can do this. Close your eyes and think of Charlie,” I say more gently. “Get a picture of her in your mind.”

  “Okay …”

  “You have to get rid of your panic to help her.” I take a hard right turn and almost graze a parked car. I’m only a mile away now.

  “There’s a gun … lying on the floor,” Britt states.

  “That a girl! Don’t touch it,” I tell her.

  “It looks like it was thrown. It’s over by the wall in the living room, near the window, but Ayana’s …”—she swallows hard—“she’s on the couch.”

  I shudder. Britt’s fear froze her before she could check the entire apartment.

  Dear God, please … I beg. “Go check Sophie’s room.”

  “I can’t!” she says.

  “You have to!” I shout. “You could save her life!”

  “Okay …” A second later she says, “She’s not here.”

  “Is the room a mess, like a fight went on? Do you notice anything missing or off?”

  “Like what? What’s supposed to be missing?” Her voice rises, panic rising again into the edges.

  “I don’t know … clothes? Toys? Sophie’s personal things?” I try.

  “Everything looks normal—clothes are in the closet; Charlie’s toys in the corner. I don’t see Sophie’s purse or Charlie’s backpack.”

  “Okay, Britt, you need to call 911.”

  “Oh my God, I just found Sophie’s cell phone!”

  “You found her cell phone?” I bark.