by Paula Cox
It was also heartbreaking. Prince always had self-esteem issues (the kind of childhood he had to endure would do that to a person), but they had never bordered on the self-destructive. Alyssa knew it was next to impossible to save someone who didn’t think they were worth saving. Could that be it already? Could Prince have closed the door on his chance already?
No, Alyssa decided. He thought he didn’t deserve a better life? As she rolled onto her side and finally allowed her eyes to drift shut, she decided she would show him just how wrong he was.
Chapter Seventeen
“Fuck. I want you, Aly.”
His voice is rough and husky, and it shoots straight down to her groin.
“Don’t call me Aly,” she says in an almost dazed whisper, with no heat whatsoever behind the protest. “I want you, too.”
And God, does she want him! She has never wanted anyone the way she wants him. It’s an all-consuming desire that she has never experienced, and that she hopes she will get to experience time and time again. She pulls him to her and he doesn’t fight her, and for the first time in a very long time she doesn’t fight herself either.
His body is the body of a man now, so very different from the body of the boy she had once known. This man’s body is lithe, muscular, powerful, and his touch promises strength and gentleness wrapped in one irresistible package. The cool sensation of the kitchen floor’s tiles on her naked back does nothing to cool down the passion this man inspires in her.
His breath is warm on her skin, and that’s almost enough to drive her mad right then and there. By all logics of self-preservation, she should be pushing him away. Instead, she can’t help but surrender to him completely. All of her sensations are of him right now—he’s over her and all around her. His hands are running all over her body, mapping out her skin and curves with drawn-out accuracy.
“I dare you,” he says, his voice rough and his eyes darkened by the same desire that is devouring her. “Go on. Finish what you’ve started. Tell me you don’t care about me. Tell me you want me out of your house and out of your life. I dare you.”
She doesn’t say it. None of it has been true to begin with, and she is never going to ruin this moment; the man has the sexual prowess of a sex god from ancient Greece. She isn’t going to distract him with useless talk. Her whole body feels like it’s on fire, a kind of sensual energy she hasn’t felt in a very long time shooting down the whole length of her spine. She craves his touch like she has never craved anyone else’s.
When his tongue comes in to play, her senses explode. The tip of his tongue teases her navel and he smirks up at her, his dimples carved deep in his cheeks. The mischievous glint in his green eyes promises something that she just cannot wait to get.
He takes his sweet time before he keeps his promise and delivers. His calloused and yet oh-so-gentle hands roam all over her body, his fingertips leaving what feel like streaks of hot fire on her naked skin in their wake.
He kisses her deeply, his hand cupping her cheek as he does so, his tongue and lips working their magic. She responds eagerly. There is a kind of passion behind his every move such as she has never experienced before, and it sets her whole body and being on fire.
Finally, blissfully, he shifts his focus to her awaiting vagina. The dexterity of his fingers and the imaginative nature of his tongue are something she never would have expected from him. He once again takes his time, dragging out the sweetest torture she has ever endured. The tip of his tongue is a thing of beauty, capable of things that seem out of this world. He teases her in ways nobody has ever teased her before—gentle strokes, energetic flicks, and tantalizing little licks that threaten to send her over the edge at record speed. On his part, he seems to be enjoying every bit of his maneuvers almost as much as she is, as he slowly but surely coaxes her into readiness.
She has heard of orally induced orgasms, but she always thought they were a myth. That is, until it was his tongue on her clitoris. She would have gone over the brink if not for the fact that he stops, so suddenly and unexpectedly that she can’t hold back a groan of protest.
He grins down at her in that maddeningly sexy way of his. “Don’t worry. I’m not done with you.”
Sweeter words were never spoken. She shivers in anticipation, because if he can do that to her with his mouth alone, she can’t wait to find out what having him inside of her is going to feel like. He takes her mouth once again and she can taste herself on his lips, but for once she doesn’t mind.
“Do you want me to finish what I’ve started?” he asks, his voice rough and deep with his own desire and mounting impatience. He runs the tip of his index finger form her collar bone all the way down to her pelvis, teasing her lips. His touch is like liquid fire. “Or do you want me inside of you now?”
Oh. God. She tries, but she couldn’t form a coherent sentence right now to save her life.
“How about both?”
She moans her assent, eager to have him touch her again. When he goes back to please her, his movements are hungrier and much more eager, but he’s still gentle enough that he’s not hurting her. At all. In fact, quite the opposite. If she had to define bliss, she would pick this moment. His tongue swirls and twirls, creating unknown patterns that drive her wild.
The sensations are all-consuming, and she rides them fully. When it comes, she discovers that orally-induced orgasms feel like a lightning bolt. She welcomes the impact and the aftershocks alike, as well as the sensation of her pelvic muscles clenching and unclenching in ecstasy.
When she regains full consciousness she reaches up to tug him down for yet another deep kiss. She could just as easily show him her appreciation through words, but words seem superfluous and inadequate right now.
His hunger matches hers at first, but then he slows the kiss down to something indefinable that makes her shiver and shakes her down to her core. She cups his face with both hands, stroking his cheekbones with her thumbs in the same way he has done with her. It’s an intimate sort of contact, so personal and intense that she simply cannot get enough.
He pulls back just enough to look into her eyes, and there’s an intensity in his green irises that takes her breath away.
He has led the dance so far, but now they move in unison, neither of them leading and both at each other’s mercy. Things are quickly brought to an escalation, their hips grinding maddeningly together. A moan escapes her and she doesn’t care; she doesn’t want to hold back ever again, not when she’s with him—this perfect, erotically charged man who is doing unspeakable things to her.
God, she wants him. She wants him in her life and more importantly and more immediately, she wants him inside of her. After all, she has spent most of her life wondering what that would feel like. She simply can’t wait any longer, and she doesn’t think she should have to either.
She arches up into him and slides her hand from his powerful shoulders down to the small of his back, her wrist fitting perfectly into the dip of his dimples there.
“I need you.” She isn’t usually vocal in bed, but this time she can’t help it. She can’t help anything when it comes to him; he’s just too…well, everything. “I want you. Now.”
To her own surprise, she actually growls out the last word. He doesn’t seem to mind though. He grins his impossibly sexy grin.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says in a husky murmur.
He kisses her again then, long and deep and starving.
When he finally (finally!) slides inside of her, it’s as if her mind short-circuits. She can’t talk; she can’t breathe; she can’t even think. She has tried to imagine this moment a million times, and yet nothing she has ever fantasized about comes even remotely close to this. “Glorious” is an understatement. It’s like he belongs there. The fact that he seems to know exactly how to move to drive her wild is yet one more statement of just how right this is.
She presses her head back into the hard floor and arches up into him. The tiles of the floor have gone warm with the
fire of their bodies, but for once she doesn’t mind the heat one bit. She doesn’t mind any of this. She just can’t get enough of him, of them, of their bodies inextricably entangled.
He dances a dance that she discovers she not only loves but also knows instinctively. It’s unbelievably easy to let herself go and surrender herself to his every touch and movement. They engage in a sweet battle then, teasing each other with every part of their body—roaming hands and digging fingertips, as he thrusts inside of her and she takes him readily and eagerly. They drive each other mad with clenches of pelvic muscles and swiveling of hips. They dance to a syncopated rhythm made of hungry thrusts and languid strokes.
It goes on forever and yet not long enough. It could be minutes or it could be hours, she can’t tell. And she doesn’t care either. All she cares is that it feels like it’s over all too soon, and that he gives her two more orgasms before the end comes. She finds herself completely unrestrained with him, and the fact that he seems to be letting go just as much and as easily gives her an added thrill.
When he climaxes, she instinctively wraps her arms around him and shares his orgasm. His abandon to his own ecstasy is as intense and inhibited as everything else about his lovemaking. The world doesn’t exist anymore for the longest time—for the longest time, it’s only ecstasy and abandon.
*****
It took a while for Alyssa to realize that she was awake. It took her an even longer while to notice that her hand had travelled down to her vagina while she slept and dreamed. It took her forever to ride out the aftershocks of the dream, the all-consuming sensation of waves of pleasure rolling down her entire body.
When she finally returned to the here and now and her perceptions came back to normal, she took a few steadying breaths. She almost didn’t dare to move, afraid that moving would bring the erotic sensations rushing back. Eventually, she had calmed down enough that she could safely lift her hands to push her fingers through her long hair in frustration.
It wasn’t bad enough that thoughts of Prince would occupy her mind pretty much non-stop during her waking hours, now he had to show up in her dreams too. And what a glorious appearance he had just made! Her subconscious hadn’t even needed to come up with brand new images; it had simply hit her with the hottest memory she possessed.
She groaned softly. Things really weren’t going according to plan. She was supposed to keep her cool and remain as levelheaded as possible. She didn’t have time for erotic fantasies and wet dreams. She was supposed to convince Prince that he really had a shot at making it out of the rotten dimension that was Pinebrook and the fighting rings; instead, she had somehow managed to scare him to death and push him away.
She rolled onto her side, feeling suddenly disheartened. She always knew things wouldn’t be easy, but this was ridiculous.
Not for the first time in her life, she wondered what it was about Prince that got under her skin so inescapably. The farther away he pushed her, the closer she wanted to get. There must be a masochistic streak in her. He had made it painfully clear that he considered her offer to help to be an “interference.” Why was she even staying? The wisest course of action was probably to take his advice, hop on the next flight to Canada, and never, ever look back.
But Alyssa had never thought of herself as wise. And besides, if she was really to do that, the guilt would probably torment her for the rest of her life. She had turned her back on him once; she was not going to do it again. She would get him out, and then they would part ways because she knew now that he was probably toxic for her.
She wondered how that had happened, too. How had the person who used to help her breathe easier become so toxic for her?
“You’re in love with me,” Prince had said that fateful night when they had made love—because Alyssa was pretty sure that’s what it had been; she knew it had not been just sex for either of them. She had hated him for that sentence, and she still hated him for it—because it was very true. As soon as he said the words, she had realized with stark, bone-shattering clarity that she had never stopped being in love with Prince. She hated herself for that. Could she be any stupider?
Perhaps Prince had a point in pushing her away. Perhaps reconnecting had not been their smartest move. And so Alyssa resolved to saving her long lost bet friend and then walking away from him as firmly as he had walked away from her that night.
Chapter Eighteen
Prince’s head ached, and it had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with Alyssa. As far as he could remember, no one could give him headaches like she did.
The more he thought about it, the more he could not believe he’d had to walk away from her for the second time in his life. He also couldn’t believe that he had found the strength to do it, and the fact that he had…scared him. Turning his back on Alyssa had been the hardest thing he ever had to do, harder than the fighting. He thought he would never have it in him to do it again, but as it turned out he was wrong. He wondered what that meant. Could he really be so jaded that he was able to walk away from the woman he loved not once, but twice in one lifetime?
He shook his head and downed the shot of burning whiskey that Greg had put in front of him.
“Whoa. You might want to pace yourself there.”
Prince snorted. Rick was one to talk; he would down a lot more than one shot after a particularly bad fight. And Prince considered the one he had with Alyssa earlier that night a particularly bad fight.
“Hit me again, Greg, will you?” he called out in a voice already roughened by alcohol.
The bartender didn’t object. He was used to members of the club coming over to his bar to drown their sorrows. He didn’t particularly like it, but he didn’t complain either. Bennie always made sure no trouble would be brought to the joint, and in turn Greg served them all the alcohol they asked for. It was a win-win situation for all parties involved.
Rick settled on the stool at the bar next to Prince and eyed him curiously.
“What’s up with you, anyway? You had a pretty clean fight tonight.”
“It’s not about the fight,” Prince said, downing yet one more shot.
He wasn’t normally a heavy drinker, and he decided right then to stop there for the night—he could already feel himself getting lightheaded from the combined action of the whiskey and the beer he had earlier at Alyssa’s. He couldn’t afford to get drunk. Maybe he was paranoid, but he would much rather remain sharp at all times.
“What’s it about then?” Rick asked, motioning for Greg to pour him a pint.
Prince arched an eyebrow. “Should you be drinking?”
Rick was doing considerably better, but he was still on a mild dose of painkillers for his cracked ribs.
“Relax, I’m fine.”
Prince eyed him skeptically, but he knew better than to argue. After all, he wasn’t exactly in the position to dish out lectures on safe drinking.
When the beer was placed in front of him, Rick nodded his thanks and took a hearty swig. Then, he turned his unrelenting attention back to Prince.
“So,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
Rick arched a dark blond eyebrow at him. “Please. I know you so much better than that.”
Prince sighed. He stared down at his empty glass, as if it contained all the answers when—in fact—it felt to him like no answers could be found anywhere.
“It’s Alyssa,” he said quietly.
It was just Rick and a few other patrons in the bar, and none of the others had anything to do with the Devil’s Fighters, but he still felt the need to be cautious.
“Ah.” Rick lit up, and Prince had the feeling it wasn’t just because Alyssa had pretty much saved his life.
He narrowed his eyes in suspiciously. “What are you looking so stoked about?”
“I like her,” Rick said. “And by that I mean that I like her for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know.
”
“No,” Prince said, “I don’t.” But he did, of course.
Rick stared at him. “Come on. I know she’s the one you told me about when we met.”
In spite of his best efforts, Prince felt himself flush. He was extremely grateful for the bar’s poor lighting. It had come natural for them to swap stories with each other. Like him, Rick had been forced into the rings by circumstances.
Originally from New Orleans, he had escaped the big city and a family whose levels of dysfunction (understatement) put Prince’s own family to shame. The Big Easy, as New Orleans was sometimes called, had no soft or easy side for Rick, and so he turned his back on it the same way it had turned its back on him, and he went looking for something better. He had found the Devil’s Fighters instead.
Penniless and with his only skills within the field of MMA fighting, it was a matter of a very short time before he was recruited. Just as it had happened with Prince, Rick’s fighting skills had come to the club’s attention during a bar brawl. Over the years, Prince had come to suspect that causing bar fights to spot potential recruits was the Devils’ go-to scheme whenever the ranks were low in number. It hadn’t taken much for Bennie Lenday to charm Rick—he was barely in his twenties, he was naïve, and he was desperate. By the time he had figured out what he had signed up for, it was too late.