Uncaged Love: Volume 6 (Uncaged Love #6) (2 page)

We pass Zero’s old apartment, the one he gave up to base out of Vegas, where he does a semipermanent drag show. Only when we arrive at the broken asphalt outside my own apartment do I know what Colt is doing.

He kills the Harley. My ears still buzz from the engine noise as I take off my helmet and hand it to him. I don’t ask what we’re doing here, but I do say, “I don’t have the key anymore.”

“I do,” he says.

I know his father is still paying the rent, because Zero crashed here a couple times when he came to LA. But I haven’t been through the doors in months. I didn’t see any reason to revisit this sordid piece of my past.

He unlocks the door and flips on the dim yellow overhead light.

I grimace. It looks so much worse than I remember. The sagging sofa. The rusty folding chair. Water stains on the ceiling, and carpet that rumples at the base of the wall.

Colt takes my hand and leads me into the living room.

“This is where I first knew the mightiest young fighter I had ever seen,” he says. He sits on one of the ragged cushions of the sofa. “I fell in love with her right here.”

I sit opposite him on the battered coffee table.

He leans in, his hands on either side of me. “She took a hard lick for me right on the edge of this table.”

I nod, remembering going down when Annie — Colt’s ex — got a solid hit and slammed me into it.

“That’s the day I moved in with you,” I say.

“Best day ever.” He smiles and his uneven dimples appear.

I’m not really sure what he’s trying to say. I look around. I know my clothes from my bedroom are gone, but other than that, the place is about the same. “There sure wasn’t anything worth taking from here, was there?”

“I think there was something you left behind,” he says. His voice is earnest now. “I’m hoping you find it again.”

I look away. I know what he’s saying. My fighter’s heart. He thinks I’ve lost it. Maybe he believes that our easy life has made me go soft. He doesn’t know about the bargain I made that night in the hospital.

No heartbeat. No respiration.
The words from that night echo in my mind even now.

Once, I had a hurricane inside. It would rise up and when it started to blow, I was unstoppable. Nobody who tried to hurt me could even get close. I was wild, kicking, hitting, slamming my body into them. Once Colt turned me into a trained fighter, I could use this mighty energy to win.

But I gave it up. Traded it for Colt’s recovery.

“Don’t listen to that woman,” Colt says. “You’re not fighting for women’s rights. You’re not in charge of a movement or making a point. You’re just you. Doing the thing you’re better at than anybody I’ve ever seen.”

I look at my shoes, a pair of black Converse sneakers. The bottom cuff of my jeans has flipped up, but I don’t move to straighten it. I can’t think about what Colt is saying. I can’t tell him what I did. I don’t want to hear what he thinks, that my giving up my hurricane was all in my head, and that I can just get it back.

The best I can say to make him understand is this: “I gave my fighter’s heart to you.”

At that, he pulls me into his lap and holds me tight against him.

I relax into his chest, the way I always have. Before Colt, I didn’t want to be close to anybody, and men were a threat. But he changed me in all the important ways.

He reaches for my ponytail and tugs out the band. He’s done this hundreds of times in the year we’ve been together, and it never fails to make me shiver.

He looks into my eyes. His are his own personal brand of hazel, part brown, part green. His blond hair is dark in this light, cut short and classic, buzzed over his ears. He’s beautiful. I swallow hard, as it’s still hard to believe that he’s mine, that in a month he will pledge to be mine for always.

“I believe I’ve been waiting to get you alone,” he says in a low rumble that vibrates through my body.

His lips lower to mine and I let myself just fall, out of the hard thoughts, away from the stress of the match and the terrible reporter. His kiss starts gently, coaxing me to settle into him. Then it becomes more insistent, his tongue parting my lips, slipping into my mouth.

My heartbeat kicks up and warmth spreads though me. Colt is good at this, pulling me away from my problems, giving me a safe harbor in his arms.

He takes his time, letting the kiss go on as his hands explore the strip of skin exposed at the base of my T-shirt. He lifts it, inch by slow inch, his hands large and rough over my back. I feel a release of tension in my bra as he unfastens it.

I settle on his lap, my arms around his neck. His lips start a trail at the corner of my mouth and move across my cheek and down my jaw.

I let out a long exhale, sinking into him, my body responding in all the familiar ways. Loving Colt has never gotten old or repetitious, and the spiraling sensations start to edge out everything else that has competed for my attention in the last hour.

He lifts the bottom of my shirt and I raise my arms so he can tug it over my head. Both the shirt and my athletic bra hit the floor with a whisper.

Now his hands are everywhere, over my naked back, his thumbs coming around to cross my ribs.

Then he’s cupping my breasts and pressing me back on the sofa. I fall against the cushions, my hair spreading out like a fan.

“Jo,” he says, his face hovering over mine. “I love seeing you like this.” He lowers his head and his warm lips capture a nipple. I arch up into him. Now everything’s erased. I can only see and hear and feel what is happening to me right now, one moment to the next.

Colt moves down, feathering kisses along my belly. He unsnaps my jeans and the cool metal sound of the zipper sends a shiver through me. He pulls them open and exposes the front edge of my silvery gray panties. “Mmmm,” he says.

His hands grasp the band and tug. My jeans slip down my thighs, chased by Colt’s mouth as he feathers kisses along my skin.

He pauses to untie my shoes and pulls them off. Then the jeans crumple to the floor.

“Unfair,” I say, reaching up for his shirt. “Take this stuff off.”

Colt smiles, flashing those dimples, then whips his shirt over his head. “Anything my lady requests.”

I reach up to place my hands on the bumps of his abs. It’s such a miracle they are there, hard and muscled, though bisected by the scar from his surgery to repair the damage from the gunshot wound. After a year, it is still noticeable, red and slightly raised. I slide my thumb along it, as I often do, grateful that he pulled through. That he’s here.

Colt slides his palm across my forehead to wipe away the crease there, knowing my thoughts. He dips his head and grasps the top of my panties with his teeth. He tugs them down. His hair tickles my belly.

When he’s got them to my knees, he takes them the rest of the way with his hands, his nose nudging down, brushing against the most sensitive parts of me.

My hips lift and I let out a little cry. This just gives him more access, and his tongue delves into me, sliding in with wet heat.

He adds his fingers and I’m lost, moving with him, pleasure radiating from his touch like a pebble in a pond. The need begins to build, all encompassing and white hot. I tighten around him, desperate to go over the cliff, to release into that space where I’m obliterated and only our collision remains.

I slide back and away from him, breaking the connection and reaching for his jeans. I want them off, to get to his skin, to feel more of him.

He kicks off his boots and stands, letting the jeans fall. His boxers are fitted and silky, dark gray. I smile, remembering him putting them on this morning. I get all the visions of him, the normal everyday ones, and then these, his erection springing free of the constraints.

He is one of the most fit men in the world, at the tip-top of his career. And I have him right now. His thigh bulges as he moves over me. I want him to possess me, overpower me, take me over. I can lose myself then, not worry about what I think, what anyone else thinks of me. It’s just us, and the language of how we are together, our own code, our own way to be.

Colt braces on his elbows over me. His face nuzzles into my neck, disappearing into my hair. I wrap my arms around him, broad and solid. I press against his lower back. I want him inside. I want him now.

He slides along me, taking his time, teasing me with his length. I spread my knees wide, trying to lift myself up and onto him, and I can feel his smile against my jaw. I can hear his thoughts, the “Patience, Jo,” that he doesn’t say.

Then he moves, and in one bold stroke, drives into me to the hilt.

I cry out, my hands pressing him down. The world is erased, gone, lost in the sensation of his skin sliding inside mine.

He keeps the pace, moving with power over me. I tilt my head back and let it all take me over. His long, languid strokes, his breath against my ear.

Colt moves his hands beneath me and lifts my hips. He drives more deeply, and now the pleasure bursts out into mad, mad need. I clutch at him, shifting with each movement. He groans into my hair and I can feel the throbbing inside me. I topple over the edge and everything fractures, my body pulsing around him. I can hear my own voice, mingling with his, and we clutch each other as the world splinters.

I’m suspended there, held so tightly, letting the waves crash over us. He grips me like I might actually fall away from him. We hold that way, a mad crazy clutch of bodies, until finally he relaxes and lets us fall back on the cushions.

I run my fingers through the short soft stubble of the hair above his neck and stare up at the ceiling. The brown water stains spread across the off-white paint, half-flecked with texture. Once I looked up at them and wondered if my life would ever amount to anything. Now, I know I have to hold on to what I have, and be fearless in the face of family, love, and acceptance, or I could lose it all.

Chapter Three

The next morning I stay in bed when Colt leaves to go train. I have the day off, since Sammy had a fight last night and won’t work out today. The other girls aren’t quite as dedicated and don’t tend to show up at the gym on Saturdays.

I can’t sleep, though, so I get up and putter around the condo. The dawn is bright and sunny, a perfect summer California day. If Zero were in town, I might have dragged him to the beach.

My phone buzzes. I walk over to it, wondering why Colt is breaking away from practice to write me.

But it’s not him. It’s Eve, his mother, sending a text.

It’s lovely out. Why don’t we go shopping for centerpieces for the wedding dinner?

She’s been my ally on the change of venue and style of the wedding. Her husband, Colt’s father, the longtime heavyweight boxing champion The Cure McClure, originally came up with a spectacle designed for maximum publicity. Four model-perfect bridesmaids. Designer gowns. A huge venue with over one thousand guests. And of course, helicopter coverage to keep the riffraff paparazzi at bay so that the paid photographers would release only the images deemed appropriate by The Cure’s publicist.

After I had a meltdown in Vegas over the sausage dress, a horrible fitted gown that looked like it was exploding glitter out the bottom, Colt and I decided to axe all of his father’s plans and have a small wedding in Hawaii, where my mother’s family lives.

At first, The Cure tried to bully his way, but Eve stepped in and assured us that something subtle would go a long way toward ensuring that the family name continued to stand for good taste and understatement.

She got her way.

I type out a quick “Sure.” I have been trying to include her in the details since I pulled the wedding rug right out from under Colt’s family. She is a lovely, calm woman, and I still wonder why she ever agreed to marry someone like The Cure.

Eve says she’ll arrive in one of the family cars in an hour, so I drag myself to the shower. Thankfully, Eve isn’t picky about how I dress, and I can wear jeans and a T-shirt without her looking at me twice.

Unlike The Cure. I’ve gotten more than one lecture about “proper appearance” from that man. Even though Colt usually shows his solidarity by pulling on a ball cap at nice restaurants, I do generally force myself to put on something fancy when his father will be judging me.

But today, when I stare at myself in the mirror in a red UFC shirt and jeans, I think maybe I’ll dress up a little. Wherever Eve wants to buy centerpieces is bound to be expensive. They’ll expect their clientele to have a certain look.

I go back to my closet and pull out a pale green sundress. It’s simple and flattering, stopping right at the knee with a flare of extra skirt. I have some strappy sandals that don’t make me want to kill myself after an hour, so I put those on too. These two things with the giant diamond ring are hopefully enough to make me look the part of the bride.

The bell buzzes, and I snatch up my phone and card wallet, then realize I have no pockets. Usually if I’m in a dress, I hand everything to Colt. Crap. I don’t even own a purse.

I throw open the door, see it’s just Pete, the driver, and ask him to wait a second. I have no idea what I’m going to do.

Shoot. I knew I shouldn’t have worn a dress.

I hunt around for a little shopping bag that I can carry. But I give up when there’s nothing but grocery sacks and UFC string bags. I turn away from the driver waiting by the door and shove the phone into one side of my bra and the card wallet in the other.

Hopefully nobody will buzz my boobs, and Eve will probably pay for everything anyway. I won’t worry about having to dig money out of my cleavage.

“Okay,” I say to Pete, and follow him out the door. I’m relieved we have a numeric pad entrance option on the condo because I so do not have a third boob to stash a key.

Eve is composed and regal in the back of a black Mercedes, decked out like a queen in a pale gray suited dress. Her silvery hair is twisted up in an elegant chignon. She never looks anything but beautiful and serene.

“Hello, Eve,” I say.

“I’m so glad we’re able to make this little outing,” she says, and pats the seat. “There’s a lovely shop downtown that specializes in this.”