But then I thought about all the time in my life I’d spent hiding out. My nose in a book, behind my bedroom door. Keeping my head down in the hallway of my high school, standing off to the side while my mother posed for a photo. I was tired of it.
Walking out, I put my hands on my hips and looked myself squarely in the mirror. Lip gloss and light mascara, hair down and no product, so what if I looked like a Quaker virgin who’d time-traveled and accidently wound up at a MMA fight. I was here for Tuck. And, suddenly, I wanted to be.
He needed me. He didn’t have anyone else in his family there to root for him. From what I’d seen of his father, he wouldn’t even want Tuck here at all. This would be considered far beneath him.
I smiled. Good for Tuck. If there was anything I respected, it was being your own person despite what people around you expected. Maybe he and I had more in common than I’d realized?
When I stepped back into the arena, it was packed. All of the people who’d been milling about in the lobby had come in and found their seats. The first fight was about to begin.
I found my way down to my seat. Five rows back, I’d be just about eye-level with the fighters. Tuck would definitely be able to see me.
There were a few fights scheduled before him. Strobe lights flared, sirens and alarm bells sounded and at first I’d wondered if we were having a fire drill but, no, it was the first fighter entering the octagon.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” An announcer’s voice boomed over a loudspeaker and cheers and howls erupted from the audience, along with the loud, bold chords of an 80s metal song. “It’s the final countdown!”
A fighter strutted down the walkway, the cock of the walk, punching the air and looking mean as hell. The next fighter swaggered in to the beat of Notorious B.I.G., nodding his head and staring down members of the crowd as if daring them to get into the cage with him. Everyone around me screamed and waved signs. They all seemed to know the fighters and had already picked favorites. The women sure knew which fighters they wanted and exactly what they wanted to do with them.
“Heat! I want you!” a woman next to me screamed. She had a full sleeve of tattoos up her arm. “I want to have your baby! Heat!”
“Slayer! Fuck me!” another one screamed from behind me.
Once the fighters got to the cage, they stripped down for the fight. They wore mouth guards, open-fingered gloves, shorts, and nothing else. Blood started flying from the second the bell rang and the men attacked each other, brutal and vicious. My hands flew up over my eyes and I could only stand to peek from time to time through my fingers.
I flinched as each punch landed, winced as each kick connected. What the hell had I gotten myself into? What was Tuck doing, heading into this willingly? This was mortal, hand-to-hand combat like nothing I’d ever seen. And these men were tough as fucking hell.
Sweaty, pounding, baring their mouth-guards like mad dogs, they grappled and locked each other into chokeholds, took knee blows to the head as blood dripped down from their eyebrows. The adrenaline, the screams, the brutality, I felt overwhelmed and, strangely, thrilled. So visceral, so real, there was nothing staged about this, nothing showy. All the hype and lights and songs, all that peeled back and you had two men out there in the cage, all muscle, fighting their hearts out.
I couldn’t leave. After two fights, it was Tuck’s turn. By that time I was shaking. I’d twisted the program into bits. Then, up on the TV screen they were using to broadcast all the details, I saw him. Tuck. All in black, wearing a skull cap, hoodie and shorts, the announcer introduced him as “The Crusher.” He looked dangerous, radiating fierce power.
The fighters before him had come in with an entourage, five or six guys flanking them and following them up to the cage. Tuck traveled alone. Eyes fixed straight ahead, he didn’t notice the crowd, the screaming women, the pair of panties tossed to his feet. To the beat of Eminem he jogged slowly toward the cage, all thoughts, all energy focused on one thing and one thing alone: crushing his opponent.
Breathing fast, my hand at my chest, I stood up like everyone around me and wanted to call out to him, wanted to be by his side, wish him luck or maybe even talk him out of doing this. These fighters seemed like killers. I knew he looked tough to me, but wasn’t he really just a college kid, the prep school son of a billionaire? These men looked like the kind who might bite a chunk out of your ear. They weren’t playing. Tuck could get seriously beat down.
“Crusher! You’re so fucking hot!” the woman behind me screamed.
“Crusher!” another yelled. “Crush me!” I didn’t like that.
At the cage, he stripped down and what I’d thought had been deafening screams cranked up to an even crazier pitch. Bared under the lights, his muscles rippled and flexed. Compared to some of the fighters who were practically covered head-to-toe, he only had a handful of tattoos. Along one shoulder, wings curved up along his muscles, ending in a band around his bicep. Down at his wrist, a tribal swirl.
“I want you, Crusher!” another woman screamed. But he didn’t look at her. He turned and looked directly, straight at me. He walked toward me in the cage until he was right up at the black rope.
“Tuck,” I breathed, barely making a sound, my heart pounding in my chest. His gaze pinned me, locking on me for several, long heated seconds. Slowly, he tapped his chest, then pointed to me. I nodded. Yes, Tuck. I knew what he meant without any words. He was telling me he was going to win the fight for me. And in that moment, I knew it, unshakably. He was going to win this match.
I smiled at him, confident. He nodded back once more, then turned to face his opponent.
“Holy shit, he looked at you!” the woman behind me hissed. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t tear my eyes off of Tuck. The other man in the cage with him looked huge and thick, but slow, I realized. Tuck bounced on his bare feet, a tiger, ready to pounce. The referee brought them together in the center of the octagon. An announcer blared over the loudspeaker, the crowd roared and screamed—so many female screams. That’s my man, I wanted to yell. Back the fuck off!
Tuck stretched and flexed, brought his fists up, still looking loose while tense, coiled and ready. I couldn’t breathe. I sat down while everyone else did; the fight was about to start. Clutching the armrests on either side of my chair, my knuckles went white.
The bell rang and the pushing, punching, stepping forward, ducking back began. The referee circled them, close, and Tuck made a lunge, backing his opponent up against the side, getting his knee up to his ribs, both punching, grasping, pummeling.
My thighs clenched. I shook and trembled. I needed to watch but I couldn’t stand to watch him get hurt. Sweat dripped off of him and I realized I was sweating too, a bead forming on my brow, dripping down between my breasts as I panted, mesmerized by the fight. Such frenzied, animal, raw power. I couldn’t have said how long the fighting lasted, how many seconds or minutes I sat on the edge of my seat and watched them go at it. I felt suspended in time, holding my breath, unable to look away.
The other guy had Tuck on the defensive now. He was slower than Tuck, but looked thicker, less defined yet solid as a tree trunk.
“Tuck!” I couldn’t help scream. “Tuck!” I knew there was no way he could hear my voice, not amidst the din of screams and hollers, hoots and cheers, but I couldn’t keep it in. I needed to scream his name.
As if suddenly fueled from within, Tuck moved lightning-quick out of reach. He ducked, leaned and suddenly took the other fighter by surprise. He reached his hand in along underneath the man’s chin, then wrapped him tight in the crook of his elbow, his hand coming around to grip his bicep. Instantly, his opponent began clawing at the choke hold, trying to force his elbows back into Tuck’s side, jabbing him, but Tuck had him gripped hard and slowly brought him to his knees, then down further until the man’s eyes shut. He tapped Tuck’s forearm in defeat.
“Tapout!” The announcer roared into the room and the arena erupted into screams and cheers. Sweaty, chest having,
a trickle of blood running down from one eyebrow, Tuck looked straight at me. A gladiator, he raised his fist in victory.
“You did it!” I screamed, up on my feet, screaming along with the rest of the crowd. The whole place was breaking out in pandemonium. A couple of guys surrounded Tuck in the cage, bringing him water, towels, patting him on the back. Girls in bikinis swarmed around, ring girls I heard someone call them, strutting their stuff.
I couldn’t see him anymore. I’d lost Tuck in the crowd. He was a hero, a celebrity. Surrounded by an ocean of hot girls screaming for him, wanting him, he could have any of them he wanted.
“Crusher! Take me, Crusher!” I heard the lady behind me start in again. Suddenly, it all felt like too much, the lights, the big fake boobs, the screaming for him. I had to get out of there. I made it out as fast as I could, nearly tripping a few times, fending off the grabbing hands of a big guy in the back of the arena.
I shook in the car on the way home, tears in my eyes. I couldn’t name all the emotions swimming through me. Relief Tuck was all right, that surfaced quick. Some strange kind of pride that he’d won, as if I had anything to do with it. Respect for how tough and fierce he was, how hard he’d had to train to get to that point.
And jealousy. I had no doubt what he’d be up to tonight. Pressure off, a big win under his belt, he’d definitely take advantage of the victor’s spoils. He might not even make it home, maybe just party at the hotel. I could picture him on a couch, surrounded by girls, king of it all.
Meanwhile, I went straight home. I took off the dress as fast as I could. After a quick shower, I locked my bedroom door, pulled on an old t-shirt and sweatpants and climbed into bed.
I closed my eyes and realized I was still shaking. I would have been better off not going to the fight. But I was glad I went. He’d looked like a Viking warrior in there, shirtless and muscled, all rugged male power. I couldn’t stand watching him, couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
I reached down under my panties, my eyes closing as I touched myself. So wound up, I realized I was already aroused, already wet and needing release.
My brain rejected this. Tuck was my stepbrother, first of all. And second, what could a science geek like me possibly see in a brute animal like him, all testosterone and brawn?
My body responded with the answer to that question. I stroked my slippery folds, thinking of Tuck so raw and so dominant in the cage. What it would be like to be his woman? Could I go to him after a fight, be the one to tend to him, kiss him where it hurt? He would hold me close, wrapping those thick, corded arms around my body, pressing me against all his strength and heat.
If I were his woman I’d be with him right now. It would be his hand on me, stroking my quivering, glistening folds. His tongue on me, kissing, licking, sucking. He’d pin me down and thrust inside me like an animal. Pounding deep inside my wet pussy, all the power of his assault in the cage unleashed on me.
Pressing down on my clit, imagining his huge, hard cock inside me, I came so hard I nearly blacked out.
CHAPTER 10
Tuck
“You didn’t like it, huh?” I startled her in the kitchen. I guess she hadn’t heard me come in. She wore a tank top and pajama bottoms, Sunday morning sleepy and cute as hell.
She whirled around, hand to her chest, eyes wide. “Tuck!” Her glance traveled to my forehead and eyebrow, up where I had a few abrasions. I’d come in for an ice pack. That was important the day after a fight, rest, ice, Ibuprofen. I hated taking a day off of training, but I had to understand that this was training, too, letting your body heal. Sometimes it took more discipline to lay off than to go all in, full throttle. Holding back was never my strong suit.
“I looked for you after the fight.” That was an understatement. It had taken me a while to pry myself away from the throng, all the sponsors and promoters who now saw money signs over my head, all the girls who wanted a piece of the newest winner. But once I had broken free, I’d searched everywhere for Jewel, stalking and pacing like an animal, convinced I’d find her if I looked in the right place.
“I wasn’t feeling well.” She looked down, away from me. Shit. I should have known it wouldn’t be her scene. I guessed she was too classy, or too squeamish, or, hell, I didn’t know. I couldn’t figure Jewel out. One minute she seemed scared of her own shadow, hiding behind her glasses and books. But then I’d get a glimpse of a fierce, strong-willed goddess, as vibrant and alluring as the fiery-red hair tumbling down her back.
“Don’t like blood?” I guessed, heading over to the freezer for a new ice pack. I had them in every shape and size. Funny thing, a pack of frozen peas sometimes worked better than all of them.
“You looked busy.” She still wouldn’t meet my eyes.
We stood there for a moment, saying nothing. I guessed I could turn and head out. Some things were better left unsaid. But I wasn’t too good at holding back.
“I liked that dress you had on.”
Now she looked up. Those green eyes killed me, and the way she bit her lip, shy and nervous. She had lips for sin. I’d love to help her put them to use.
“I felt kind of like I didn’t fit in.”
“You didn’t.” Our eyes met and I smiled at her. She flushed and knew what I meant.
She’d stood out in all the right ways. I couldn’t believe it when I’d seen her. Like a freaking angel dropped out of the skies, she’d stood there in that white dress with her flaming red hair framing her face. In a sea of fake, she’d looked real. And smoking hot, don’t think I didn’t notice that, her luscious tits filling out the top, pressing against the fabric. I bet she hadn’t been wearing a bra.
“I heard you cheering for me.”
“You did?” She flushed with pleasure. “How’s that possible? Every woman in there was screaming for you.”
“Every woman? Were you jealous?” I took a step closer. She took a step back.
“Jealous? Don’t be ridiculous.” But she looked nervous, caught, her eyes darting to the side as if she wanted to escape. But I wasn’t letting her go, not yet.
“But you said every woman. The crowd was mostly men.”
“Well.” She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “The women were really aggressive. This one behind me was—” She stopped herself, her eyes flitting up to meet mine for a second. Then she looked away again, seeming to think better of it. “But how did you hear me?”
“You’re the only one who screamed my real name.”
“Oh.” I could see her figuring it out, realizing she’d screamed Tuck while everyone else used my fighting name. Hearing her had spurred me on. The other guy had almost had the upper hand. She’d breathed new life into me and I’d attacked and won. For her.
I took another step toward her and we stood close, not touching.
“I liked hearing you scream my name,” I whispered, husky. I’d like to hear her do it again, just the two of us.
She shivered slightly. Standing across the room I might not have noticed, but close like we were I could almost feel her quivering against me.
Quick, rushed, she stammered, “I’m glad you won. I’m really… you’re so good. At fighting. I didn’t know.”
Just as I was about to reach out, right before my hand lifted to touch a strand of her hair that rested against her shoulder, she ducked away and left the room without another word.
§
The game was five-card draw. I’d played some poker myself, at boarding school, with the guys in my frat. Most of them thought they were big shots, but really they were pussies. Most of them couldn’t bluff their way out of a paper bag.
I bet Jewel was good, though. I had a hard time reading her. That was part of why I liked making her flustered, worked up. Then I knew what was going on in her head.
Sunday night and I could see her sitting over on the couch on her iPad. Online poker. It seemed a shame to let her play on her own.
I hadn’t done a thing all day and it was killing me. I’d sat in the hot tub
, taken a nap, gotten a massage from a brutal sports therapist named Helga. Her hands were about as big as mine and almost as strong, but I knew the deep tissue pain would help me heal quicker. These days, I seemed to be all about pain.
The dull ache in my balls never stopped. Every other fight I’d had I’d blown off steam that night, the next day with a girl, sometimes two. It was exactly the right thing to do when you were all wound up, nothing better than pounding some pussy after a pounding in the cage.
But this time, I had no interest. Or I had no interest in the ring girls and hangers on and easy girls I knew out in L.A. My cock wanted to sink deep into one girl only, and she was off limits. Or at least she seemed to think she was. I had other plans.
“I’ve got chips.” I held a poker set up in my hand for her to see. She looked up from her iPad, surprised.
“You’re home?”
“You thought I was out?”
“I guess I thought… you seem to head to the gym a lot.”
“Not tonight. Resting up.”
“Are you OK?” She straightened, looking at me more closely. A bruise at my cheekbone had turned pretty dark and a few ribs hurt when I breathed, but I was fine.
“Yeah.”
She exhaled. “That guy you were up against was huge.”
“But I beat him.” I smiled, triumphant, and she grinned back. I felt like I’d returned from the kill and wanted to lay the pelt at her feet, then drag her back to my cave to fuck her all night long. Instead, for now at least, I’d settle for poker.
“Wanna play, Red?” I sat down next to her on the couch and placed the poker set on the table. It was a nice one, of course, my father didn’t settle for anything less. Calfskin leather exterior, wooden case, casino-quality clay chips, all of it in mint condition.
“Ooh!” Her lips parted and she drew closer to look, her thigh brushing up against my own. Instantly aware of the contact, she inched back but still reached out to touch a poker chip. “These are gorgeous.”
Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance Page 9