Raw (14 page)

He grabs my face in one hand and uses it to open my mouth, and he kisses me, his tongue thrusting wetly into my mouth.

I claw at his skin, down his back, shifting beneath him as I slide my hands down the small of his back to grab his muscular ass and urge him closer.

He nips my lips on a loss of control and watches me as he starts going in. My vision blurs. My body burns, from where he enters and to my heart. It’s everything he’s giving me and everything he’s taking. Every time I said no was for him, every time I wondered about it was for this. “Oh,” I whisper in his ear, surprised at the feel of him.

He stops, cups my face in one hand, and looks at me, a little raw and a lot hot. “You okay?”

“More than okay.” I nod so fast I’m dizzy.

We’re both breathing hard. I’m quaking with need and his body vibrates with self-control. Maverick’s eyes smolder, but I’m the one on fire. He sucks one of my breasts, and I buck from the pleasure. There is pressure as he advances, and heat and length and him, pulsing and alive and perfect and male and right now mine. So mine. So wrong. And so, so right.

He braces his arms on either side of my head as he withdraws. I feel my body clutch around him in the most exquisite way when he slowly drives back in.

It feels even better this time, and he goes an inch deeper. “Oh god,” I gasp as I rear up, biting his shoulder, clenching one of my arms around the back of his neck.

“Tell me,” he gruffs in my ear, caressing my breast in one palm, watching me like he
needs
it to be good. “Do you want more?”

I can’t speak; I’m too busy trying to hold back another orgasm, waiting for him to go there with me.

But I nod wildly up and down.

He moves his hips and enters me some more, his jaw tight, nostrils flaring, eyes heavy. I can tell he’s trying to take it slow for me and that it’s taking every ounce of his willpower to do so.

“How’s that?” Taking my face back in his hand, he kisses me wildly. “You sweet, gorgeous little thing.”

“Oh god. You feel so good, Maverick.”

He’s big and wide and engulfing me, breath by breath, inch by inch. I’m dying an exquisite death. My breath rasps in my throat. “More. Don’t stop.”

He grits his teeth, his eyes brimming with passion as he pushes the last of the way in, his jaw squarer than ever, his neck straining with his effort, every muscle on his torso taut as he takes me.

“Oh god,” I say in wonder as my orgasm starts quickly building. I grab his shoulders and press my face into his neck.

When he goes all the way in, I stop breathing. He’s inside me and I can feel him inside me, thick and pulsing, stretching. He groans and clutches me to him. “God, hold on to me,” he says, starting to slowly move in and out of me.

“Maverick,” I rasp, and rock my hips.

He’s almost crushing me against his body, moving his hips faster. He watches my face for any signs of pain as he withdraws and thrusts all the way in . . . again . . . and again . . . and again.

“
Maverick
,” I gasp, and arch and writhe, rubbing my fingers all over his muscles. We move together, and his breath is my breath, his body is my body, and we’re all instinct. I’m only feeling, hazy and raw and alive.

I can’t find words to say how I feel, how I need, how glorious he feels, smells, looks right now.

He grabs a fistful of hair and keeps my head in place as his lips come down to fasten on mine. I expected them to be crushing, but when they touch mine, they’re achingly hungry and gentle as he moves inside my body. I feel full when he’s inside, so full I can’t breathe. I exhale when he leaves me. Then I hold my breath and rock my hips anxiously because I want him in me again.

He drives forward, no hesitation now. He’s instantly picking up speed, his eyes pools of liquid fire, his steel eyes, and I’m flying. My body sweaty, tinged pink; this man, who kisses me like he needs me, looking down at me. Metallic eyes cut and pierce me.

“Still okay?” he asks.

His voice, so gruff and low, does a number on me.

Pushes me to the edge.

I’m writhing for him, dying for him. “Oh god, more than okay.”

He’s taking me now, deep and powerful. “Am I hurting you?”

Maverick Cage. The Avenger.

We’re a part of each other. No teams, no past, no future.

I rasp out, “Only in the best ways.”

He increases speed, stroking his hand over my breasts greedily. I feel his thighs flex as he moves, his biceps, slowing down into a powerful rhythm that pushes me over the edge.

I come. It’s violent and fast, taking over me. Causing me to make a sound—a gasp—and to twist beneath him, and to clench and relax, and to lose my vision as stars flicker behind my eyes. And I realize he slowed down to watch me, then he hungrily kisses my ear, presses his nose to the back of it, and comes with a soft growl, his body jerking over me. He exhales and presses a kiss to the side of my neck, then the top of my head, and when he inches back, we stare at each other.

I don’t know who looks more intensely at the other.

And he smiles at me. His kiss is wet, hungered, as if I didn’t just come in his arms. As if he wants to encompass as much of my mouth as possible. He raises his head and looks down at me.

“How long do you have until you need to get back?”

“A few more hours.”

He unwinds one muscle at a time from my deliciously relaxed body, rolls to his back, and then stares at the ceiling.

“Did you know who I was?” He’s staring at the ceiling, a muscle in his jaw working fast.

“No. Did you?”

“No,” he says.

I swallow. “But you know now,” I whisper.

“A part of me wishes I didn’t.”

I roll to my side to look at him and then slowly lift my leg, and entwine it over his.

He turns his face away as if to get some semblance of control back, exhales, and then pulls me to his side and rubs his jaw against the top of my head. “Reese,” he whispers in my ear. “You shouldn’t be here with me right now.” And then he squeezes me, as if he wants me to be his and is frustrated that I’m not.

“I like it here.”

It’s raining outside, the sound soothing on the windows and hitting the street and the rooftops.

I want to say something. What are we doing?

Do we know?

I think we don’t.

I think we’re here because it feels right. Because we are impossibly, irreparably drawn to each other.

I think it won’t last.

So I just lie here and make this one moment last.

On impulse, I reach down to my jeans on the floor and pull out the penny, showing it to him.

He looks at it in my palm.

Why haven’t you cashed it in?
his silver eyes seem to ask as he takes it between his thumb and forefinger.

Because it feels like that’s all I’ll get from you, this unspoken promise, this blank check, and I don’t want to give up all I’ll get from you, I think.

I just take it from his hand and tuck it into my pocket, saying silently,
I won’t give this back to you. I’m keeping this.

♥   ♥   ♥

MAVERICK LOOKS LIKE
a gourmet meal on the bed, all male, testosterone-laden, dark, and tattooed. And asleep. I watch him, trying not to make noise as I quietly get dressed—and I try not to remember how good it was. How fucking great it was. I am simply doing my best to get dressed and get out of his personal space and back into the safety of mine. Where I’m not the one dating a fighter, sleeping with a fighter, dangerously close to being in love with a fighter. The one fighter I can’t have.

I’m acting recklessly. The other times in my life I’ve been reckless, I’ve paid such a huge price, I’m still recovering.

I shouldn’t have admitted I wanted this.

I shouldn’t have followed him out.

I shouldn’t be here at all.

But at the same time, I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be but here.

I look at the tattoo on his back as he sleeps prostrate on the bed, one arm haphazardly stuck under the pillow, his ass hard and muscled, the backs of his legs dusted with hairs. And my eyes go back to the tattoo, the most beautiful tattoo I’ve ever seen.

It’s a burning phoenix, I now realize, with a black scorpion riding on its back. It almost feels as if the weight of the scorpion is dragging the phoenix into the flames, or maybe the phoenix is the one lifting the scorpion from the fire. Reviving it.

I watch the tattoo and the way it moves, like the feathers of the phoenix, rippling as he seems to sense my gaze and props up on one arm and turns. I step back into the shadows and see him groggily drop his head down, and quietly I tiptoe to the door, making sure I have my penny in my pocket.

♥   ♥   ♥

A HALF HOUR
later, I tiptoe into the Tates’ three-bedroom suite and make my way through the darkness into my room. I lock the door to keep Racer from coming in without notice, strip to my panties, and slip into bed, sighing as I hug my pillow. I shove it under my head and stare up at the ceiling, reliving every moment and every kiss and the way his body moved above me.

Did we just do it?

Did he love it as much as I think he did?

I stare at the ceiling, smiling like a dope.

I dream of the phoenix in flames, burning me, and I wake up, sweating, to the buzzing of my phone. Maverick doesn’t have my number, but I’m still breathless when I pick it up because he’s the first thing I thought of. “Hello?” I ask hopefully.

“I thought of texting, but I really wanted to hear your voice,” I hear on the other end.

“Oh, hi,” I say, leaning back on my pillow as the reality of the reckless hot sex I had last night comes crashing in when I recognize the voice.

“Well, you don’t sound too excited, Reesey,” he teases, pretending to be sad. “Have you already forgotten about me?”

It’s Miles.

Maverick

I
wake up and do a body check of what hurts. Head. Chest. Arms. Shoulders. Back. Quads. Calves. Inhaling, I turn my head into my pillow. Hell, my pillow smells good. My cock wakes up. I reach to the side of the bed for her, smelling more of the jasmine on my pillow. It’s the scent of
her.
The bed’s empty under my hand, and I open my eyes and scan my hotel room. Reese is gone.

I peer at the time, then sit up and curse under my breath. I head over to shower and pull out my training gear. If Tate’s ready to teach me some lessons, I’ll get ready to dish out his. In the ring.

He’s waiting impatiently when I arrive.

Tate’s an aggressive fighter; he doesn’t wait. Neither do I. I’ve seen his tapes. I know his moves. He started boxing in his early years and his endurance has been unmatched in the Underground. No weakness. No mercy. Fast, strong, and precise. He doesn’t waste swings. More than half of his swings always land. My father swung much more, but they were wasted efforts. He would wear out and leave Tate fresh as spring rain, beating him to a pulp. I’m not making the same mistakes my father did.

The gym is vacant save for the three members of his team. His coach, the coach’s second, and his PA. I nod at the three and spot Tate by the bags. I know when a guy’s ticked, and he’s ticked now. Punching the speed bag like he’s out for murder.

I shake my arms and shoulders to loosen them up, pull my hoodie over my head. “I’m here.”

“Fucking late. I would kick your ass for that alone if I weren’t kicking it anyway.”

I grit my teeth and scowl. He turns to grab something from the wall and looks at me, scowling too, and tosses me headgear.

I catch it and toss it aside. “I won’t be needing that.”

“Fine with me. I don’t mind busting your nose.” He climbs into the ring from one side, and I climb in from the other. “Your father and I go way back,” he says.

“It’s because of you he’s in a piece-of-shit hospital bed.”

“Is that what happened?” His eyes gleam menacingly. “He did that himself.”

One of his team members comes over to tape up my hands and then shoves the gloves on me.

At Tate’s corner, outside the ropes, his coach whistles. “You two get some headgear on.
S
tat
.”

Tate’s lips curl rebelliously, and he looks at me with challenge in his eyes.

I smile back, a feral curl of my lips.

We tap gloves.

No headgear.

I jab. He swings his arm, blocks the hit, leaps back, and I jab again, blocked again.

We space apart and jump in place, shaking our shoulders, loosening up. I pull my gloves back up, narrow my eyes, and he asks, “You think you’re the shit because you’re fast and strong? I got news for you. I’m faster, I’m stronger, and I’m disciplined. Your coach isn’t doing you any favors.”

“He’s in my corner, and that’s enough for me.”

He swings, I duck fast and come up behind him. He straightens and faces me again. “If you settle for that, then you should settle for second place.”

“What the fuck. You want me to win?”

“I want a good fight. I like keeping things real. Reminds me I’m a man. Mortal.”

“I want to be a legend. Legends never die. Even if they die alone.”

He swings again, and I duck, come up, and jab three times.

He blocks repeatedly, then hooks with his right; I deflect. He grins and jabs again. I block, then I duck before he puts me up against the ropes, and I head back to center. He follows.

“To be a legend you need to fall seven times, get up eight,” he says.

I remember a final a few years ago when my father kicked Tate to a pulp. “Or not fall at all.”

He backs up his arm and then smacks the smirk right off me. “Before you stop falling, you need to embrace the fact that you’re going to hit the ground.”

I clean the blood from my mouth, glowering.

We take positions again, and he watches me as if waiting for my next move as we start dancing around, jumping, waiting for the other to strike.

“Do you want the headgear now?”

I lunge and start hitting, and he blocks, deflects, blocks. “Fuck you,” I grit out.

“Getting angry doesn’t help. You control the anger, not let it control you.”