Chapter 12
Jamie
I say nothing to Ethan, because I’m too angry to form words.
And it doesn’t surprise me when Gianni, my wrestling opponent, decides to leave quickly.
Ethan is looming over us, his eyes dark, his face stony.
He appeared silently, surprising us both, and though his expression reveals nothing, there’s a crackling energy around him.
As though a dangerous intensity of feeling simmers inside him, hot enough to burn.
I’m clearly not the only one who feels that energy. Gianni stammers a quick goodbye to me, grabs his shirt and bag, and races out.
Once the door shuts behind Gianni, I tear off my mask and glare at Ethan.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand.
Then I give a disgusted huff, not letting him reply.
“No, don’t tell me. You’re going to give me some line about being afraid for me, right?
You still can’t believe I can handle myself. ”
Ethan folds his arms. “I know you can handle yourself.”
“Yeah, sure.” I roll my eyes. “That’s why you turned up uninvited.”
I’m more disappointed in him than I should be. He’s just another arrogant man, expecting me to be weak. So why is it hitting me so hard? Why did I expect him to be different?
His gaze stays level, but his expression softens. “I wanted to see you fight.”
I snort at the ridiculousness of his excuse. “I have a Youtube channel. You can watch any fight you want.”
“It’s better seeing it in person.”
That’s horse shit. But it’s clear he’s not going to back down.
“Don’t you have better things to do?” I snipe, my disappointment with him making me lash out. “Buildings to pull down and lives to ruin?”
He shrugs. “It’s Sunday. Ruining lives can wait until tomorrow.
” He walks across the gym floor to the tiny kitchenette in the dark, far corner of the gym.
When he opens my uncle’s fridge, the light that shines out of it illuminates his handsome face, accentuating its hard, rugged lines.
He scans the contents, then pulls out two beers and pops the tops off the bottles with the opener tied to the fridge handle. Then he walks over to offer me one.
He stops in front of me, the beer held out. “Peace offering,” he says.
The gym is darker than it should be because the water leaks have blown some of the lights.
Ethan is wearing a black t-shirt with just enough stretch across his broad chest to accentuate his build, and jeans that hug his narrow hips.
His black hair is more unruly than usual, as though he’s been dragging his hands through it, and his eyes look dark and predatory in the dim light.
We’re alone here. He smells delicious. And all at once, I’m aware of how little I’m wearing.
A shiver runs up my spine. My disappointment fades, replaced by more primal feelings. Unwelcome, physical feelings.
Damn him for being so attractive. Even his arrogance is appealing. His confidence. His charisma. It all makes me wonder what it would be like to be desired by him. And every time he turns his gaze on me, hot sparks lick up my body.
“You’re stealing my uncle’s drinks now?” I demand, not reaching for the beer. “Have you no shame?”
“Tomorrow I can fill the fridge with whatever your uncle wants.” He waggles the bottle. “Come on, sit with me a minute. Catch your breath. That was an impressive fight.”
I hesitate. Then I take the bottle and cross to the boxing ring where I’ve left my towel hanging over the ropes. I use it to wipe the oil off my body, then wrap it around myself. I’m not usually self-conscious, but I don’t want him to notice how my nipples have hardened.
Once I’m covered, I sit on the edge of the ring, the ropes against my back.
Ethan sits next to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his thigh.
The towel around me does exactly nothing to stop his heat from seeping into my side.
And as he sips his beer, I can’t help but admire how his forearms are roped with muscle.
I take a swig of my own beer, hoping the icy cold, refreshing drink will dampen the heat that’s coiling low in my belly.
“It’s hot in here,” he says.
“Because the air con’s broken.”
“Are you sure your uncle doesn’t want to sell this place?” He gazes around shamelessly. “He could house his gym in a bigger, newer building. One with cool air.”
“Drop the damn subject, Demolition Man. You know how I feel about it.”
“Can’t blame me for trying, but okay. I won’t bring it up again.”
“Good.” I stretch out my legs. Another sip of beer, and the muscles in my shoulders loosen.
“Tell me how the organization for the boxing match is going,” he suggests.
“Rachel’s been helping out,” I say. “And Uncle Vito has some of his students making posters and getting the word out on social media. But we sold so many tickets at that ball, I’m confident we’ll be able to sell out.”
He nods, looking down at his beer held loosely between both hands. Something in his expression makes me ask, “Are you afraid Miles might beat you?”
“He can’t beat me. I won’t let that happen.” His tone is firm, but I frown, wondering if he truly understands what he’s getting into.
“Have you ever been punched in the face?”
He chuckles, gifting me with a flash of such gorgeous dimples that my lungs empty.
“Try not to be surprised,” he drawls. “But no, I haven’t. Not since my schoolyard days, at least, and that wasn’t serious.”
I fight for breath. They’re just dimples, dammit. Unexpected little cheek holes. Nothing to get dizzy over.
“Well,” I say. “When you get punched, it’ll be a shock.
Especially taking a hit to the face. Adrenaline will flood your system, making it hard to think.
That’s when newer fighters come unstuck.
The adrenaline makes them forget all their training, and they instinctively jerk backward, leaving themselves exposed. ”
“How can I keep that from happening to me?”
“Practice getting hit.”
His lips lift and his dimples reappear, perfect and devastating. This time, I manage to keep breathing, though it’s a struggle.
“Tell me the truth. Are you saying all this because you really want to punch me in the face, and this gives you the perfect excuse?”
I laugh. “Guilty.” Then I scrunch my nose. “But also, I guarantee Miles will land some blows. You need to know how to handle it when he does.”
“Okay.” He sips his drink, then looks down at his beer bottle. After a moment, he says, “For the record, I think you’re an exceptional fighter. Better than any man I’ve ever seen. And I know you can handle yourself.”
“Then why did you come here?”
He turns his face to me, sharpening his focus. Suddenly, there’s tension between us. His gaze moves from my eyes to my lips and back again. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he admits, his voice low and intimate.
That deep tone slides into my body like a triple-shot of whisky. It burns in a good way. An exciting way. My skin seems extra-sensitive. The towel is rough against my stomach, my breasts feel heavy in my bikini top, and between my thighs is a heavy, pulsing need.
I’ve never met a man like him. All he’s doing is sitting next to me, and I’m incredibly turned on.
I swallow and manage to make words croak out of my dry mouth. “Why couldn’t you?” I ask. “What is it to you?”
His eyes flare. “You really want to know?”
The simmering tension gets even stronger, crackling like electricity. We’re heading into dangerous territory, but I don’t want to stop. I can’t stop.
“I asked, didn’t I?”
His storm-gray eyes pin me. There’s no smirk, no smug retort.
His hand snakes out.
One second, I’m clutching my beer bottle, the next he’s taking it from me, setting it on the ring’s edge. Then his fingers curl around my wrist, his fresh calluses from our last workout scraping against my oil-slick skin. My pulse thrashes against his thumb.
“Stand up,” he says. A command, not a request.
Every muscle coils. Every nerve sparks.
I rise. Maybe it’s because turning down a challenge isn’t in my DNA. Or maybe it’s because my heart is hammering, my thighs are quivering, and I desperately want to know what he’s going to do. The towel slips lower, and I have to haul it up. My red bikini feels thinner than smoke.
He stands too, crowding into my space. High-wattage heat rolls off him. His palm curves around my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. His other hand lands on my hip.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.
“Still hyped from the fight,” I lie.
His thumb drifts lower, tracing the seam of my lips. My knees damn near buckle.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
I should. God, I should. But I don’t say a word. His palm slides up my neck, cradling the base of my skull. Then going further up.
I feel a tug on my hair as he pulls the elastic out of my ponytail, letting it tumble over my shoulders. He runs his hand through it, smoothing it down, and his gaze devours my face, his eyes darkening.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, his tone reverent. “Even better than I imagined. You’re a fucking knockout.”
He leans in slowly, giving me every chance to duck or object. But his breath ghosts warm and sweet against my mouth, and I lean into it like a flower chasing sunlight.
The first brush of his lips is featherlight. A question.
I answer by grabbing his shirt and yanking him against me.
A rough noise tears from his throat as our mouths crash together. Not soft anymore. Our kiss is desperate, devouring, like we’re trying to claw through each other’s skin. His fingers dig into my hips, hauling me so hard against him that his hard-on presses into me.
Some part of me knows this is wrong. The rest of me yanks his t-shirt up so I can scrape my nails over stomach muscles that feel like carved marble.
He hisses. The backs of my legs are against the base of the raised boxing ring, my upper back against the bottom ropes.
Every roll of his pelvis lights wildfires under my skin.
My hands roam his abs. I feel frantic, shoving his shirt up to explore more of his body. He’s all hard edges and coiled strength, and I need all of him.
Ethan’s teeth graze my bottom lip. His hand scorches a path up my ribs, thumb skimming the underside of my bikini top. I’d push the fabric aside for him, only I tape the triangles of fabric to my body to keep them in place while I fight.
Every one of my nerves feels like it’s been dipped in gasoline, igniting into an inferno. I want him between my legs. There’s not enough friction. Even when he slips his leg between my thighs, it’s not enough. I need him inside me.
In frustration, I run my fingers across his nipple, then pinch it. He growls, hand fisting my hair to angle my face deeper into the kiss.
I drop the towel, and he pulls back enough to let it fall.
“Fuck,” he whispers. Then his lips recapture mine.
Our breaths are ragged. He slides his hands down to my ass, pushing my bikini bottoms aside to grip my bare flesh.
Then he hoists me up and I lock my legs around his waist, slick skin sliding against his t-shirt.
He rests my butt on the bottom rope that circles the boxing ring.
Finally, his erection is between my legs, pressing against me.
A primal sound escapes me. I arch into him, hips rolling, chasing friction. Through his jeans, his erection digs into my core, the sweet ache making me whimper. He stills, panting against my collarbone, every muscle trembling.
"Fuck," he rasps. "I want?—"
My phone blares on the mat, the harsh ringtone shredding my haze.
Reality crashes through me like a bullet.
Gasping, I press against his chest. His arms tighten for one devastating second. Then he pulls back, his eyes questioning.
“Stop,” I pant. “I can’t do this.”
Instantly, he lets me slide to the floor. My legs nearly give out as he steps back from me.
The phone keeps blaring. It’s Uncle Willis, checking in with me after the fight like he always does.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asks, his voice rough.
He braces against the ropes, his shirt smeared with oil, lips swollen from my teeth. He runs a hand through his hair, wrecked and beautiful. My gaze snags on the tent in his jeans and heat floods my cheeks.
My own lips are sensitive from his stubble. I can taste him on me. Smell his cologne. My bikini is in disarray, and I have to fish the fabric out of my crack and tug it back into place over my butt cheeks.
What was I thinking? That went from zero to what-the-hell in no time at all.
“You should go.” My voice sounds flayed. I bend to grab the towel from the floor.
He steps closer. “Jamie?—”
“Don’t.” I back away, clutching the towel to my chest. The scent of him still clings to my skin. “That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have kissed you. And I definitely shouldn’t have let it go that far.”
His jaw hardens. “Why the hell not?”
“You’re my client. We crossed a line. And I don’t even like you.”
He flinches.
I instantly regret the words. But it’s too late to take them back.
Ethan’s lips tighten and he rubs one hand across them. His gaze shutters, shields forming in his eyes.
My phone stops ringing. The silence feels lethal.
“I’ll go,” Ethan says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t...” I shake my head, words failing me. Even now, I want to say to hell with it and keep kissing him. But then I think of the awful state of his building, of Bartholomew and Betty, and all the other people who don’t have homes because of him.
Ethan doesn’t care if people hate him. But I do.
His jaw clenches, then he turns to leave, striding for the door, his back stiff.
I don’t wait to watch him go. Instead I stumble into the locker room and slide down against the wall. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out his retreating footsteps.
Pressing the towel to my swollen lips, I silently scream into it.