I bend to pick up my purse and dismiss the idea of putting on my knickers when I feel how damp they are.
Jack studies me as I rise, then spins me around. “I hurt you.” He runs a hand over the exposed skin on my back at the top of my dress. “You’re bleeding.”
“Hopefully I’ll have some bruises on my hips, too.” I turn and smile. “Collateral damage from having sex with a sadist.”
“You’re fucking bleeding, Pen.”
I put a hand to his chest, feel his heart pound against his ribs. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” He looks down, examines my wrists, which are also scraped and sore. “I lost control. That doesn’t happen in the club. Every mark I leave on my play partners is deliberate. I make sure it’s done in a safe and controlled way. But this—”
“I’m not your play partner, Jack. I’m not your submissive. I’m just me. And I’m fine with a few cuts and bruises.”
A pained expression crosses his face, and we stare at each other for what seems to be an eternity. I can’t even imagine what is going through his head, but the reminder that he sees other women at the club—plays with them—unsettles me. Although I’m pretty certain he hasn’t been back since Gerry made his threat about the cameras, I don’t really know. And I also don’t know if I could deal with him playing with women at the club if he’s sleeping with me. But what if I’m not enough for him? How can I ask him to give up what he needs when I know just how difficult it can be?
“Come.” He clasps my hand. “I’ll take you home and look after those cuts.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do. Not just because I’m the one who hurt you, but also so I won’t forget why we can never do this again.”
“Jack.” I stumble after him as he stalks down the alley. “You’re overreacting.”
“Fuck, Pen.” He stops suddenly and spins to face me. “Don’t you fucking understand? I got off on hurting you like that, on taking my kink out of the club. There are no rules outside the club, no limits, nothing to stop me from going too far.”
“This will stop you.” I press my hand to his chest where his heart pounds frantically against his ribs. “I will stop you. My safe word, Redemption, will stop you.”
“There’s nothing there.” He tears my hand away from his heart. “If that’s what you’re looking for, I’ve got nothing to give.”
18
Do I taste like whiskey?
RAMPAGE
Sunday morning, I meet with my agent and my manager, James, at Redemption. We go over some new sponsorship opportunities, upcoming fights, and changes to the contract requested by MEFC. Far from being upset about the fight at Score last night, they want to feed the rumor mill about my hidden temper. Apparently, the one thing that might hold back my career is my reputation for being a nice guy, so a few broken noses in a bar fight is good for my image.
If they knew the real me, they wouldn’t be concerned. Nice guys don’t hurt the people they care about; they don’t want to make their women scream.
After the meeting is over, I go over the training schedule for next week with Andy, Torment, and my fitness trainers. I asked Torment to stay on my team as a coach after I signed with MEFC. He’s still one of the best fighters I know, a great teacher, and one of the few people I really trust.
He also knows me well enough to see that I’m wound up tight and irritable as hell. After patching Penny up last night, I went home and tried to work out my frustration on my punching bag. But two hours and ten bloody knuckles didn’t do a goddamned thing, and after a morning of meetings, I feel like I’m going to explode.
“You wanna take a break and go a few rounds in the cage?” Torment asks when we’re done.
“Fuck yeah.” Torment is the man. He just gets it. He knows I’m losing the fucking plot dealing with all that admin on my training day off, especially when my mind is somewhere else.
We meet in the practice cage after a quick change. Twenty-eight feet in diameter with a six-foot-tall chain-link fence and a thick padded floor, the practice cage is Torment’s favorite place to work out his stress.
Not one to waste time, Torment plants a fist in my fucking face only seconds after I close the cage door, and the fight is on.
“Good night?” He throws a big high kick, and I step aside.
“Started off okay. Then it turned to shit.”
He laughs. “You broke two noses in Score last night trying to find your girl.”
“That was the good part.” I bull forward and hit the fence with Torment in a clinch. I muscle him to the ground momentarily, but he bounces up after his knee hits, and we break.
“You might want to take it down a notch, or you’ll scare her away.” He throws a body kick and then a kick to the head that misses me only because I stumble back. “I almost lost Makayla that night Misery kidnapped her,” he says. “Some women can’t handle too much violence.”
I snort a laugh. “Violence isn’t a problem for Pen.” I throw an easy sidekick, and he makes me pay over the top, landing two long rights to my shoulder when I leave myself open.
“Fuck, you’re not pulling any punches.”
“You left yourself exposed.” He drops back, bounces around. “You do that, prepare for some pain. But vulnerability gives you strength. It builds confidence, lets you see your true self. Not only that, it builds trust. If your opponent thinks you’re vulnerable, he’ll come closer, open up. Then you can decide whether to push for the win or retreat.”
Is this a fight lesson or a fucking life lesson? With Torment, you never know. I spring, landing back-to-back right kicks that force Torment back to the center of the cage. Before I can gloat, he rushes me, landing a right, then a left. The barrage is on. He throws a body kick followed by a spinning kick, and I counter with a solid one-two. We pummel each other for almost ten minutes, letting off steam, until Renegade stops the fight to remind us there are others waiting for the cage.
I limp out the door, holding my ribs, my only satisfaction the fact that Torment is suffering behind me.
I wipe myself down with a towel, gritting my teeth against the pain in my shoulder.
“You get hurt?” Torment grabs his water bottle, showing no sign of injury in the least.
“Fuck yeah. You’re a bastard for not pulling your punches when I left myself open.”
“You gonna die from it?”
“No.”
“Good man.” He slaps me on the shoulder right where it hurts and I hiss in a breath.
“By the way,” he says, his lips tipping up at the corners, “that lesson was free.”
* * *
PENNY
After his meetings at Redemption, Jack picks me up and drives us down to the docks in Mission Bay. He refuses to tell me where we’re going or why, and I feel a little trepidation when he parks his SUV outside a red brick warehouse within a stone’s throw of the water. The pier is dark, quiet, and totally empty. Water laps softly against pilings, and the odd sea lion barks in the distance. I exit the vehicle and draw in a breath of crisp ocean air.
“What is this place?”
“You’ll see.” Jack pulls a set of keys from his pocket and leads me up to a huge double door, the window portion heavily barred as is the portico above. A discreet gold plaque affixed to the wall reads Kilkeelan Distillery.
“Is this yours?” I hesitate when he pushes open the door, afraid to walk into the dark.
A smile tugs at his lips. “Mine and Jimmy’s.” He reaches around and flicks on the lights to reveal a huge room with exposed brick walls, iron beams, and painted pipes. A long, narrow glass-topped bar takes up one side of the room, and behind it are glass shelves filled with liquor bottles. Small tables surrounded by bar stools dot the Plexiglas floor through which I can see a vast room filled with oak barrels, stills, machinery, and tools.
“This is amazing.”
“This is just the tasting room.” He locks the door behind us. “We run tours on the weekends and hire the room out for parties. We’re an independent craft distiller—spirits only. We produce nearly a dozen spirits, including a number of small-batch whiskeys that won medals in the San Francisco Spirits Competition. We’re doing an absinthe this year and an autumn moonshine.”
“You run this and train to fight?” I walk over to the far wall and check out all the framed awards: New York International Spirits Competition, Wizards of Whiskey, and dozens more.
Jack pulls a bottle off the shelf behind the counter. “I enjoy the business, it pays the bills, and it’s what I was raised and trained to do.” He pours two glasses of amber liquid, and I join him at the bar.
“What’s below us?”
“Stills, fermentation tanks, barrel storage, and the bottling line. The big machines are the heating equipment.”
He seems suddenly shy, and I give him an encouraging smile. “I would love to see it all. You’re a very complicated man. Every time I think I have you figured out, you show me something new.”
“I’ve never brought anyone here except for business.” He pushes the glass toward me. “This was our first product to win an award. It’s a single-grain, double-barrel whiskey. It’s sweet and creamy on the palate with hints of butterscotch, honey, peppercorn, and Christmas pudding notes on the nose.”
I take a sip, expecting the usual bitterness of whiskey, but the smooth finish pleasantly surprises me. “I have to admit I don’t taste all those things, but it’s very good, and I’m not even a whiskey drinker.”
Jack beams and pulls out another bottle. “Try this one. It was aged in bourbon barrels and then Spanish sherry casks.”
He tells me about the distillery and how it runs as I sample everything from gin to absinthe, with water and crackers to wash out my mouth between sips. When I’ve tasted everything he wants me to taste, he takes me downstairs to show me the rows and rows of oak barrels, gleaming copper machinery, and crates of bottles all waiting to be shipped. Scents of oak grain, sawdust, and liquor thicken the warm air. I ease myself up on a wooden table in the center of the packing room as I drink it all in. “I can’t believe you’ve never brought anyone here.”
Jack sits beside me, his long legs easily reaching the floor. “I’ve never met anyone I wanted to share it with. I wasn’t kidding when I said I haven’t had a serious relationship since Avery. I’ve had hook-ups, but mostly I’ve kept my encounters to the club.” He fiddles with his ring, and his expression softens. “Wait here. I’m going to grab a blanket.”
He returns a few minutes later and we spread the blanket over the table and lie side by side staring up at the tasting room through the Plexiglas ceiling.
“I hope you don’t do this when there are people upstairs,” I tease. “They might get a fright looking down to see you staring up at them. The women might think you’re trying to see up their skirts.”
“If you’d walked in when I was down here, I would definitely have tried to look up your skirt.” He pulls me closer, presses a kiss to my forehead.
“I might not have succumbed to your charms if I caught you looking up my skirt. You would have been added to my no-good men collection.”
He stiffens beside me. “Anyone I need to beat up?”
“Well, Ray already took care of Vetch Retch, not that he will ever admit to it.”
Jack brushes his thumb along my jaw, turning my head toward him, his expression serious. “Who else?”
“Do you really want to know? I thought guys didn’t like to know that kind of stuff.”
“We don’t like to know about the guys you liked. Bastards like Vetch Retch are fair game.” His eyes narrow, and he tenses as if preparing to battle imaginary foes.
“Well, there was Adam. I met him when I was fifteen and living at home…” As if he can sense my trepidation, Jack threads his fingers through mine, giving me the strength to go on.
“I thought he loved me.” My voice wavers, but Jack has shared this special part of himself with me, and I want to share everything with him. But more than that, I want to know if he’ll accept me when he finds out my cutting isn’t the worst of my secrets. “He encouraged me to stand up to my dad when I turned sixteen, but it didn’t turn out well. My father threw me out of the house. Adam let me move in with him, and I stayed with him for four years. I thought he was my savior, and when he started hitting me, I thought I deserved it. But part of me couldn’t forgive him for hurting me, so I would cut myself, and he would pretend not to know.”
“Jesus Christ.” Jack pulls me on top of him so I am lying on his hot, hard body with his strong arms tight around me. “You had one hell of a rough time.”
“It got worse. When I caught him in bed with another woman, he told me he never loved me. He said that I was too broken and fucked up to love. He took the ring I’d given him and threw it at me. Told me to get out. I wanted to die.” Taking a deep breath, I hold up my hand. “I slit my wrist that night. My sister found me and bandaged it up. I left England shortly after that to start a new life away from Adam and my family.”
Jack takes my wrist in his warm, broad hand. Slowly, gently, he brings it to his mouth. Softly, tenderly, he kisses the scar.
“Do you hate me?” I whisper. “Some people would think what I did was a sin.”
“No, darlin’. I’ll save my hating for the bastard who caused you so much pain.” He hugs me so tight I can barely breathe, but it is the only place in the world I want to be.
“Thank you for sharing this special place with me.” I push up and give him a kiss. Longing flickers across his face so fast I wonder if I saw it.
“I want to share something else with you.” His hand slips under my shirt, and he flicks the catch on my bra. “Something I haven’t shared before.”
A tremor of desire runs through me and I smile. “What is it?”
He kisses me and eases me off his warmth and onto my back on the table. “Me.”
“I thought I knew all your secrets,” I tease. “There’s more?”
“Do you trust me?” He rolls off the table and pulls me to sit.
“Yes.” I say it without hesitation. “I trust you.”
“Take off your clothes. Lie down on the blanket. Arms over your head. Legs spread.”
I frown at his determined expression, but I do what he says. He disappears for a few moments and returns with a few lengths of soft cloth. Without speaking, he ties my wrists and ankles to the outer edges of the table.
“You would make a nice display for our clients.” He points to the Plexiglas ceiling above me.
“Jack!” Uneasiness nips at my stomach. “What are you going to do?”
“I want to love you without the pain.” He leans over and kisses me lightly. “Close your eyes.”
My pulse kicks up a notch when he ties the blindfold around my eyes, but before I can panic, Jack presses his lips to my ear. “I want you to feel what I see. I want you to know that you are worth so much more than you got from the people in your life. You are strong. You are brave. You are worth loving. You are the kind of woman that deserves to have a man on his knees.” His hands press against my inner thighs, and I feel his breath teasing my pussy, his tongue flicking lightly over my clit.
My hands clench around the ties as he runs his hands over me.
“Hang on.” He slides his tongue up one side of my clit and down the other, until my tissues feel swollen and tight.
“Jack.” I groan at the erotic sensation.
“Shh.” His fingers curl around my hips, his thumbs opening my labia, exposing my clit to the firm stroke of his tongue. Pressure builds inside me, and my thighs tremble.
“So sweet,” he says. “But I’m getting carried away.”
He touches me all o
ver, a gentle caress on my neck, a squeeze on my breasts, and a stroke over my stomach. I moan, and he draws my nipple into my mouth, biting and sucking until I arch up on the table.
“Did you like my whiskey?” He sucks the other nipple until it peaks.
“Yes. It was delicious.”
“Like you.” He blows a soft breath over my clit and gives it a little lick that shoots me right to the edge in a heartbeat.
“Do I taste like whiskey?”
He chuckles and then I feel a splash of cold liquid on my breast, followed by the warm slide of his tongue. “You do now.”
His lips press against mine. Cool, sweet liquid follows into my mouth. I choke at first, and swallow. He kisses me again, dripping whiskey into my mouth, and licks it from my lips.
“I could get drunk on you.” Whiskey splashes into the hollow at the base of my throat, trickles down my neck. He follows it with his mouth, sucking and lapping, leaving no inch of my skin untouched.
My hips come up off the table, and I whimper. I am wet, throbbing, my core pulsing with a delicious ache.
With a rough press of his hand over my hips, he pushes me back down. “Do I have to tie your hips down, too?”
“No. I just… I can’t take it anymore. I need to come.”
Droplets fall on my taut nipples, slide down my breasts in an erotic caress. “I’ve only just started. I’m a big man.” He chuckles softly. “It takes a lot to get me drunk.” He licks the liquid away, warming my skin with his tongue.
“How about you make me come and then you get drunk?”
He alternates drops of cool whiskey and warm kisses down my chest and my stomach. I hold my breath when his chin grazes my mound. And then he’s gone.
I whimper, and he kisses the inside of my thigh.
“I’m getting closer,” he murmurs.
“Closer to being drunk?” I would part my legs wider, tilt my hips higher, open myself more, but I am tied to the table in the position he wants me to be in, and the knowledge I can’t move only adds to my arousal.
“Closer to giving you what you want.” He pulls me open and pours a stream of cool whiskey over my clit.
Fighting Attraction Page 19