Fighting Dirty

“Trust me, the guys correct anyone who has misconceptions on the genesis of the meaning.”

Her tongue took a damp path up his neck to his ear. In a seductive whisper, she said, “That’s so mean of them.”

Wrapping a hand in her hair, he tugged her head back, then kissed the grin on her mouth. “I can tell you’re heartbroken for me.” Another kiss, and then another. It was so easy to lose himself with her. “Rissy...”

“Mmm?” She didn’t want to leave his mouth and kept getting him off track. Her lips were full and soft, her tongue damp and warm.

“I’ve never talked about that with another woman.”

For a second she went utterly still, then he found himself flat on his back with Rissy stiff-armed over him. At first she just stared into his eyes, as if gauging the truth. But she must have liked what she saw because she gradually sank against him. “Thank you for telling me.”

For some reason, he’d needed her to know. She might not realize the significance of him sharing in ways he never had with any other woman—but he understood, and for now that was enough.

“Will you tell me something else?”

Her hair fell around them, shielding her face and moving over his shoulders like an intimate caress. He used both hands to tuck it back. “What do you want to know?”

She turned her head to kiss each of his forearms. “Why did you get these? Do the tattoos mean anything?”

The laugh took him by surprise. He brought her down to his chest, hugging her. “They mean about as much as my goofy shirts or my ever-changing hair color.”

When she struggled to lift up again, he restrained her until she settled against him. He liked her right there, her heart beating with his.

“They mean I’m a little different.” He thought about it, and shrugged. “Also, if I see something I like, I go with it.”

“Not me.” Her fingers played over his fevered skin. “You liked me, right? But you always kept me away.”

His arms tightened. He’d liked her most of all and denying himself had been hell. “We’re here now, right?”

Ignoring that, she asked, “And the tattoo on your back? The winged heart wrapped in thorns?”

Breathing became a little more difficult.

“It’s not colorful,” she said, gliding her fingertips up and down his forearm. “Not like these.”

He wouldn’t lie and tell her it meant nothing, so instead he said, “It’s just different, that’s all.” And it was far too freaking personal to discuss with anyone, but especially Rissy. To keep her from digging, he abruptly turned, tucking her under him. He nudged her legs open and, damn, his dick aligned with her sex. They both went still, except that he felt Rissy’s nails on his shoulders, digging in.

He liked that.

“Your ankle is okay?” he asked.

Eyes vague, she nodded.

Seeing that particular lost look on her face pushed him past common sense. Though he badly wanted to, he didn’t enter her. Instead he slowly rocked his hips and with each pass his cock spread her wetness, gliding between her lips, making her pant with the friction to her clit.

Fuck, it felt good moving against Rissy without any barriers between them. He watched her face, loving the slippery heat of her, how she squirmed and lifted into him.

Yeah, she was already on the ragged edge and he wanted to push her over. Framing her delicate breasts with his hard hands, he lowered his head and licked at her nipples, nipped carefully with his teeth, alternately drew each nipple in for a soft, leisurely suck, then tugged carefully with his teeth.

Her breath caught. She strained away before curling closer. Soft, desperate whimpers told him she was almost there. While drawing on one nipple, he scooped a hand under her ass and angled her up, tighter against him.

A few more strokes and she came with a short, stifled cry, her willowy body bowing hard.

Raising his head to catch every nuance of her release, Armie watched her, absorbed while also worried for her ankle—and his own sanity.

Taking short, panting breaths and moving sinuously beneath him, she began to calm. “Mmm,” she purred. “That was...surprising.”

She was surprising, in a million different ways. “Don’t move.”

At Mach speed he rolled on a condom, settled back over her and slowly went deep. Urgency throbbed in his veins, but he made himself take it easy, giving her time to catch up again.

And she did.

Thirty minutes later, one of her hands fisting the hair on the back of his head, she groaned, “Enough, Quick,” mocking his name since he’d just dragged out the pleasure for her in an excruciating way.

“Funny,” he whispered, watching her face contort with raw pleasure. “It doesn’t sound bad at all when you say it.” She broke again, and this time he joined her.

Nothing seemed bad with Rissy.

But in his heart he knew it couldn’t be this easy. Not for him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Armie wrapped up a stint of working on cage strategy with some of the guys Havoc and Simon had sent up. It had been a good deal for all; the guys new to the rec center had enjoyed mixing it up as much as Armie had.

He only had four weeks left before the fight, and he knew he was in better shape than he’d ever been.

There’d been nonstop promo to do, with radio interviews running into online chats and too damn many photo shoots and fan meet and greets for him to keep count. He understood the necessity, but that didn’t mean he liked all the fuss.

There were plenty of fighters who loved the attention, getting off on all the praise. Since he wasn’t one of them, he was thrilled that the majority of the fuss was now behind him.

Only a few people were left at the gym this late and already Armie looked forward to getting home to Rissy.

Ever since he’d given her the key, she’d all but moved in.

’Course, her house was still there, comfortable, cozy. A real home.

Waiting.

At any minute she could walk, and for her it’d be seamless. It made him antsy to think about it. He didn’t want to jump the gun, but once he got past this fight—

“Hey.” Denver, who’d still been around working with some high school boys, joined him now that he’d seen the last guy out the door. “Harper said you wanted to see me?”

“Yeah.” That had been a couple of hours ago, before Harper and Gage left. “You’ve been busy today.”

Denver winced as he stretched, flexing his shoulders and popping his neck—which usually came from frustration-based discomfort, not a workout. “You know that kid, Bray Huggins?”

“Fifteen, shit attitude, shittier home life.” The kid was usually tired, and his clothes looked like they came from the laundry basket. “I’ve been working with him. What’s up? He piss you off?”

“I wish that was it.” Denver folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against the concrete wall. “He had some bruises.”

Armie paused in the middle of putting weights back on the rack. “Where?”

“Here.” Denver ran a hand over his own massive biceps. “Little bruises, like fingertips. And he has a cut on his nose and a scrape on his neck.”

Ah, hell. Armie forgot all about the weights. “I don’t suppose he was in a fight?”