Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance

by Harper, Callie

  “Yeah.” She was gorgeous, her skin so soft and I could smell her that close, that hint of lavender mingled with something uniquely her own. She had on a bra now. I didn’t think she’d had one on earlier. Her breasts cupped, held in place, a nice V of cleavage peeped out at the top of her scoopneck t-shirt. I didn’t think she had any idea how sexy she was, and that was part of what killed me. All that artifice, trying so hard, I was used to girls serving themselves up to me on a platter. But it was Jewel who looked good enough to eat.

  “You wanna play?” I asked again. “Or are you scared?”

  “Scared?” Her eyes sparkled at the challenge. That’s my girl. “Hell no. You want to deal first? Or should I?”

  “What are the stakes?”

  “I’m not playing strip poker with you.” Damn. She could read my mind.

  “How about truth or dare?” I had a few dares I’d like to try out on Jewel.

  “Truth.” She stated her terms. I shrugged and went along with it. It was a start.

  She took charge and I liked watching her do it, shuffling the cards and dealing like a pro.

  “Should we move over there?” She glanced at a table much more suited to playing poker than the couch where we were currently sitting. I shook my head no. At a table there’d be much less chance of random contact, brushing up against her thigh, casting my big arm across the back of the couch where I could lean in when I wanted, catch a tendril of her hair, run a finger along her neck.

  My first hand had three nines, not bad. I gave back the other two, but didn’t end up improving my hand at all. We went back and forth betting, all of which meant shit since she explained that the way she played the chips were worth cents, as in white chip a penny, red chip a nickel. Not exactly a high roller. I didn’t care, though. I wanted to get to the truth. I had a few questions for her.

  She won with three queens. She got to ask first. “Why do you fight?”

  Huh. Strange, but I didn’t think anyone had ever asked me that before. My father had belittled it plenty of times, the university suits had asked why I’d started an underground club. But I guessed the more I got into fighting, the more I spent time with other fighters. They didn’t have to ask. They already knew.

  “Primal need.” I started there.

  “What?”

  “Basic instinct. You fight or you die.”

  She laughed. “But we’re not living in caves anymore.”

  “Nothing’s changed. We like to think we’ve evolved as a species, but we haven’t. When you think about how old this planet is, humans are a blip. We’re still cavemen, now we just carry iPhones.”

  “But your father’s a billionaire! You could, like, be spending the summer on a yacht.”

  Funny she should say that. A couple of guys I knew from boarding school were doing exactly that, partying their way off the coast of Italy and France. It was exactly the kind of thing my father wanted me to do so he could simultaneously roll his eyes and pat me on the back, a chip off the old block, reminding him of the good old days.

  “It’s just me there in the octagon,” I tried to explain, leaning toward her. I wanted her to understand. Somehow I thought she might. “Not my father, not my grandfather. It’s the only time in my life I know it’s all me. It all comes down to what I bring into the cage.”

  Her eyes lit up and she looked at me with an admiring smile. It took all my willpower not to cup my hand around the back of her head and crush my lips to hers in a searing kiss. But I knew if I did that, she’d run away. I wanted to keep her close.

  So I held back and played my next hand. This time I won. I’d start off with a softball, the better to lure her in.

  “What do you think of my nickname?” I gave her a wicked smile and flexed my bicep for her. “The Crusher.”

  She threw back her head and laughed. I had to laugh, too. It was pretty cheesy, but it went with the territory. The fighting couldn’t get more real, but the promoters wanted a lot of crap to package it with signature intro songs and a lot of tough talk. I played along so I could get into the cage.

  “It’s vivid,” she admitted.

  “You think?”

  “Pretty ballsy.”

  “Do you expect anything less from me?”

  “No, you are supremely confident.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. A few strands of hair loosely piled into a bun came free, tumbling down her shoulder. I couldn’t wait to see that hair spread out across the pillows of my bed.

  “Some would call me cocky,” I suggested.

  “Or an asshole.”

  “You got it.” I grinned at her. I made no apologies. She shook her head again and looked down. I liked seeing emotions war in her. I could tell she was struggling as hard to figure me out as I was her.

  She looked up with her verdict. “You did crush your opponent.”

  “You like it.” I chucked her under the chin, my finger brushing against her gently, the sort of touch that could mean nothing. Here, sitting together, it burned with heat.

  She squirmed on the couch as if trying to get comfortable. I loved making her squirm.

  Next hand we bet, then bet some more. I couldn’t tell if she was bluffing, wanted to see how far she’d take it.

  She wasn’t bluffing. She had a full house to my two pair.

  “What do you think about when you’re in a fight?” she asked, studying me. I had a feeling not much got past those exquisite green eyes.

  “Crushing my opponent.”

  “No, seriously,” she dismissed my answer. “Don’t you get scared that you’ll get hurt?”

  “I don’t think at all,” I answered honestly. “That’s the beauty of it. You’re completely in it, out of your mind and in your body. It’s purely physical. Like sex.”

  Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected me to say that. To me, it made perfect sense. My two favorite things, fucking and fighting. The two things I did best, all on instinct.

  “Do you disagree?” I could see her pulse flutter in her neck, her lips part in surprise, trying to find an answer.

  “I…” she stammered, that pink flush I loved coloring her cheeks. “I don’t exactly have a lot of experience.”

  “No?” I leaned closer.

  “I mean, I’ve never been in an MMA fight before!” She laughed brightly, nervously, perhaps realizing she’d revealed more than she intended.

  Our shoulders only a few inches apart, I wanted to close the gap. I brought a thumb up to the edge of her short sleeve, just along her arm, nothing taboo there. Gently, I stroked the sensitive skin of her forearm. “How experienced are you?”

  She pulled back. “Not your turn to ask questions!” She wagged a finger as if scolding me, in control. But then she brought her fingernails to her teeth and clutched where I’d touched her as if she still felt the contact. She felt rattled.

  I won the next hand.

  Grasping the base of her t-shirt between my thumb and forefinger, I asked, “Why do you dress like a nun?”

  “What are you talking about?” She smacked my hand away and huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Most girls with a body like yours would flaunt every curve. You were the hottest girl in the room last night. But you almost always cover up in old baggy sweats and t-shirts.”

  “I like to be comfortable.” She seemed anything but with this line of questioning. I pressed on.

  “You’re a fucking knockout, Jewel. Why don’t you show it?”

  She swallowed and looked down at her hands in her lap. I didn’t know why this conversation would make her uncomfortable. Most girls I knew ate this shit up, shamelessly fishing for compliments then not letting up until they got another, then another. Jewel looked like she wished I’d told her she looked like crap.

  In a small, tight voice she said, “I don’t want to be like my mother.”

  Oh. Of course. A huge puzzle piece of Jewel clicked into place.

  “You’re nothing like your mother.” But I felt a twin
ge of guilt remembering what I’d assumed when I’d first met her. I’d figured she was an apple off the tree, a gold-digger just like her mom. Even though I hated it when people pulled that shit on me, making assumptions, I’d done it to her.

  “She’s not all bad.” Jewel shrugged.

  Fuck, parents were complicated. It was OK to badmouth them yourself, but when someone else did? Not so cool. Jewel and I had a lot more in common than I’d ever thought.

  “My turn to deal!” she declared, eager for a change of pace and subject. I let her shuffle and pass out the cards. This round, I didn’t even ante up. My hand was shit and, anyway, I wanted to get to the truth.

  “Who did you sleep with last night?” she asked, looking at me, eyes guarded.

  “Why do you want to know?” I had not expected her to go there.

  “Forget it.” She shook her head.

  “No one.” I looked at her intently.

  “I can’t believe that.” She rolled her eyes. “I saw girls throwing their panties at you.”

  “I came home after the fight. After I looked for you and couldn’t find you. Didn’t you hear me come in? I walked past your bedroom.” And stood outside of it for about five minutes like a big animal wanting to paw down her door.

  She bit her lip. Sitting this close, I wanted to reach down and lick her neck, hear her gasp as my tongue touched her skin.

  In a low voice, I asked, “Are you jealous?”

  “No,” she replied too quickly.

  “Would you like to throw your panties at me?”

  “Shut up.” She reached up to give me a playful push, her hand against my rock-hard pec. I could see her respond when she felt me, the hot granite of my body. She left her hand up for a second too long.

  “I’ll deal again!” she declared, breathless. Her hands shook slightly as she dealt out our hands, all of her earlier card-shark finesse gone.

  I could feel her defenses breaking down, sense her weakening, softening toward me. Distracted, she only exchanged one card from her hand, then exclaimed “shit!” when she realized she’d made a mistake. So much for a poker face.

  Without waiting for the betting, I laid out my cards. A royal flush. She had nothing.

  I leaned in, my voice husky. “Now Jewel, tell me the truth.” She looked at me, rapt. “You said you weren’t experienced. But I need to know. How many guys have you slept with?”

  “Tuck, I—”

  “We agreed to play by the rules.” I reached out my hand, brushed it lightly against her knee. “You want to play by the rules, don’t you?”

  She squirmed slightly. I didn’t want to know about the guys she’d been with, but I had to know. I wanted to smash their faces in, but I needed to know everything about her. I knew no one had fucked her the way I was going to.

  “How many guys have you slept with, Jewel?”

  In a quiet voice, she answered me. “None.”

  I sat back. “You’re a virgin?” I didn’t think they existed. It was like a unicorn had walked into the room.

  “I’m not a freak.” She sat back, too, embarrassed. “I just haven’t, you know…”

  I would be her first. Tension coiled through me. My fingers, stretched along the back of the couch balled into a fist. I would be her first. I could see the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed, so close, the hollow of her throat, the pink of her lips. I needed to claim her.

  She leapt off the couch. “I’m heading to bed!” she yelled over her shoulder as she ran out of the room.

  I groaned and pounded my fist into the couch. Damn it! I’d thought I’d wanted her before? I didn’t know what I was talking about. This longing, yearning, craving for possession I now felt coursing through my body? I’d go crazy until the day I made her mine.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jewel

  I was obsessed with my own stepbrother. How fucked up was that? We’d only been living together for a week and a half. After 20 years of virginal straight-As, now I couldn’t stop thinking about going at it like an animal with the one man I absolutely couldn’t touch. A therapist would have a field day with this. I’d been so worried about doing slutty, crazy things like my mother, so sure I’d never be like her. And now here I was unable to stop thinking about doing something that even she would find scandalous.

  There was nothing else to do but avoid him. I’d managed to do it for two days after we’d played poker. That might not sound like a lot, but believe me, when it was just the two of us under one roof and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, it took some doing.

  I stopped going into the kitchen. I grabbed breakfast, lunch and dinner out. I used a back staircase to get up to my bedroom. I hadn’t showered. That was going to have to change at some point. But I couldn’t stop picturing what would happen if I ran into Tuck in the hallway with just a towel. He was such a beast, undressing me with his eyes every time I saw him, he’d surely make quick work of a mere towel. He’d have me naked and up against the wall, his hard, muscled chest burning against me, skin against skin.

  See, that was why I had to avoid him. Because I was getting worse and worse at avoiding him.

  When we’d played poker, sitting that close, he was such a potent aphrodisiac, his musky masculine smell, his sheer size and bulk, the abrasions above his eye and along his cheekbone testament to his prowess. He literally proved his might in hand-to-hand combat. Nerdy little academic that I was, I never would have guessed it, but it had melted my panties right off me to see him do it.

  He was right. He was a caveman. And he made me want to be his conquest. I had to avoid seeing him before I did something so wrong I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

  At 6 a.m. Wednesday morning I practically set a world record for getting out early for work. Had I encountered a five-foot obstacle I was sure I could have hurdled over it in a single bound.

  But Tuck must have had the same idea. He usually didn’t wake up until six, didn’t head out for his run until six fifteen. But at six o’clock that morning he was already returning from his run, coming back through the garage. Shirtless and dripping with sweat. It should repulse me. I should think “Ick! Gross! Sweaty!” Instead, it made my knees week and my body start to tremble.

  He didn’t say anything, just stood there holding his water bottle in one hand, watching me, panting.

  “Good morning!” I chirped out, like a peppy nanny arriving early on the job. I was losing my mind. He stepped closer. Somehow he always made me feel stalked, the prey in his crosshairs. Worse than that, though, was the way I liked it, feeling trapped, helpless, hunted.

  Why didn’t he wear shirts? That V down at his waistband, it should be illegal. I couldn’t not look there, follow the lines, like an arrow pointing down exactly where I shouldn’t look. Fuck!

  As he approached, I backed up until I hit the wall. He stood close, almost a foot taller than me.

  “You’re not wearing sweatpants today,” he observed, low and intense, staring down at my body.

  He was right. After that night when he’d pointed out that I dressed like a nun, I’d looked through my things. I did dress like a nun. I’d never been fully conscious of how much I hid, how many of my shirts were extra-large when really I fit into a small.

  Today I’d put on shorts and a t-shirt. The difference was they fit me. I did have a few things that fit, buried deep down in the back of my closet. They weren’t slutty by a long shot, but I still didn’t wear them much. I’d felt too exposed. But I’d put them on today, feeling defiant. I was sick of hiding.

  But I still needed to hide from Tuck. He pressed a palm against the wall at the side of my head and leaned his head down. I had nowhere to hide.

  “Your legs look good in those shorts, Jewel.” He brought a hand down to the button on my waistband. He didn’t pop it open. He just toyed with it, lightly. Even at that, I started getting wet.

  “I like the way this shirt clings to your curves.” He reached his palm up, hot, searing my skin
though the cotton as he touched my shoulder. “You look good enough to eat.” His tongue flicked against his lip.

  “Tuck, please,” I pleaded.

  “I liked hearing you say that,” he whispered down into my ear. A soft whimper escaped my lips. “Tuck, please,” he repeated, his hand traveling lower, just barely grazing the swell of my breast.

  “No, Tuck, this is wrong!” I don’t know how I did it, but I slid down and away from him, breaking free of his spell.

  I couldn’t even turn around. I couldn’t trust myself if I did. I just put the key into the lock of my old tin can of a car, climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away as fast as I could.

  §

  The next night I couldn’t sleep. It was a hot night, one of the last in June. I knew the heat came from within me as much as it did from without. I twisted and turned in my bed, thinking of him, but trying not to. Starting to read a book, I’d find myself thinking of him, instead.

  I’d been fine before Tuck, a self-contained unit. I’d been able to focus. Now I felt that slipping away more and more each day.

  Frustrated, I decided I’d tiptoe down to the kitchen for a bite to eat. I’d skipped dinner that night, so distracted I’d driven straight home instead of stopping at a restaurant for some takeout. Then I’d scurried straight up into my bedroom like a frightened little mouse.

  It was 2 a.m. so I figured I was safe. Tuck seemed to be keeping regular hours, devoting himself entirely to his training. No more partying for the party boy, at least from what I could see. It was harder to dismiss him as I had before. The Tuck I saw now barely resembled the drunken playboy I’d seen over spring break. I’d been convinced Tuck was just like his father, sleazy, all about money, riding on his looks. I’d been attracted but not impressed.

  But this Tuck worked hard. He ran every morning and worked out all day, every day as far as I could tell. He was training with a team and a coach and pushing himself to become a great fighter. Every night he ate a solitary dinner. He’d grill some meat and eat it with a pile of vegetables. I’d never guessed he could be so disciplined, so driven.