Feint and Misdirection

by Helena Maeve

  Jaime nodded. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “I believe you,” he said, shrugging. “To be honest, it did feel like I walked in on something. You two were arguing like an old married couple.”

  “That’s… That was nothing.” Imogen rolled her eyes, dismissing the suggestion. “He’s hypercritical of everything I do, I’m terrible with authority figures. It’s just the usual fun and games. The only reason he ever agreed to train me is because he’s hemorrhaging cash with his gym. I’m the hen that lays the golden eggs—or I could be, if I win the prize money.”

  “How much is it?” Jaime asked.

  “One million bucks.” Just saying it made Imogen feel weak in the knees. All of her financial problems—solved. No more worrying about making rent, no more minimum wage jobs.

  Jaime whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Yeah, even if it’s split half and half…” Which Imogen had promised to do, when Russ had agreed to train her. She pulled absently at her bandage. “No wonder he’s so worried about me fucking up in the ring. I get eliminated, he loses his livelihood.” And it wasn’t like there were a whole lot of transferrable skills in the MMA.

  Funny how it’s easier to empathize when Russell isn’t around.

  “So don’t get eliminated,” Jaime told her, like it was obvious.

  Imogen scoffed. “It’s not that simple…” And besides, what would Jaime know? He had a penthouse with a lakeside view and he drove a BMW coupé. Miracles were a dime a dozen for a guy like him.

  He angled his head owlishly, holding out a hand. “Sure, it is. You depend on you and you send everybody else to hell. Works every time.”

  Even Russell? Imogen wondered guiltily. She took the offered hand, though, because Jaime was selling the kind of blind faith she’d always craved from her coach. Russell was cut from a different cloth. He was the kind of man who didn’t dole out praise and mischievous smiles, who wouldn’t be caught dead leading her into a lavish bathroom and turning the taps before undressing her with practiced hands.

  Her arousal had dimmed a little, but it flared to life quickly enough when Jaime pried open the knot that held her dress together. She still had her sports bra on and the scent of stale sweat rose with an unpleasant reek.

  “Sorry,” Imogen breathed, her cheeks flushing hot.

  “I’m truly shocked,” Jaime deadpanned, “after three rounds against the former world number two you don’t smell like roses. I’m outraged!”

  Imogen smacked his shoulder. “Shut up.”

  He did, laughing, as he tossed her dress to the black marble counter and reached to undo the clasps of her bra. It closed in front, so Imogen would’ve been able to do it herself if she’d put her mind to it, but letting Jaime unwrap her like a present had its perks. For instance, she was free to unbutton his shirt and push it down his arms, baring his naked chest to the soft amber glow of diffuse wall lamps.

  She ducked her head to kiss his skin, but he was too tall for her—most men were—and she could only reach a dusky nipple, the areolas dark and the pebbled nub standing to attention as she dragged her tongue over it.

  “Taking initiative?” Jaime chuckled, his breaths labored.

  “A girl’s gotta entertain herself somehow…”

  Imogen switched to his other pectoral, lashing the nipple with intent now that she knew Jaime liked the attention. It didn’t hurt that she could feel him harden against her belly as thoughts of the night before caught up with her.

  “Enough,” Jaime murmured at length, carding his fingers through her short black hair to nudge her away.

  A noise of protest caught in Imogen’s throat, fading fast when he tightened his grip. Last night had proven that Jaime was equally liberal in doling out pleasure and pain, something that Imogen was still trying to reconcile with her milder tastes. She hissed through her teeth at the sharp sting in her scalp, but she didn’t otherwise struggle. It would’ve been counterintuitive—last night had been both about her pleasure and Jaime’s willingness to satisfy.

  She relented, letting him put distance between them as he turned off the tap. The tub had filled in mere seconds, not at all like the one she had back at the apartment she shared with Desiree—an ancient avocado monstrosity with a tap that barely allowed a lukewarm trickle.

  The one time Imogen had tried to have a bath, in the early days, the water had turned tepid long before the tub filled up. It was all showers after that, the quicker the better. But the thought of indulging had stuck with Imogen ever since. She welcomed Jaime’s steady hands as they guided her in.

  If this was how he had treated all of his four previous women friends, no wonder there weren’t more to tally. What could possess a woman to give this up?

  Maybe he’s married to his job. Maybe he’s the jealous type.

  Or maybe he snores.

  “Are you joining me?” she asked, banishing her idle suspicions to a far distant corner of her mind. The bathtub occupied one corner of the room and it was large enough to fit two people easily. Imogen’s thoughts were already racing, spinning new fantasies as she stretched out her legs and reclined back against the wide, porcelain rim.

  “In due time,” she heard. A soft whirring hum echoed from somewhere beneath the tub. Imogen yelped as the water began to bubble with several subsurface jets, some of which tickled at her sore thighs and aching back, others against the soles of her feet.

  “What the—oh, my God, it’s a Jacuzzi?”

  Jaime crouched by the side of the tub, a wide grin stretching his lips. “Good surprise?”

  It was better than good. Imogen sighed, the sound reverberating against the tile. “You should really join me before I decide I’m better all by myself…” It wasn’t just a tease. The thought of loafing around while the Jacuzzi buffeted her tired muscles with relentless heat was more than appealing. But she didn’t protest when Jaime slipped in behind her, all warm and familiar.

  “Spread your legs a little,” he urged.

  Imogen went obediently limp in his arms, letting him arrange her as he pleased. It was getting hard to keep her eyes open. There was something so relaxing about letting the water massage her flesh that she almost missed Jaime settling them at the center of the curved tub, his back against the widest part of the rim and his feet braced against the far wall.

  One of the underwater jets tickled her tailbone and Imogen giggled airily, trying to wiggle out of the way. Jaime shifted his hips, pulling her up against his front. That was all it took. The jet suddenly settled right over her labia, teasing against her inner folds.

  Imogen gasped. “Oh—”

  “That’s it,” she felt Jaime murmur against the shell of her ear. He grazed his fingertips over her sensitive nipples, forcing her to acknowledge the swell of sensation. “That’s right, just enjoy it… Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  She couldn’t speak. It was both too much and not enough, her toes curling against thin air in a desperate search for purchase. She wanted to close her legs to spare herself the relentless torture, but at the same time she wanted more of it. Chaos stole through her. “Jaime, fuck—”

  “Ride it,” he encouraged, tugging on her nipples. “I want to see you get off just like this.”

  Imogen didn’t want to shatter his fantasy, but she honestly wasn’t sure she could. Her thighs trembled with effort, body twisting this way and that, until Jaime took hold of her wrists, spreading his knees wider to splay her legs. He had her pinned—not overpowered, but close. It shouldn’t have been so exciting.

  “You bastard, oh, God…” Imogen tossed her head back, panting for breaths that seemed suddenly in such short supply. “Oh, fuck me!”

  “Later,” he chuckled.

  The son of a bitch chuckled.

  Imogen could’ve smacked him, but she was too busy sucking air into her lungs. Working up the strength to throttle him was out of the question. And, in truth, she didn’t want to. It was maddening but it felt good, too, better than h
er fingers or the rabbit vibrator that had nearly numbed her to sensation.

  There was no give, just the steady build of pleasure in her belly, her pussy throbbing from the ceaseless onslaught and yet craving more—Imogen let her head drop to his shoulder and howled as she came. The steady stream of water went on pounding her clit, tearing another violent shout from her throat.

  Jaime, she’d thought, would let her go when it was over. He didn’t.

  “Fuck,” she sobbed, shaking like a leaf. It wasn’t no, stop and it wasn’t I can’t take anymore, so she had no good reason to rage against him.

  She did anyway, even as pleasure began to coil again at the base of her spine, almost too much for Imogen to handle. It washed over her like a wave, another climax breaking against the cliffs of her sanity just as violently as the last, until she couldn’t tell what was aftershock and what was orgasm.

  At last she managed to free a hand, but instead of taking advantage of Jaime’s momentary lapse to protect her aching sex from the relentless stimulation, she used it to pull his mouth to hers. She couldn’t even kiss him properly she shook so hard. Jaime didn’t seem to mind doing all the work for her.

  He moaned when she scratched her fingernails against the back of his neck, like he couldn’t get enough of seeing her so far beyond control.

  A third orgasm nearly knocked her out. Imogen felt wetness on her cheeks and didn’t know if it was sweat or tears, or scattered droplets of bathwater. Whatever they were, she was amazed they didn’t evaporate on contact with her feverish skin. She did know that she was whining and gasping for breath as every muscle in her body seemed to ignite.

  And just when she thought she could take no more, Jaime pulled a gilded lever on the side of the tub. The jets cut off abruptly, leaving the surface of the water to waver weakly in their wake. Imogen shook and shook and couldn’t remember how to stop.

  “You’re all right,” Jaime panted against her temple. “You’re all right.”

  “No th-thanks to you,” Imogen bit out tremulously, gulping with every breath. It took her a couple of tries, but eventually she clambered into his lap and straddled his hips as water sloshed over the edges of the tub to splash all over the tile. She was too exhausted, too shaky to do much more than that, but Jaime got the message. He slid a hand between them, stroking his cock with sharp, jerky movements.

  Imogen could only brush her lips against his neck to egg him on, occasionally murmuring encouragement as she felt the tension in his shoulders ramp up. “Come for me, babe. Show me you liked that…”

  Jaime stiffened abruptly, a guttural moan catching in the back of his throat. If he lasted thirty seconds, it was a generous estimate. Imogen covered his hand with hers, gentling him through the aftershocks with lazy strokes.

  “What’s your secret?” she wondered aloud as he fought to regain his breath. “Are you married? Working for the mob? A Bond villain?”

  Jaime snorted. “Sorry to disappoint…”

  “Damn,” Imogen mumbled. She could feel his heart rattling as she rested her brow against the broad shelf of his shoulder. It made for a pleasant lullaby.

  “Why do I need to have a secret?” Jaime asked softly, stroking his fingers down her spine.

  Imogen sighed contentedly. “No one can be this perfect.” Later, she would tell herself it was the orgasm talking, that she didn’t mean to sound so sappy. But whether she meant to share it or not, the sentiment was true. How could Jaime be so attentive, so generous—and still be so alone?

  Maybe you have a chronic fear of commitment, Imogen mused, too drowsy to notice she’d spoken out loud.

  Chapter Five

  The journey from North Astor Street down to Russell’s gym was about twice as long as what she normally would’ve had to stomach coming in from the apartment she shared with Desiree, but Imogen didn’t mind the commute too much. She spent the time gazing out of the window—mostly at her own blissed-out reflection in the scratched surface—and reliving the past evening’s events. And this morning’s.

  Jaime had been careful with her after the fight, but not so careful that she hadn’t felt pleasantly used when she’d rolled out of bed. She had laid waste to the contents of his fridge while he was still in the shower, forcing them to head out for breakfast—but not before Jaime bent her over the kitchen island and fucked her rough and fast, his hips snapping almost viciously against hers.

  They had indulged in another shower after that. Breakfast was cappuccinos and croissants at a small Italian café a couple of blocks away, where Jaime allowed Imogen to persuade him into trying his coffee without two spoonfuls of sugar. He didn’t like it.

  He walked her to the subway stop when they’d finished, even though his phone was buzzing restlessly in his pocket, no doubt with the likes of Paul calling him to his work.

  “Can I see you again tonight?” Jaime had asked, as Imogen’s train was rattling into the station.

  “I have to put in an appearance at home or Des will think you’ve turned me into your sex slave,” Imogen had demurred.

  “I’d never,” Jaime’d scoffed, leaning in to kiss her. “That’s more of a third date kind of activity. A gentleman doesn’t pull out the whips and chains any sooner.”

  “It wouldn’t be couth,” Imogen had agreed, but something in his smile had made her wonder if he was kidding.

  The doubt lingered as the train reached her stop and she made her way out of the tightly packed compartment.

  She felt dazed as she entered the gym, beaming a lazy good morning at Maggie, Russell’s pink-haired employee who, in addition to manning the front desk, was supposed to assist in the running of the gym.

  “You’re in a good mood today,” she noted, as Imogen came in.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I don’t know, I guess you’re all…smiley.” Maggie grinned. “Did you get laid?”

  Imogen couldn’t keep it to herself. She’d meant to, but she felt too pleasantly boneless to deny the truth. “Laid doesn’t begin to cover the night I had,” she drawled, wondering if the news would get back to Russell. Wondering, too, if it hurt him to know that she was happy in her relationship.

  She’d barely made it a foot past the prisonlike metal grates that separated the reception desk from the floor of the gym before she noticed the suits. There were two of them, visible through the glass walls of Russell’s office like a pair of scarecrows.

  “Hey, Mags? What’s with the pencil-pushers?” Imogen asked, nodding to the glass cage above the gym.

  “People from the bank,” Maggie supplied, rolling her chair closer to the grille. “They were already here when I came in. Something to do with the recent loan repayments…” She shrugged as if to say you know how it is.

  Imogen did. She’d never had much money growing up, but if there was one thing her parents had etched into her brain, it was never to trust loan sharks. Banks weren’t all that different, at the end of the day.

  “Think I should go up there?”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Maggie said. “Russell sounds pretty pissed. He was shouting earlier.” He seemed to have calmed down in the meantime, but his posture behind the desk was nothing short of resigned.

  A pang of something far too much like guilt coiled in Imogen’s belly. She tried to push it aside, but it didn’t budge, clinging like a serpent that had sunk its fangs into ripe flesh.

  Maggie was probably right. Russell wouldn’t want her up there, especially after the way they’d squabbled. There was nothing Imogen could do to help him now except win the next fight. And the one after that.

  She made her way into the locker rooms with a decided step, feeling less and less like she had any right to blissful repose in Jaime’s bed. The sandbag took her guilt and her frustration with every solid punch she planted into the leather. It allowed her to turn her back on Russell’s guests and put out of her mind the things she couldn’t change.

  Imogen felt her knuckles smart as she layered blow after satisfying
blow, but her elbow still pained her. The more she tried to compensate for the ache, the more present it seemed to become.

  I can’t afford an injury. Russell will kill me.

  Thinking his name must have been some serious Beelzebub shit, because no sooner had the thought materialized than Imogen heard the shuffling of footsteps behind her.

  “Catch,” he said.

  Imogen whirled around in time to see him lob a bag of frozen blackberries her way. It was pure chance that she caught the projectile before it caught her in the gut.

  “For your elbow,” Russell said, pointing vaguely.

  She thought of denying that she felt any pain, but Russ would know she was lying and their truce was tentative enough. “Thanks…” Silence stretched between them, thick and corrosive. Imogen cracked first. “Hear you had some people in this morning… Freddie Mac hoping to bulk up?”

  Russell stuck his hands into the pockets of his baggy slacks. “Interest on the loan had to be adjusted for inflation.”

  “To the tune of?”

  “Two hundred.” He didn’t have to spell it out for Imogen to understand what the shouting had been about. Even with the gym at full capacity, he still would’ve struggled to make the payments. As it stood, what he was taking in through monthly memberships and one-off yearly subscriptions was a drop in the bucket compared to what was gushing out.

  Imogen pressed the frozen berries to her elbow. “What’s the plan, we knock over a casino?”

  “Plan’s the same as it always was. We fight, we try to win…or all of this goes away.” Russ shrugged.

  There was something so defeated in his bearing that Imogen could barely stand to look at him.

  “How’s the boyfriend?”

  That got her attention right back where it belonged. “He’s fine. He’s—great, actually.” Imogen bit her tongue. “I think he may be one of the good ones, you know?” This wasn’t just a sensitive topic to bring up with Russell, it was the chief way to make him scowl and stalk off.

  At least that was the way they’d been doing it lately. She didn’t know what to make of Russ nodding like he had just received good news.