Shadowboxer

by Cari Quinn

  Jostling her higher, I changed the depth of my penetration and rubbed her stiff clit, unprepared for her abrupt moan and the way she carved her nails into my skin through my shirt. Another minute of this and I’d be bleeding.

  Shit, that turned me on too. Everything about her did.

  She flexed around me, so wet I could enter her without trouble. Under my thumb, her clit pulsed. She was close. I took her faster, harder, slamming into her where she held me so tight. Not giving an inch. The wind howled, blocking some of the slap and slide of our bodies. We were both moaning and groaning and grinding like our lives depended on it. My balls slapped her ass, I was going so deep. She clawed me, squeezed me, panted with me. Everything together.

  God, I couldn’t hold on much longer.

  Without warning, she fisted me and released, her powerful spasms twisting through my system with the same force as the wind at my back. Broken gasps left my throat. My lungs seized and I couldn’t haul in enough oxygen. She surrounded me, drenching me in everything she was…that had somehow become all I wanted.

  She trembled in my arms, sliding down my chest while she softened around me. Liquid heaven. I was throbbing so hard that the light pulsed, casting her in a purplish haze. Forget her seeing stars. My head was about to explode.

  Then I was coming, and I couldn’t stop myself from launching myself into her body wildly enough to drive her up the wall again. She cried out, and I immediately chastised myself, but I was shaking too much to cushion the blow of my hips ramming into hers. She took it, every bit. Breathing “it’s okay” over and over while she caressed my head.

  I chanted her name as we pinned each other in the most erotic mutual TKO of my life.

  Mia.

  Mine.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mia

  When I was a baby, my mama loved to cradle me on her lap in the afternoon while we waited for my dad to get home from work. She’d rock back and forth in the chair I still had in my living room—the only thing I’d brought with me from my house—and sing all of Johnny Cash’s old songs. “Ring of Fire,” definitely. But her favorite was “Jackson,” so it was mine too.

  I’d never been big on metaphors. A fist to the gut instead of the jaw was about as subtle as I got. But all the fire references in those two songs seemed to fit the cauldron I’d somehow fallen into ass first.

  Sleeping with Fox was bad enough. I didn’t have sex with guys. But I could’ve explained that away easily enough as just biology. I was twenty-one and I hadn’t had an orgasm since I was fourteen, and never one that had been given freely.

  That was one thing. I would’ve forgiven myself for that. He was hot, and I was only human. If I’d been the sort of female to get all excited over a guy, I probably would’ve drooled a little every time he stalked toward me with those ocean-blue eyes fixed on mine.

  But going home with him, willingly? How could I explain that?

  He’d started stomping on my buttons while I was still a shivery, sweaty mess in his arms. A big part of the problem was that I didn’t even really remember what coming felt like. Stupid. Embarrassing. I just knew I had before, and back then I’d been praised for my body’s betrayal.

  This was different. I didn’t know how to categorize this experience.

  Was it a good orgasm? How could I tell? It seemed pretty spectacular, but I wasn’t in the position to judge. I wanted to ask Fox, but if he got an inkling about my lack of sexual knowledge, he’d go all caveman on me and offer to show me what I’d been missing.

  Better I didn’t know.

  Then, while I was still confused and kind of lust-drunk and pulsing all over, he hugged me close and rubbed my back with his big, strong hands. He told me I was coming home with him, that he would give me a bath and a massage. Both were practically foreign words. A massage at the gym was not the same thing as he was suggesting, I was sure.

  And a bath? In an actual tub? I hadn’t had one of those since we’d lived in our first house when I was a little kid.

  I’d crumbled like a fresh baked cookie. He melted my chocolate chips and cracked my macadamias with a look. A touch. I’d always shied away from physical contact unless it came in the form of punches and blows. But tonight I’d liked being held.

  Momentary insanity.

  Now we were walking toward his place in the falling snow, and he was holding my hand. And I was letting him.

  Clearly, I could never have another orgasm again. Ever.

  Not even if I really wanted another.

  Maybe a couple.

  His hand was so cold that our bones were practically rubbing together. As we trudged through the accumulating snow, I pictured my skeleton under my skin. Strange, inappropriate thoughts were nothing new for me, but I didn’t want to be that girl tonight. So I focused on the warmth our clasped palms were creating instead. Neither of us had gloves. I’d lost his sometime since yesterday, which really sucked since I liked them almost as much as the coat.

  They’d cost him fifty-nine dollars and sixty-two cents, he’d said, and he was now running me a tab.

  He’d be surprised one day, long after all this was over, when he received a check in the mail. By then he’d be married with beautiful blond babies, probably solid, strapping sons, and he’d open a plain white envelope and see my name.

  Would he remember me? Maybe he would just take the check and shove it in a drawer, because he didn’t recall any random female named Mia and didn’t need the cash.

  I had a feeling he didn’t need it now either.

  “How rich are you?” I asked, as surprised as he seemed to be by the question.

  I’d once had control over my mouth. My vocal cords must be somehow connected to my now running rampant hormones. Weird.

  He slanted me a look. “What makes you think I am?”

  “Where would you like me to start?” I asked.

  At his arched brow, I sighed. The man really was like a mule sometimes. Most times. Not like me at all.

  “The way you talk, for one thing.” I caught myself gesturing and stopped, fast. I had enough nervous habits already. “You usually speak formally. You must be educated.”

  “I’m a college dropout,” he said almost smugly.

  “From which college?”

  He winced. “Cornell.”

  “Ivy League. Right.”

  “There are scholarships, grants, loans—”

  “Did you have any?”

  He wisely chose not to answer that question.

  “Then there’s your clothes. This coat.” I indicated the leather jacket that had practically molded itself to the contours of my body. I was beginning to think he should add that cost to my tab too, since I doubted I’d ever return it. “The sports car you drive when you’re not slumming it—” Great. I’d just flashed my cards and my ass in one fell swoop.

  Yep, orgasms were out for the foreseeable future.

  Fox came to a dead stop and tilted his head like a dog cocking one floppy ear. He was just as adorable too. “How do you know what I drive?”

  I jerked a shoulder. “People talk.”

  “Mia.”

  “I did recon on you,” I muttered, darting a look up at him as I dragged my ragged thumbnail to my mouth. I didn’t bite my nails. An occasional cuticle didn’t count.

  “Recon? You mean like a spy mission?” He stared at me, his mouth falling open just enough that the tip of his tongue slid between his teeth.

  I absolutely did not get wet. Er, wetter, since I was still wet from before. That would’ve been foolish. I was a practical businesswoman who only wanted to clean his clock and make bank.

  “A good fighter finds out everything he can about his opponent.” I shrugged again, figuring if I kept acting nonchalant I’d eventually con myself into believing he was nothing more to me than someone to face in the octagon. It wasn’t a lie if you managed to convince yourself.

  “You are not a ‘he.’ You are a woman, a fact I can now vouch for quite intimately.”<
br />
  There it was, that hint of fussiness to his speech that made me mental. I went toe-to-toe with him, tipping my head back to glare into his eyes. “Women can’t be fighters?”

  Ignoring my question, he lowered his lips near my ear. “Is that why you just fucked me? More recon? Now you know my favorite position is woman on top. That’s why I had you above me. When your breasts bounced under your tight T-shirt, I pretended you were naked.” He bit the shell of my ear, offering the soothing swipe of his tongue before he retreated. “Make sure you write all that down, baby.”

  “Oops, I forgot my pad.” I tucked his coat around me as we started walking again. He didn’t reach for my hand, and I didn’t care.

  Liar.

  “Actually, no. I forgot one.” He moved closer and spoke near my temple. “My favorite position is when I put my face between a woman’s legs. I know you said you don’t like oral, but now that we’ve been together, maybe I can change your mind. I bet you taste like a plum. All that sweet, sticky juice…”

  Pictures formed in my head. Pictures I did not want there. “You have a filthy mouth.”

  “Uh-huh.” He grabbed my hip and pulled me against his side. “And I want to make good use of it with you.”

  My heart rocketed in my chest, shooting clear up to my throat. I stared straight ahead, grateful the slippery snow beneath my sneakers gave me something to focus on besides his hand creeping over my ass. Palming it like it was his.

  Where was my sense of indignation? I wasn’t some piece of meat for him to drive a stake through. Getting turned on was not a rational response.

  “Cat got your tongue?” he taunted silkily.

  “Where’s your Corvette?” I tossed back, pleased when he braced. “Since you think you’re so good in bed, why do you need an old dude’s vehicular Viagra?”

  “I didn’t hear you voicing any complaints when you were moaning my name.”

  “We weren’t in bed.” I frowned at his sudden burst of laughter.

  Had I really done what he’d said? Maybe. Hard to say. It wasn’t something I wanted to dwell on.

  “You pegged me right the other night,” he said after a moment. “You said I probably kept my sports car in storage, remember?”

  I didn’t respond. It wasn’t about pegging. I’d known he had a fancy car for a fact.

  He blew out a breath. “I use it now and then, but I usually take the train. What about you?”

  “I don’t have a car.” I brought my thumb back to my mouth. “Or a license.”

  Abruptly, he stopped walking again, and I stumbled into his side. He gripped my arm to steady me. “You don’t know how to drive?”

  I frowned. “I know how to drive. Sort of. I’ve lived here since I was seventeen. Hardly anyone drives in the city.”

  “Seventeen? Your parents moved here?”

  “No.” And that was all I was saying about that.

  As the wind gusted, Fox reached down to pull up the zipper on my jacket. His jacket. I would’ve bitched at him for fussing over me again, except he’d dipped his head to work on the zipper and the breeze chose that moment to express deliver a double shot of his cologne.

  The oh-so-male scent zapped straight to my suddenly hyper-bunny clit. Cripes. Settle down, down there.

  “I could teach you,” he said nonchalantly as we started moving again. This time he pushed his hands into the front of his hoodie, so I dangled mine at my sides.

  Since I was still focused on that annoying throb between my legs—I was walking, how could I even feel it?—I didn’t know what he meant at first. “Hmm?”

  “To drive. I could show you how. It’s easy.”

  “I know enough to get by. Besides, I don’t need to.” Not now anyway. I would when I moved with my sister, but she could give me a refresher course. And on a much cheaper vehicle than a vintage pussy magnet.

  “It’s a good skill to have.” He paused. “I saw the schedule at work. You’re off Friday night. Why don’t we—”

  “I have a fight Friday night,” I interrupted, already prepared for him to stop again. Which, of course, he did right on cue. “Do you have some sort of walking disorder? One foot in front of the other. It’s real simple.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  I fidgeted, not liking the gleam in his eye. He moved aside to let a couple of guys enter the bar we’d just passed, then got all up in my face again. “In Bayside.”

  “Why the fuck are you fighting all the way over in Queens?”

  “Because I was invited to, and I could use the cash, okay?” I didn’t like his tone and showed him my displeasure by giving him a hard shove in the gut. “Not all of us have ’Vettes.”

  He grunted, which gave me momentary satisfaction. “Men don’t make hardly anything fighting, unless you fight so dirty that you draw crowds. Like Costas.” Since I happened to know his next match was with Costas, I didn’t comment. “Or unless you win practically every match and get in the promoters’ spotlight. It can’t be much different with women.”

  “Was there a question in there somewhere?”

  “You win a lot.”

  “I’m no Fox Knox.” I smirked. “But I get by.”

  His face turned stony. “Who?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. And that was a question, so stop stalling.”

  “Caliente Cross. She’s a weight class above me, been in the game a long time. If I beat her, I’ll collect the most money I have yet.” I jutted out my chin. “Until I fight you.”

  He glossed right over that. “What do you weigh? A buck twenty?”

  I hadn’t even weighed one-twenty in school when I’d actually had a steady food intake. In the dating world, a man overestimating your weight was cause for despair and an extra pint of Ben & Jerry’s. In the fighting one, it was a badge of pride. “You know, I’m starting to think that bath and massage isn’t worth it.”

  Those were the magic words to get his feet in gear. But they didn’t close his mouth. “Kizzy’s in your corner?”

  “Yes. She’s my trainer.”

  “And that Jamison dude helps out?”

  “When I need someone other than Kizzy. Which isn’t often,” I added, vaguely annoyed.

  “I have someone I want you to meet.” He walked faster, probably anticipating the insult volley about to hit him square in the back of the head. “He trains me at The Cage. His name is Timmins, and I’m not sure he’ll take you on, but I think—”

  “Full stop. You want me to work with your trainer?”

  “I said I want you to meet him.”

  “Damn, it’s true.” I slowly shook my head. “I’ve heard rumors that sometimes sleeping with a guy makes them go batshit and think they own your vagina.”

  Instead of leering or sneering or any of the other possessive, egotistical expressions I would’ve predicted, his eyes shuttered. “Were you were a virgin?” he asked softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I thought maybe…”

  I hated the concern in his voice. “No,” I snapped, crossing my arms and looking down the street. We’d finally reached his brownstone. This had been the longest walk in history. “I wasn’t a virgin. Far from it.” With effort, I dragged my gaze back to his. A small point of pride. “So don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s get some stuff straight, okay? I fucked you. I liked it a lot. If I were in the market for more of the same, you’d be the first guy I would call. I’m not. I’m also not looking for a boyfriend. I’ve never needed one before, and I damn sure don’t now. So save the chivalry for someone who can appreciate it, all right?”

  He remained silent for what felt like forever. Then he nodded and jerked his chin at his place. “Let’s go take a bath.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tray

  She always chose the right move to disarm her opponent. Why use a simple jab to the chin when you could employ a flying kick to the groin? She had flawless execution a
nd excellent timing, but I made my living being fast on my feet.

  She didn’t want a boyfriend. Had I volunteered? No.

  I had volunteered to wash her back, though. And that would be happening. Soon.

  I tossed my keys on the table near the front door and kicked off my shoes and wet socks. My toes had shriveled up and frozen during the endless walk from Shooters. “Want a beer?” I headed for the kitchen without checking to see if she followed.

  Mia wasn’t the only one who could be an asshole.

  When she finally entered the kitchen in her socked feet I was leaning against the counter, a Molson tipped back and sliding like cold liquid gold down my throat. I didn’t ask again if she wanted a beer. She was so damn independent, she could get it herself.

  She eventually grabbed one and popped the top with a little gadget she had on her key ring. She’d sucked down half the bottle before I summoned enough control to stop staring. Watching her throat move and getting hard wasn’t helping my case for indifference.

  But Jesus, did she have to be wearing such a snug top? Her nipples pressed against her shirt in the light from over the stove. They were way perkier than their owner, that was for sure.

  “Want a tour?” I jerked my elbow behind me. “I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes, since I know you’re not concerned with things like basic human interaction. This is the kitchen. I eat takeout here. Lately I’m partial to salami subs, which have way too many sulfites but I don’t really care.”

  “Who’s the bowl for?”

  Following her gaze to the blue bowl next to the microwave cart, I smiled in spite of myself. “Veyron, my puppy. He’s at the groomer’s overnight tonight.”

  “You send your dog on overnight trips to the groomer?”

  “She’s a friend, and our dogs play together.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  Ignoring her snippy tone, I rubbed condensation off my bottle. “She gives Veyron the works while he’s there for his overnight play dates. It’s good for him to have friends. Good for everyone to have friends,” I added as she turned away.