Fighting for Control (Against the Cage Book 3)

by Melynda Price

  He tasted like pure sin. The way he kissed her, the way his mouth moved over hers so expertly and commandingly—it was like magic, drugging her, beckoning her toward the dark side. This was so much more than she’d bargained for. And he wasn’t wasting any time trying to finesse it. His hands were all over her—touching, claiming, grabbing and stroking . . .

  Instead of feeling liberated, like the strong, independent woman she’d set out to prove she was, Vi felt totally lost in herself and the magnificence of his touch. If she didn’t stop him, his fire would consume her and she’d leave this bathroom nothing more than a pile of ash. Belatedly, she realized this was not the man to reinvent herself with. This was a man who was a powder keg ready to go off and she was his flame.

  “Stop . . .” She wasn’t sure if she’d actually said the words or if he was ignoring her. They were sounding in her head, but warring with the temptation to give herself over to what would no doubt be the hottest, rawest sex of her life. But the truth of it was, deep down, she was just a scared little girl, playing make-believe and pretending to be someone she wasn’t. How long before he realized she was a phony? This wasn’t her . . . She didn’t have casual sex in the bathroom with strangers—not even gorgeous, insanely sexy, and a little bit scary strangers.

  “Stop . . . Um—” Oh, jeez, she didn’t even know his name! Vi wedged her hands between them, bracing her palms against his pecs and shoved. It was like trying to budge a block of concrete. She could feel the ridges of his muscles beneath his T-shirt. The man was flesh-covered steel.

  On his own accord he stepped back, putting a small measure of breathing room between them—room they both needed because he was breathing pretty heavily. When his gaze connected with hers, she gasped, surprised at the tumult of emotions raging in those silvery depths. She got the feeling it was something she wasn’t meant to see, because in the next second it was gone, hooded by a stoic countenance and an unreadable expression of apathy. If she hadn’t seen it for herself, she never would have believed even a flicker of emotion existed behind those steel-gray eyes.

  “What’s the matter, Clover? You look like you’re ready to wilt, and I haven’t even plucked you yet.”

  Oh, mercy, she wanted to be plucked—in every metaphorical sense of the word.

  Forcing back her reservations, she boldly met his gaze and said, “Nothing’s wrong. I just want to make sure you have a condom before things get out of hand.”

  Who was she kidding? Things were already out of hand.

  His top lip twitched, curling up in an amused grin. Holy shit, this guy was gorgeous.

  “I got you, Clover. Just hang on and enjoy the ride . . .”

  Before her lust-drunk mind could track what was happening, the man had her skirt up, her panties down, and her ass perched on the counter. Reaching behind his back, he pulled off his shirt to get it out of the way, and that was when time stopped. Her gaze fixed on the most impressive display of male flesh she’d ever seen. He was huge and definitely cut. As she took in the sight of him, she noticed a smattering of scars on his right side, but they only added to his raw, masculine beauty.

  She was so awestruck and dazed. Her mind didn’t snap back to reality until he moved between her parted thighs and entered her with one well-timed thrust. She grabbed on to his shoulders for balance, her nails digging into his flesh. His hands gripped her waist, his calloused fingers pressing into her hips. Her core contracted at the sweet invasion. She’d never been filled so fully, so completely. He touched parts of her no man had ever reached. Vi wrapped her legs around him, not yet ready to let him go. Her heels dug into his ass, pulling him closer, and he emitted a growl of pure male satisfaction.

  Fisting his hand in her hair, he jerked her head back with just enough force to let her know who was in control. The sting in her scalp sent a thrill arrowing right where his cock was buried deep inside her. Their eyes met—momentarily held in a breathless moment of anticipation as he stared down at her. Something passed between them. It was indescribable and yet so poignant, she convinced herself she’d imagined it—and then it was gone. Before she could give it another thought, his mouth came down on hers as he scooped her into his arms, backing her up against the door. With her spine pressed against the cool aluminum, this man, who no longer felt like a stranger, fucked her until she shattered into a million pieces. Her release tore from her on a broken cry that startled Violet from her sleep, the spasm of her empty core gripping at a memory that had haunted her ever since she stepped off that plane. Her body coated in a fine sheen of sweat, she uttered a tortured groan and rolled onto her side, burying her head between the pillows as if that would somehow block out the memory of Nikko Del Toro.

  Unable to fall back asleep after waking in the grips of a phantom orgasm, she lay there tortured by thoughts of the man. Images of the first time they’d met flashed through her mind like a screen projector replaying the X-rated film on an endless loop.

  When her alarm finally went off hours later, she cursed it and hit the Silence button before tossing back the covers. With a sigh of frustration, she marched over to her closet and stood in front of it, trying to decide what to wear. She would not dress for him, she vowed, her pulse quickening at the thought of seeing Nikko in a few short hours. She’d have thought having him walk back into her life after thinking she’d never see him again was divine intervention, had it not been at her office. As it was, she could only think it a sick, cruel twist of fate.

  Muttering a curse, Vi grabbed her most professional suit from the closet, a navy-blue number with silver pinstriping. She coiffed her hair in an updo that made her look more like a staunch librarian than a therapist. She might not be able to help being attracted to Nikko, but she could certainly do everything in her power to pretend she wasn’t. Looking the part of a professional was key to establishing boundaries, and something told her that man wasn’t big on boundaries.

  Feeling more confident and in control, Vi gave herself one more front and back check before heading out the door. She left early, knowing she’d have to allow extra time to stop for coffee. There was no way she was going to face this day without a triple-shot depth charge.

  Traffic was unusually light for a Tuesday morning and she arrived at the office early. Settling in, she used the extra time to input her notes from yesterday into Nikko’s file. She was busy dictating when the office phone rang. She glanced at the clock. It was after eight; Pen would get it. When it continued to ring, she picked up the receiver.

  “Morrison Mental Health Services . . .”

  “Violet?”

  Shit . . . “Barry, I can’t talk right now. This isn’t a good time.”

  “It’s never a good time, Violet. We need to talk.”

  No, they didn’t. That’s what she paid her lawyer for. She could hear the impatience in his voice through his pleading guise—manipulative prick. “You need to stop calling me, Barry. If you don’t, I’m going to have to contact my lawyer.” She didn’t give him a chance to respond before disconnecting the call.

  This was not the way she wanted to start the day. Why couldn’t he just accept the fact that they were over and no amount of talking, no amount of apologies, could ever erase the past? Thank God he didn’t have her cell. It was bad enough he’d gotten ahold of her work and home numbers.

  The soft knock on her door sent her head snapping up. “You’re late,” she told Pen, who stood in the doorway.

  Pen folded her arms over her chest and cocked a hip. “No, I’m not. I was making coffee. I didn’t realize your arm was broken. Next time I’ll use my bionic one to answer the phone from the waiting room.”

  Shit, she deserved that. Tossing her cheaters on the desk, she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, Pen. That was rude. I’m going on, like, zero sleep and Barry just called.”

  Her friend dropped the attitude and stepped inside the office, closing the door behind her. Genuine concern pulled her brows tight. “What did he want?”r />
  “I don’t know. To talk? I hung up.”

  “Good. Now maybe the creep will get the hint.”

  She doubted it.

  “Your eight thirty is here.”

  “Great, thanks. Send her in.”

  “Sure.” Pen turned to go.

  “Hey, Pen . . .” She grabbed Nikko’s release of information from his file and handed it to her. “Can you fax this over to Camp Pendleton and get a copy of Nikko Del Toro’s military file? Jim’s going to need it.”

  “No problem. I’m surprised you’re giving him up. You usually do all the CFA accounts.”

  “Not this one.”

  She could tell Pen wanted to press her, but thankfully she had a patient waiting for her in the lobby. “Please send Mrs. Keller in.”

  Despite her busy schedule, the morning dragged by. As eleven drew closer, her pulse quickened, nervous energy humming through her veins. She blamed it on the Depth Charge, loath to admit the true source of her anxiety. The thought of seeing Nikko again filled her with mixed emotions—many of which she’d rather not ponder but found it nearly impossible not to. She was lost in such thoughts when the intercom on her desk buzzed, startling her as Pen’s too-cheery voice announced, “Mr. Del Toro is here to see you.”

  Vi’s heart kicked into a full-on gallop. You can do this, she told herself. Just keep it professional. Stay on topic. You’re going to do great. She stopped just short of mimicking SNL’s Stuart Smalley by saying, “And gosh darn it, people like you . . .”

  When she reached across the desk to press the intercom, she noticed her hand was shaking. “Please send him in.”

  Seconds felt like minutes as she waited for the door to open, long enough that her palms began to sweat. Perhaps she wouldn’t be nearly as nervous if she hadn’t spent the night remembering Nikko with his pants around his knees and his hands up her skirt as his hot mouth devoured her—

  “Hi, Clover . . .”

  The husky lilt of his voice was exactly how she remembered it. “Nikko. Please, come in.” She gestured to the chair in front of her and scooted closer to her desk. Shifting in her seat, she recrossed her legs, accidently rapping her knee on the mounted hard drive beneath her desk. Son of a bi—

  “You all right?” he asked, pausing before taking his seat when the thwap echoed beneath her desk.

  Her gaze locked on his and something pinched in her chest at the flash of concern in his silvery-gray stare. No one should have the right to be this handsome. Even dressed in a plain white T-shirt and jeans, the cut of his definably hard body was unmistakable. “I’m fine.” She dismissed his concern with a wave.

  “So, how’s the paperwork coming? I know the psychological profile can be a bit daunting.”

  He stretched out in a lazy sprawl, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I’m almost done.”

  “Is there anything in particular you’d like to talk about today?”

  His brow arched in question, but he didn’t respond.

  “It’s all right,” she prompted. “You can tell me if there’s something on your mind.”

  His gaze swept over her, his eyes darkening, making her feel tingly and overheated.

  Slowly, he shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  He wasn’t going to make this easy on her, was he? Ignoring the proverbial elephant in the room, she cleared her throat and tried making small talk. They visited for a while, and he answered most of her questions, usually with several-word answers, but entirely deflected the personal ones. Though it may seem like she was steering their dialogue, she wasn’t arrogant enough to believe for one minute he wasn’t the one in control here.

  “Let’s talk about the CFA,” she suggested, hijacking the conversation.

  A shadow crossed his face. “What do you want to know about it?”

  “Where did you learn to fight?”

  “The schoolyard. I got picked on a lot when I was a kid.”

  “Really? I find that hard to believe. You’re, like . . . huge.”

  He shrugged. “Late bloomer.”

  “How did you get into the CFA?”

  “Well . . . I was at this Halloween party at some bar. Not by choice,” he added. “And Coach’s camp was there. A fight broke out between two of the guys—Disco and Easton. I don’t know, I think it was over some prostitute and a rubber chicken or something. Anyway, it turned into a huge brawl. Someone hit me, and before I knew it, I was throwing down with the rest of them. It was chaos. I got mistaken for one of the fighters and was hauled off to jail with ’em. Coach bailed us all out, heard I held my own in the fight, and invited me to come down to the gym. He was looking for a heavyweight to sign, and I’ve been with him ever since.”

  She laughed. Not the most professional response, but if that story were true, it was just about the most original induction into MMA she’d ever heard of.

  “Why MMA?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? Some fighters do it for fame and glory—like they’ve got something to prove. Others do it because they love the sport. It’s a blending of timeless arts and tradition.”

  He was deflecting again. But this time she pushed a little harder. “Why do you do it, Nikko? Why do you fight?”

  His gunmetal gray eyes darted up and locked on her. The intensity behind them was like liquid silver flooding her veins. She could feel the heat all the way to her toes as he stared at her for the longest time, as if trying to decide whether or not to respond. The more time she spent with Nikko, the more she realized he was very deliberate with what he said. He didn’t speak hastily, which was unusual for someone dealing with emotional trauma. No, the fight last weekend at the publicity party was definitely not Nikko’s norm. Something must have happened that night to make him snap. But what? She doubted he would tell her if she asked. That would be too easy. He was going to make her work for it.

  Most people suffering from PTSD were impulsive and reactionary, but nothing about Nikko fit that MO, except maybe that night on the flight to Vegas. Unbidden, the memory of them in the bathroom flashed through her mind—his hot mouth against her throat, her legs wrapped tightly around his hips as he pinned her between his hard, muscled body and the door—

  “What are you thinking about?”

  His question was like a bucket of ice water, ripping her back into reality. Her already-overheated skin burned hotter from the fire of embarrassment. This was crazy. She was sitting here fantasizing about Jim’s patient. How horribly unprofessional . . .

  “What? Nothing . . .” she stammered, wondering if she sounded as guilty as she felt. “I’m waiting for you to answer my question,” she finished primly, turning the focus of conversation back on him, which was exactly where it should be. But he wasn’t so easily manipulated.

  “How do you expect me to trust you with my secrets if you’re going to sit there and lie to me?”

  There was no anger in his voice—no emotion at all, actually—which sent a shiver of goose bumps up her arms. How could he sit there and remain so unaffected?

  “I’m not ly—”

  But before she could get the denial past her lips, he cut her off. “You forget that I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, Clover. That hot flush in your cheeks . . . Admit it, you were thinking about it.”

  “Thinking about what?” Maybe playing dumb wasn’t the smartest move here. She had a master’s degree in psychology, for crissake. Surely she could come up with something a little more clever than feigning ignorance. And she should have known Nikko wouldn’t let her get away with it. He didn’t exactly strike her as the type to shy away from confrontation or an uncomfortable conversation.

  Looking at her boldly and unapologetically, his voice held all the emotion of a rock when he said, “The same thing I’ve been thinking about every fucking day since I stepped off that plane.”

  His words slammed into her with the force of a freight train. Her heart rioted inside her chest, her breath freezing in her lungs. He did not just go there . . . O
h, but he did. Before she could respond—and honestly, she had no idea what the hell she was going to say—Pen’s voice came over the intercom. “Dr. Summers, your next appointment is here. Should I let him in?”

  Vi glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. Shit, where had the time gone? Nikko’s appointment should have ended almost an hour ago. She’d worked right through her lunch. She reached for the intercom button to tell Pen she needed another minute. Pen obviously didn’t know Nikko was still in the office with her. A patient, she corrected herself—she was still with Jim’s patient.

  “Just a minute, Penelope.”

  As she spoke into the small silver box, Nikko scooted his chair away from her desk and stood. She tried not to notice how large he was, or how a man his size could move with such lithe grace as he headed toward the door. She wanted to stop him, to say . . . something, but the words caught in her throat. He needed to leave; even if she didn’t have another patient waiting for her, it was time for Mr. Del Toro to go.

  He reached for the door and paused. Then, seeming to decide on something, he looked back at her. Something flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before she could interpret it. “My sanity,” he said simply.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s what I fight for.”

  And with that parting answer, Nikko walked out the door.

  The following hour dragged at a snail’s pace. Repeatedly, Vi had to pull her focus back to her patient. Thankfully, Bob Miller didn’t seem to notice that her mind was somewhere else. Self-absorbed in his own OCD, he was content to talk the hour away, just happy to have someone listening to him prattle on. But try as she might to remain on task, she couldn’t help revisiting the significance of Nikko’s parting statement.

  It had been her first breakthrough with him, the first crack in his steel-plated armor, and his progress wasn’t lost on her. Nor could she deny the victory felt more personal than it should. Mistake number one: becoming emotionally invested in a patient. Mistake number two: fantasizing about having sex with said patient—even if he hadn’t been her patient at the time. She’d been nothing more than a heartbroken woman trying to start a new life, and he’d been nothing more than a hot stranger on a plane.