She understood Marcus needed him, but between school, her job, Regan’s training, and now the extra hours he was putting in at the gym, they’d hardly seen each other.
“I told you I’d help you do that.”
Willow let out a startled yelp and whipped around. She hadn’t heard anyone come in and had less than a second to take Regan in—cocky grin, arms folded over his muscular chest, legs crossed at the ankle as he leaned against her doorjamb—before she lost her balance. She began to topple, and Regan rushed forward to steady her, his hands gripping her hips, but she was mid-flail and the paint in her cup spilled all over him.
“Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry.” But her apology lost its sincerity when it ended in a fit of laughter. His dark hair was covered in yellow paint. He looked up at her, brow arching as big yellow globs dripped from the ends of his hair and onto his broad shoulders.
“Think that’s funny, do ya?”
“Hysterically,” she said between fits of laughter. “I hope you weren’t too fond of that shirt.”
Her laughter morphed into a shriek when Regan dipped his head and smeared his paint-coated hair across her bare legs.
“Hey! You’re wasting my paint,” she complained.
“I’m wasting your paint? I look like Big Bird.”
“Uh-uh . . . Big Bird was never this sexy.” Feeling feisty, she took her paintbrush and swiped it across his cheek. “There. Missed a spot.” She broke out into laughter again at the surprised expression on his face.
Never one to back down from a challenge, that competitive spark flashed in Regan’s eyes, along with something else that sent a tingle of awareness down her spine. Reaching behind his head, he pulled off his shirt, shifted his stance to a wrestler’s “ready” position, and growled, “Oh, it’s on.”
Willow tensed to bolt off the ladder, but Regan was fast. Before she realized he’d moved, he dove for her, grabbing her around the thighs and hoisting her up and over his shoulder.
“Regan!” she squealed. “Put me down! You’re going to make me spill my paint!”
“Oh, I think it’s a little late for that.”
She took advantage of the paintbrush still in her hand and swiped it across his back. Thank God there was poly all over the floor or her carpet would have been ruined. She was no match for the submission artist, and Regan had her on the ground and beneath him before she even knew what hit her. She couldn’t stop laughing and squirming to get away as he wrestled the paintbrush from her tight grip. With speed and frightening ease, Regan had her hands pinned above her head.
Yanking up her top, he bared her breasts and flashed Willow a wicked grin as he looked from her to the cup of paint spilled beside them, and then back to her. “Don’t you dare,” she warned, but her threat was usurped by her laughter. And then it was on—on like Donkey Kong.
Her squeal of laughter rang out as Regan pounced. She struggled beneath him, trying to wrestle free of his grip. He trapped both her wrists in one hand, dipped his finger into the paint puddle and began writing across her chest.
“Stop it! You big brute!” she cried.
When he was finished, he dipped his head and gently blew on the wet paint, helping it dry. Her nipples hardened at the caress of his breath. She wanted to thread her fingers into his paint-covered hair and pull his mouth closer, but she couldn’t move. His grip was firm, not tight enough to hurt her but unyielding. A current of pleasure ran from her taut nipples to her core, making her ache for his attention. She could feel the paint drying, growing tight across her skin.
“What did you do to me?” She lifted her head trying to see what he’d written. REGAN was spelled across her chest in bright-yellow letters.
“There. You’re officially mine.” Dipping his head, he slowly dragged his tongue over her nipple.
“I’ve always been yours,” she whispered, arching her back, silently begging for more.
As he sucked her nipple into his mouth, the atmosphere quickly shifted from playful to lustful. A low growl rumbled deep in his throat as his free hand made fast work of her shorts. “I missed you,” he whispered, kissing his way up her throat.
“Me, too.” A thrill shot through her at having her hands still bound by him. Being submitted by a gorgeous, welterweight MMA fighter was a heady experience.
“I really did come here to help you paint,” he chuckled, parting her sensitive folds and slipping a finger deep inside her.
“I can see that.” She arched her hips, helping him find that sweet spot.
“You want me to stop?” he teased, nipping the lobe of her ear as his thumb playfully circled her clit.
“Hell, no—don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
Regan chuckled as his mouth came down on hers, hot, hungry, and demanding. His tongue quickly found the same rhythm as his touch, both driving her mad with need. The tension built inside her; the ache and the frustration of not being able to move her arms seemed to heighten her sensitivity. There was a dominant edge in his mood tonight—a possessiveness that wasn’t there the first time he’d made love to her. It both thrilled and scared her. She’d never seen this aggressive side of him before. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She’d seen it plenty of times in the cage. Willow had just never been on the receiving end of it. She had no doubt Regan had earned his fight name. This man was a rapscallion to the core—inside and out of the cage. But she knew Regan, and knew in her heart that he would never hurt her.
“You have no idea how hard it’s been to stay away from you,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re all I can think about. The scent of your skin, the way you taste on my tongue, the feeling of coming inside you . . . I swear I’m losing my mind. I can’t think. I can’t fight. I can’t sleep. The only thing I can focus on is when I’m going to see you next.”
His fingers left her and a whimper escaped her throat. Then she heard the riiip of his zipper, and she tingled with eagerness. Stretched out beneath him, she was at his mercy as he entered her. But this time there was no pain, only delicious fullness that felt so amazing a throaty “Yes . . .” escaped her lips on an exhale.
His grip on her wrists tightened, and he buried his face against her neck as his powerful body began to move above her. She could feel his breaths accelerate with his tempo, each thrust connecting with that mysterious spot deep inside her, the one that must be connected to her soul, because her heart felt as full to bursting as her core did right now.
Her whole body tensed, the pressure of her release building inside her. He must have felt it, too, because his muttered curse sounded more like a reverent plea. Her channel spasmed with the first shudders of her impending orgasm, but she fought to hold on. She wasn’t ready for it to end yet. She wanted him to crest with her, to take that euphoric plunge together.
“Come with me,” she panted.
“Then let go. I’m right here, sweetheart.”
That rasp of his sexy voice whispering next to her ear was all the encouragement she needed. With his next thrust, she came—hard—surrendering herself to wave after wave of the pleasure shuddering through her. Regan’s breath caught in his throat, his exhale a rush of air that became a low growl as he tensed. His cock pulsed inside her, heat blasting against her spasming core, heightening the intensity of her release and prolonging her bliss.
Several minutes passed before he finally let go of her wrists, but he made no move to get up. The brunt of his weight was braced on one forearm, his face still tucked against her neck. As his breath slowly returned to normal, the tickling exhalation made goose bumps erupt over her flesh.
Now that her arms were free, she wrapped them around him and squeezed tightly before slowly tracing her fingertips up and down his spine. He was still, maybe too still. “You all right?” she asked softly, wishing she could see his face.
He took a deep breath before answering. “Yeah, just enjoying holding you a little while.” After a moment, he said, “It’s not going to get any easier, you know. I’m going to have to tell
him sometime, and the longer we wait . . .”
So, they were back to this? She’d thought they’d agreed. “I know. Please, just not yet.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. A couple of months?”
He lifted his head and pinned her with an Are you fucking kidding me? scowl, but before he could argue, she heard the garage door opening.
“Shit, Kyle’s here,” she rushed, shoving him off her, but he wouldn’t budge. His scowl darkened. “Regan, let me up.”
Exhaling a sigh, he rolled to the side, and she shot to her feet. She readjusted her tank top before tugging up her shorts. The kitchen door opened and closed. She cast a glance over at Regan, who was thankfully on his feet and hiking his jeans over his hips, though he didn’t look happy about it. Her gaze stalled on his abs, the eight-pack of muscle flexing as he pulled up his zipper and fastened the button. She needed to get her hands on that body.
Regan caught her staring and arched his brow that told her it might be a while before that happened. Dammit, why was he being so stubborn? Maybe because he hated lying to his best friend even more than he hated betraying him. Guilt gnawed at her for the position she was putting him in. But Kyle would never understand.
“You home, Will?”
“In here,” she called, grabbing Regan’s T-shirt off the poly-covered floor and throwing it at him. It hit him in the chest, and he caught it before it fell. Kyle’s footsteps echoed down the hall, getting closer. She checked herself to make sure everything was covered and then grabbed her paintbrush and cup from the floor. She was halfway up the ladder when Kyle entered. He took two steps inside and stopped, brows drawing tight when he took one look at Regan and then at her.
“What the fuck happened in here?”
“We were painting,” she said innocently, giving him a bright smile as she held up her paintbrush and cup as evidence.
“You get any on the walls?”
“I lost my balance on the ladder. Regan caught me before I fell, but I accidently spilled paint all over him.”
Kyle’s scowl swept over Regan, and Willow’s heart leapt into her throat. Was he suspicious? Would he figure out what they’d just done? A few seconds ticked by as he stood there glowering; then her brother busted into a fit of laughter. “Dude, you look like Rainbow Brite just took a shit all over you.”
Regan wasn’t laughing.
“Come on, man. I’ll lend you some clothes, and you can take a shower upstairs.”
Chapter 17
Willow woke to the sound of a blender. She didn’t need to set an alarm clock or even look at the blasted thing to know it was 5:00 a.m. She usually put a pillow over her head, rolled back over, and went to sleep, but she couldn’t this morning. Today was her A&P mid-term, and she needed to get to the lab early to study before the test.
Kyle was getting ready for his morning five-mile run. He’d inherited all their father’s energy and drive while she, on the other hand, had gotten zilch. Give her a cup of coffee, a newspaper, and a bagel any day over Kyle’s gritty green protein shake. Yuck. She wanted to get one of those T-shirts that said If you see me running, then you’d better run too, because something is chasing me.
Were all fighters this disciplined and ingrained in their routine, or was she just the unfortunate soul to be living with an anal-retentive control freak with closet OCD issues? She adored her brother, really she did—it was just that at 5:00 a.m. with an industrial blender that would rival a jet engine, not quite so much.
Willow usually didn’t start waking up until ten, which was unfortunate, because Carson was meeting her at seven so they could study. Which meant she needed to get her ass out of bed. She could have gone in on her own, but the thought of hanging out alone in the cat morgue gave her the heebie-jeebies, so she’d accepted his invitation to cram for this test together.
Exhaling a sigh, she threw back the covers and made her way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
“You’re up early,” Kyle greeted her with a look of surprise as she trudged past him, feeling like a cast member from the Walking Dead. “You want a smoothie?”
He held up the green beverage, and she gave a little heave. “Thanks but no thanks. I’m gonna stick with coffee. I’m meeting Carson this morning. We’re studying for our midterm.” She opened the cupboard above the coffeepot and pulled out a filter and the grounds.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” She grabbed the pot and carried it over to the sink. “The good news is I think I’m permanently cured of ever wanting a cat,” she grumbled, turning on the faucet.
Kyle laughed. “Seriously? Is it that bad?”
She shot him a look and turned off the water. “Yes, it’s that bad. I’m glad my suffering amuses you, though.” She poured the water into the reservoir and dumped a shit-ton of grounds into the basket before pressing the “Brew” button and heading over to the table to plop down and wait. Kyle was just finishing his protein shake and had the morning newspaper spread across the kitchen table, just as Dad used to do. She felt a pinch in her chest at the emergence of the memory and quickly pushed it back in the closet of her mind.
He was freshly showered, and the crisp scent of soap wafted across the table. He was dressed in a wife-beater and gym shorts, the same thing he wore every day. Her brother was a great-looking guy. She wondered why he didn’t date, and by date, she didn’t mean get laid, ’cuz he certainly did plenty of that. But actually go out on a real date—try to have a relationship with someone. Since he’d moved back home to take care of her, he hadn’t had a serious girlfriend.
“How’s the car coming along?”
“It’s getting there, but it’s a big project. Haven’t had a lot of time to work on it with Coach being gone. That should change now with Dean coming into help out. You know he’s holding a mandatory meeting for all staff and CFA fighters at three, right?”
“Yeah, I heard that. It’s going to be weird, having the gym under different management.”
“It needed to happen. Regan and I can’t run that place and train properly—too much administrative bullshit that goes on. No one knows how long Coach is going to be gone. I hear his brother’s stroke was pretty bad.”
“Any word on how Cole is doing?”
“He’s getting better. Too soon to tell if he’ll fight again, but Coach told me he and Easton are talking about opening a CFA-sponsored gym in Minneapolis. I think he wants to keep him busy and his mind focused on something besides rehab, just in case he doesn’t fight again. It’s a great idea. Easton’s a fantastic coach. The gym will do well having a famous fighter training there. It doesn’t sound like Easton’s coming home, though. Katie doesn’t want to leave Wisconsin, especially after her father’s stroke, and I don’t think he’ll leave her.”
“I’m disappointed he won’t be living here, but I’m glad he has her. Cole needed some stability in his life, and it sounds like she’s perfect for him.” The coffeepot beeped, and Willow rose to pour herself a cup. “You want some coffee?”
Kyle glanced at the clock on the wall and stood. “No thanks. I need to get going.”
Crap. She hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to him about Regan yet. “Can you wait? Have a cup of coffee with me. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Concern knitted his brows and he tensed, sitting back down, but his whole demeanor had changed. “What’s wrong, Will?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light. She poured two cups of coffee, filled hers with creamer, and then carried them both back to the table.
“Because I know you, and you’re never up at five a.m.”
He did know her. He knew her better than anyone, and she needed to be careful about how she broached this conversation about Regan, because the last thing she needed was him getting suspicious that there was something going on between them.
“Have you heard back on your application to appeal? Have they set a court date yet? Are yo
u having second thoughts about petitioning against Campoli’s early parole? It’s not too late to change your mind, Will.”
That his mind instantly jumped to Campoli told Willow how much this was weighing on him. She hated what this was doing to him and Regan, the stress she was putting them through, but they didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—because they weren’t there that night. They weren’t trapped in a backseat, screaming for Mom and Dad to answer and realizing they were gone. They weren’t attacked and left for dead, drowning in their own blood.
This was something she had to do.
“I haven’t heard back yet, and they haven’t sent a date for the parole hearing. I’m not changing my mind, Kyle. That’s actually not what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m worried about Regan. I know his father is dying.”
The little muscle in Kyle’s jaw twitched at the mention of the man, and she knew he was grinding his teeth—a tic he’d had since he was a kid. If there was anyone who hated Arthur Matthews more than Regan, it was possibly her brother.
“How do you know that?”
“Because he showed up at the house searching for Regan.”
And here comes the boom . . .
“Why in the hell didn’t you tell me that son of a bitch was here?”
“Don’t yell at me, Kyle. I’m telling you now. Besides, aren’t you the one who encouraged Regan to talk to him?”
“Yeah, Regan, not you! I don’t trust that bastard, and I don’t want you anywhere near him. You hear me? If he comes to the house again, you call the police and then you call me. Got it?”
“He’s dying, Kyle. You know that, don’t you? That’s why you told Regan to talk to him, isn’t it?”
Grappling for Position (Against the Cage Book 4) Page 15