Knock Out (Worth the Fight) (5 page)

He ran a hand across his forehead and up through his cropped hair. “Nothing. And forget about me fighting. Not going to happen, no matter what you say...or do.”

“Forget. Isn’t that easier said than done? Look around you, this is all I have—which isn’t saying much. My Mazda isn’t running because I can’t afford a mechanic. I have big plans for this money.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one with problems.”

Logan grabbed his hand and gave a firm squeeze, as if the gesture might stir something inside him, some note of empathy. Hell, at this point, she’d even take sympathy.

“What if the answer to your problem was standing smack in front of you?”

“What if she was?”

“Would you ignore the chance to persuade her to help you? Or would you fight for the chance to climb out from the miserable hole that’s swallowed you up? If I can’t perform as—”

“Shit,” he muttered, interrupting her. He shrugged off his jacket, placed it back onto the coat rack, and moved whisper soft across the carpet.

Turning, she swung the door shut with a resounding thud and snapped the two locks into place. The action gave her a second to process that he was indeed staying, rather than reassurance that he wouldn’t leave. Two locks wouldn’t stop a man like Keane.

“Common sense prevails.” She hoped the satisfied note in her voice wouldn’t piss him off.

“Hardly.”

The Road to Tetnus commercial came on again, noisily blaring away in the background. Leave it to Jerry to advertise the heck out of these qualifying bouts. Keane’s back was to her, yet she could see him balling his fingers into a fist. Guess fighting was a subject best avoided for the time being.

She grabbed him by the elbow and tugged, giddiness mingling with apprehension as he allowed her to lead him into the adjoining room. Her panties were still moist from the job his tongue had done on her skin. She felt herself moisten further at the mere thought of how close they’d come before her freak-out. But recommencing what had been started on the sofa was a bad idea. The emotions caused by his simple, gentle touch on her ankle, on the most broken part of her, were too overwhelming.

Weakness was something she couldn’t afford. Multiple times tonight, she’d blown her chance. The scrapbook was a blatant reminder—she wanted all the good parts of her former life back. Pierre would be a bad dream hidden within the pages of her past. Her future was going to be golden, just like she’d always hoped it would be.

But her winning ticket hovered a few feet away, tight lipped and mean. No, Keane was going to fight. There had to be some way of gaining his cooperation, of convincing him how desperately she needed her job.

Her arm nearly came out of its socket when he didn’t move along with her next tug. She released her grip and allowed him to follow her into her bedroom of his own accord.

Her sanctuary. She caught Keane scanning the large room and grinned. Bet he’d never been in a bedroom of this scale and size.

Five enormous floor-to-ceiling mirrors were secured along the length of a wall. She’d salvaged one from the trash and the others she’d purchased on credit from Sally. Eventually, she’d add a barre to match the floorboards and construct a wall to quarter off a sleeping area. For now, the bed was situated mid-room, the headboard pushed up against the wall. Armoires for her clothes and costumes dominated the far wall, leaving a long expanse of floor by the mirrors for dancing.

“Nothing you do will change my mind.” His warning was accompanied by a fierce, foreboding scowl, one that questioned her motives and assumed the worst.

Don’t be so sure
, she thought, but instead replied, “Why don’t you take off your boots and sit on the bed?”

Ignoring his sour mood, she slid open an armoire door and carefully selected an outfit best suited to the job ahead. The creaking of the hardwood floors, followed by those of the old bedsprings, spoke volumes. He’d complied, making her feel more confident. More daring.

She glanced in the mirror at the big brute of a man sprawled out on her bed, his back up against the headboard. By giving him a sense of what she was about, maybe he’d be more likely to help her. She thumbed the tulle on her tutu.

“I’m going to make staying over worth your while,” she stated calmly, drawing on every ounce of port-induced bravado still within her.

His only response was to raise his eyebrows, daring her. The thumping of her heart was almost enough to send her running from the room, clenching the red-and-gold costume tightly in her hand.

* * *

If this doesn’t beat all
, Keane thought. Classical music tended to grate on his nerves, his preference leaning more toward rock or heavy metal. Though the lovely, rollercoaster wreck of a woman dancing around on her tippy-toes with those long, bare legs kicking in perfect rhythm to the music might just change his mind. Each time she spun around, the frilly white lace on her red mini skirt-thingy vibrated and lifted, revealing her ample tight ass, displayed in something that resembled a Brazilian bikini. Only smaller.

A striptease, of sorts. Keane had had his share of dancers. Male bonding time, his friend Jimmy used to say as he’d dragged Keane into every strip club from Rome to Nagasaki to Ft. Lauderdale. Surprisingly, Afghanistan was a serviceman’s paradise; Jimmy’d had more fun there than anywhere else. War did that—scared the shit out of you, which made the time away from fighting seem unnaturally enjoyable.

So why did Keane’s itch to fight—a no-holds-barred, full-blown-brawl kind of itch—persevere like a troublesome hangover?

Keane flexed his fingers.
Fuckin’ Jimmy.

Logan’s arms snaked over her head, demanded his full attention.
There’s more than one way to scratch an itch.
One faced him now, with an odd, dreamy look on her face. Innocent and seductive as hell.

She bounced, exchanging one bent knee for the other. The little skirt bounced along with her, and his eyes shot to the V between her legs. Nothing visible, yet the idea of what lay hidden beneath that wisp of red material had his cock straining against his jeans.

He shifted on the mattress, adjusting his pants, and not a moment too soon.

Her next move was sexier than any stripper on any pole. Three little spirals and she was beside the bed. Her legs bent, her body lowered, and his breath caught as she pulled one leg straight up alongside her head in a sideways split. Three complete circles followed, her leg held upward all the while. The Brazilian briefs were on full display, much like waving a red flag in front of a bull. A surge of lust grabbed hold of his balls.

And just like that, Logan unknowingly sealed her fate.

The music intensified and her movements followed the tempo as she danced around the oversized bedroom. A half circle and her back arched in a perfect horseshoe. She moved away from him, but not before her lids closed and a satisfied smile spread crossed her face.

A clear challenge there, to ensure that smug, contented look remained while his cock thrust into her or, better still, when he made her scream his name. Keane wasn’t the kind of guy who ignored a challenge.

Slowly, he swung his legs off the bed and stood. She didn’t notice. Instead, her arms fluttered out to the sides and fingertips wiggled, caressing the air. Slight, quiet movements complimenting the mellowing beat of the music.

With a few long strides, he narrowed the distance between them, coming up behind her. Her chest was flushed a sweet shade of pink, its reflection in the mirror rising and falling with every breath. Heat rose up off her skin. Her hair was a mess, partly still swept up in a knot of sorts but mostly falling onto her shoulders in disarray. One part of her neck was bare, exposed, and to his liking.

The music began to crescendo. In response, she came up onto her toes. As the rhythm built, her bounces changed to small jumps with arms elongated over and upward. The tiny tutu fluttered as he stepped closer.

Hell, he’d been waiting all night for her to make a move, not pull away like she’d been nipped in the ankle by the devil. Her performance was both surprising, and flat-out stimulating.

Also, it was about to end.

On the next jump, his hands found her waist and caught her mid-flight. Her toes pointed downward and her body came to a fluttering halt as she dangled in the air.

“What...?” she gasped and stared at him, wide-eyed, in the mirror.

He let his hands reply, slowly lowering one of her legs to the floor. He hooked the curve of his arm behind her other knee, lifting higher and higher until her leg was back up beside her head. Returning her to this position made his blood run hot all over again.

Gently, he pressed his body against her back, bumping her up against the mirror. Their eyes locked while he waited for an invitation to continue.

She blinked but didn’t look away. A myriad of emotions appeared in her somber, green eyes. Uncertainty, nervousness...but, thank God, no fear. Desire flared deep within their depths.

Inch by inch, Keane lowered his head, breaking eye contact. Her back stiffened as his lips found the warm, exposed skin of her neck. He sucked, and her calf muscle twitched against his arm.

“Wouldn’t it be...easier on the bed?” she whispered.

He nipped at her neck and worked his tongue in an upward trail to the back of her ear. “Yep,” he breathed.

She ground her ass into him. He shifted her foot in his hand. Beginning at her ankle, he ran his fingers downward, over the raised skin of her scar, and still lower, over her bare calf. His other thumb moved in unison, massaging small circles across her inner leg.

Her tight muscles flexed beneath his digits. She liked it all right. A pleasant surprise, those muscular legs of hers. Long, endless legs, with skin so fucking soft, it felt like the fine chalk powder he poured into his fighting gloves.

He returned his tongue to what was becoming his favorite spot on her neck as thumb and fingers journeyed lower still. Flexing his abdomen into her back, he pushed her against the mirror.

His thumb shifted lower and, with fixed intention, rubbed over her panties, right between her legs.

Moving his tongue along the dewy trail to her ear, he whispered, low and deep, “Flex your leg higher.” Seeing her dance, that taut, limber body of hers moving, had given him ideas.

She gasped, and for a moment, he fought for control. The urge to unbutton his pants, part the red material between her legs and bury deep inside of her was that strong. Instead, he followed through on what he’d planned on doing since the first time she’d pulled that lovely leg up alongside her head.

He ran his thumb along the elastic band on the scant piece of material covering her center and, with a slight nudge, slid it beneath.

A shiver ran up her back and against his chest as he found her moist cleft.

“Oh my God,” she groaned.

He kissed her neck as his thumb pressed deeper, pulled away, and coated her nub with moisture. The movements were repeated, quick and urgent.

She was close. He increased the pressure and felt her shudder. Removing his thumb, he worked two fingers inside her wetness, loving how her inner muscles greedily contracted around him. Tighter and tighter, as he withdrew and, just as quickly, slid his thumb back inside.

It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed bringing a woman to climax with his fingers. Moving his tongue along her neck, he once again licked his way behind her ear. A few nibbles, with his thumb smoothly sliding in and out, had her trembling and ready.

But she had one more move to complete, a prelude to another type of completion. “
Dance for me
,” he growled, before swirling his tongue and darting it into her ear. His thumb mimicked the action.

“Now? Later. Oh, please, Keane,” she cried out. She felt so fucking hot around him. He promised himself that his rigid cock would find some warmth as well. Sooner rather than later.

“I want you on your toes,” he demanded.

For a split second, she hesitated. He slowly withdrew his digit until the pad of his thumb rested on her folds. With a thrust, he buried it back inside.

“Dance. Do it.”

“Okay, okay. But please... Oh, my God.”

She rose onto her toes of her left foot. The slight shift upward caused his thumb to slide downward, and downward still. Her back arched against him, her leg flexed tighter, and with a throaty moan, she shattered.

* * *

Logan’s legs turned liquid as Keane lowered her onto her feet and broke contact. She rested her head against the mirror and fought for equilibrium. A drunken headiness washed over her, assisted by the louder-than-Beethoven’s-”Ode to Joy” hum running throughout her body, distorting her ability to think.

Keane leaned into the mirror as well, his hands to the sides of her head. Big hands, with long fingers, she noted beneath her eyelashes. Hands she wanted to feel run over every inch of her body. Another rush of warmth spread to the juncture between her legs. God, it had been so long since she wanted someone with such savage intensity.

She’d never imagined dancing could be sexually satisfying. A deliciously titillating kind of foreplay. A naughty overture to what was coming her way. With Pierre, dancing was always work and only enjoyable in front of an audience. The rare occasions where she’d danced solo for him had been anything but pleasurable—especially when his habit of criticizing her ruined her desire to ever perform for him. The egotistical jerk. Hell, he’d turned her off, never on.

Pierre had assured her other dancers experienced the same hang-ups. Strict diets, strenuous dance rehearsals and the stress of being a prima ballerina were the reasons sex with him was bland, as non-descript as eating a bologna sandwich. What a bunch of bologna.

Come to think of it, since meeting Keane, her libido had shifted from dormant into overdrive.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so incredibly...fulfilled. Unsettlingly so. And to think, this was the appetizer before the main course. All six foot two of muscled fighter.

Opening her eyes, she caught his smirk in the mirror. A quiet invitation. She swallowed hard.