Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (13 page)

Marianne sighed and covered her heart with her hand. “He's so hot, and good with kids, and seriously has a body to die for. On top of that, he does dishes? I can see red flags everywhere.”

“Shut up. So after dishes and a few rounds of video games with Zach, he gets Zach in bed—”

“Hold on. He tucked the kid into bed, too? Jesus, what does this guy have to do, cure cancer? Marry him!” Reagan demanded.

“Shut up,” Marianne and Kara said together. “Let her finish,” Marianne added.

Reagan shot her the finger, but waved for Kara to continue.

“So we're on the couch, and it sort of comes out how I could use the help with Henry and the child support. No hesitation, he offers to help. Not that he can represent me, but just with research and stuff. To save me some money.”

“Perfect,” Marianne said.

“I'll take him if you don't want him,” Reagan added.

“You have a boyfriend, Greedy McGreederson.”

Reagan shot Marianne the finger again. “Continue.”

“So in my gratitude, I sort of started making out with him. Which led to . . . stuff.”

“She's been through childbirth, but can't say the word ‘sex.' Sex. They had sex.” Marianne spun in her chair. “Hot mama alert!”

“No, not really.”

That caused Marianne to grab ahold of the desk to stop the spin midflight. “What? You've got that man on your couch and you didn't have sex?”

“I would have! He didn't want to. Or something. He gave me the most intense orgasm of my life—even including the ones he gave me on Sunday—”

“Show-off,” her best friend grumbled.

“We're going to have to interrupt this program here and get some details. Come on. Most intense orgasm . . . how? Something. Anything.”

“He . . .” She felt the tips of her ears burning, and she double-checked the door leading to the training room. Empty. “He went down on me.”

Both friends watched her expectantly.

“And he wouldn't let me make a noise.”

Reagan cocked her head to the side.

She sighed. “So all that normal tension-burning stuff, the moans and the groans and the sighs, it had nowhere to go. Everything felt three times as intense because it was all bottled up beneath my skin waiting to burst out. When the orgasm actually hit, and I still couldn't make a sound . . .” She sighed and shivered a little. “I can't really explain it except to say . . . wow. That's the best I can do. Wow.”

“That,” Marianne said after a full ten seconds of silence, “I might have to try.”

“Yeah, no kidding. My muffin melted a little just thinking about it. You may continue,” Reagan said.

“And that was it. I offered to return the favor, but then he talked about how it was just for me and that was fun for him, and it doesn't always have to be an even trade-off and whatever.” Kara waved that away. “I don't get it. I was willing. I was basically putty in his hands. He knows I want him. And it's not like we haven't already done it. What happened?”

“Kid factor?” Reagan guessed, taking a bite out of her muffin and kicking her heels a little in delight. “I really don't get how you make these muffins without all the normal ingredients and they're still so good.”

“In an effort to avoid the expensive boxed mix, I experimented a lot. And no, he clearly had no problem with the oral part in the same apartment as Zach. He just . . . stopped everything.”

“He stopped himself. Because he wanted to give you a special moment. It's sweet. Stop overthinking it. Be grateful for what sounds like a mind-blowing orgasm and call it a win.”

“A man who can give you an orgasm and leave without pushing for sex is definitely scoring points,” Reagan agreed.

“He didn't leave. I mean, not right away.” She blushed, then told them about falling asleep, only to scramble to make it appear as though they were having a morning yoga private.

Both Marianne and Reagan spent several minutes laughing at the mental image Kara painted. “So he's there doing sun salutations, wearing the same thing he wore last night, and Zach had no clue?” Marianne asked through gasps.

“He's ten, and a boy. They don't tend to make the fashion connection.”

“And he let you put him through morning yoga to appease your son. Extra bonus points,” was Reagan's comment.

Marianne added, “Go back over there tonight and screw his brains out as a thank-you.”

Kara stared at Marianne. “I can't. Zach. I can't afford to keep hiring a babysitter so I can get laid.”

“What's your schedule like today?”

“Class at nine, class at ten, class at one, private at—”

“Aha!” Reagan pointed at her with the muffin. “Lunch nookie. They have a three-hour break for lunch, from eleven to two today. Be at his house, waiting for him, after you get done with your second class. You've got two hours for a nooner. Make them count.”

Kara looked to her friend to confirm. Marianne nodded with a smile. “You deserve this happiness. Don't let future junk get in the way.”

“I haven't told him. About not being able to leave, about the reality of no future.”

“You will. And something tells me Graham isn't about to take that as an answer. But either way, you'll get there. Now before we leave, let's—damn,” Marianne muttered under her
breath as she heard voices. “Here come . . . hey, Levi. Hey, Nikki.”

The two walked hand in hand, shocking all three women. Nikki quickly pulled her hand from Levi's, blushing and turning away to store her bag in a drawer. Levi looked supremely pleased with himself. Maybe Kara wasn't the only one who'd gotten some the night before.

“Okay, I'm heading out. Levi, Nikki, would you like a muffin before I go?”

Levi took one and gave her a smile. “Thank you.”

He was such a shy boy, and she worried about his heart when Nikki inevitably broke it. “You're welcome. Nikki?”

“Too much fat,” the young woman said, wrinkling her nose at the basket Kara held out. “Nope.”

Uh-huh. “I'm out. I'll, uh, keep you updated on the events as they unfold.”

Both her friends grinned at her as she walked out.

13

“I
'll bring Simpson some food during lunch, since he's taking the shift here between practices.” Greg nodded at the youngest of the team, who had changed into street clothes and was now settling against the folded-in bleachers with a tablet to watch a movie. “Probably get something for myself, too, and just eat here with him. Reagan's got a meeting so she's not available for me to bug.”

“You're getting fast food, aren't you?” When Greg scowled, Brad shook his head. “Nasty. Your body—”

“Is a temple. I know, Grandpa.” Greg clapped Graham on the shoulder. “How are we friends with this guy?”

“He's got the hot trainer hookup.”

“Ah, right,” Greg mused as Marianne exited the training room and waved to Brad. He followed without another word for them. “He's toast. If they're not married in a year, I'll eat my boots.”

“I doubt it happens that fast.” Graham watched as the two interns followed Marianne out. The young blonde
paused, looking back toward the gym and the solo Simpson sitting there, then kept walking.

Were they being too obvious with guard duty? If people started noticing the guys hanging around the gym for a purpose, it could backfire.

“I'm heading home. I could use a nap.”

Greg wiggled his eyebrows in a crude gesture. “Yeah? Late night?”

“Yeah. I got my ass handed to me. Twice.”

That had his friend's brows lifting in surprise. “What?”

“Oh, yeah. Rough all around. He really let me have it on that second round of Minecraft. That kid knows how to build.”

Greg rolled his eyes and bumped against him. “You suck. Fine. I'll ask. How are things with Kara?”

Though he knew his friend would never spread rumors or gossip, he decided to keep Kara's troubles to himself. If she wanted others to know about her issues with her ex, she would tell them. Maybe already had. “Good. Moving slow.” Probably should have moved slower, but that was over and done now.

“Slow is good when you've got a kid to consider. Great kid, though.”

“You're not kidding.” They parted ways in the parking lot. “See you at two.”

Greg waved, and Graham drove the fifteen minutes home through the back gate. When he turned down his street, he squinted. There was another car parked in his driveway.

As he pulled closer, he realized whose it was, and he grinned. Kara had come to visit.

She got out of her car as he pulled into his garage. She wore skintight pants that capped at her ankle and a racer-back tank, showing off her svelte body to perfection. Her feet were in running shoes and her hair, in a high, messy bun. A few strands of hair were stuck to her temple, as if she'd been sweating earlier, and it had dried that way.

“Hey, you.” He opened his arms and she walked right into them, as if it were an everyday occurrence to meet for lunch at home. The idea appealed. “What brings you to my neck of the woods at this time of day?”

“I had time, and a little birdie told me you did, too.”

“Is the little birdie about yea tall, with Nordic goddess coloring and can wrap an ankle in under a minute?”

Kara laughed at that, wrapping one arm around him and walking with him into the house. “She would love that description. But no, this birdie likes impractical heels and business suits.”

“Reagan.”
Thank you, Reagan.
“I admit I don't have a lot to eat here. I was just going to sort of scrounge around for something. Not very healthy, I know, but it works.” He opened the fridge and passed her a bottle of water without looking behind him. She took it, and he heard the top crack open. “I see my leftover salad from yesterday, which I could eat but you probably wouldn't want. Maybe a sandwich? I've always got bread and peanut butter and jelly. Some lunch meat, but that's probably not safe, so—Whoa.”

Kara's hand slipped below the waistband of his shorts and yanked hard enough to send him stumbling back a step. The refrigerator door snapped closed.

He leaned back against the counter by the sink, watching as she set the water bottle down on the table. Something had shifted in her gaze. Gone was the easygoing yogi happy to spend the lunch hour relaxing on his couch with a sandwich. In her place was a woman who had an obvious hunger nothing in his fridge would satisfy.

“I've been thinking,” she said slowly, walking to him. One step, she toed off her running shoe and let it drop. Then another step, toed off the other. Left them where they landed. “Thinking about last night.”

He knew a moment of panic, then realized no. This wasn't regret. This was a continuation. “Yeah? Are you going to ask
for a repeat performance? Just to make sure I haven't lost my skills overnight?”

“Mmm.” Threading her fingers through his hair, she shook her head. “Another time. But right now, I need some practice.”

He wanted to ask what kind of practice, but she sealed her lips over his and kissed the question out of his mind. When he grabbed her hips to pull her into him, she stood on her toes, bringing their groins together. With a groan, he reached for the waistband of her yoga pants. She did the same with his shorts.

Thanks to the modern invention of the elastic waistband, she had his shorts around his ass before he could blink, his hardening cock in her hand and she was stroking him fast. At this rate, he'd last maybe a dozen seconds before shooting off in her hand and ruining the entire lunch break. When he managed to get her pants over her butt and down to her knees, he grabbed her ass, twirled her around and deposited her on the counter.

“Ohmygod, that's cold!” She shrieked it, hissing in a breath and shifting her weight from cheek to cheek. He pulled and tugged until one of her pant legs came free; the other, he abandoned entirely to dangle from her calf. Then she stopped shifting as he thrust her thighs apart. Yoga had definitely done her well, when they split wide, giving him easy access. She no longer could reach him, but her core was open and perfectly displayed for him.

He bent down and gave her a few testing licks, inserting two fingers quickly to pump. If he didn't speed her up to where he was, he'd embarrass the hell out of himself in three quick thrusts. He wouldn't—couldn't—leave her hanging behind.

Her hips pistoned up and into his hands while he licked and circled her clit with his tongue. Gone was the hope of staying quiet, and she moaned and muttered his name, clutching at his
head, the counter edge, the cabinets behind her head. “Graham, Gra—oh! Stop! You ha-have to st-st-stop or I'll—”

He straightened, positioned his cock at her entrance, and thrust hard into her. She closed around his erection with tight heat. His six-foot-two height gave him just enough leverage to ease in and out of her snug opening. She clawed at his back through his shirt. He might carry marks later, and he'd wear them proudly.

The sound beside his ear was nearly a scream when she fluttered inside, around him, then came. He followed her over the edge of the climax, all but draped over her and the countertop.

*   *   *

WHAT
a lunch break.

The thought made her giggle, then send a silent thank-you to Reagan for insisting she give noontime nookie as try.

“Laughing while a man is still inside you isn't very kind,” Graham admonished, nipping at her shoulder. He was still half on top of her, breathing heavily. She patted his sweaty back in a
there, there
gesture.

“Just thinking about how I'll never be able to think about a lunch hour the same way again.”

“No kidding. I think I—fuck.”

She blinked at the ceiling. “Well, okay, but do you think we could take a five minute break first?”

“No, I . . . damn.” He pulled from her in a wet slide, then quickly grabbed the roll of paper towels and handed her a few. “I forgot the condom. Kara—”

“We're good. I'm covered and clean. Which you would have known if I'd mentioned it, and I hadn't. That's on me.”

“Same. I mean, clean. Not covered, because, well . . .” He indicated where he was wiping at his half-erect penis. “Not covered, as they don't yet make male birth control pills. That was irresponsible of me. I'm an asshole.”

“You're not an asshole. It was wonderful to be wanted that much.” It had been like two animals mating, not two mature adults. Fantastic. Refreshing. Needed. “Don't be hard on yourself,” she demanded, cupping his cheek. When he fixed his shorts, took their paper towels and tossed them at the kitchen trash can—two points—she noticed he wouldn't look at her. “Graham.”

“I should have been more careful. Especially with you. When you know what—damn,” he muttered again when she felt a cold chill sweep through her. “That wasn't right, either. Kara, I'm fucking up all over the place today. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Maybe with another man, she could have read it differently. But with Graham, she believed his apology sincerely. He would never insult her, insult her son purposefully. “You're right, I do know what the repercussions are. At eighteen, I didn't. Or, maybe intellectually, I did, because hello, health class. But what eighteen-year-old can know that for sure? I'm an adult. I trust you. I know you respect me. It's different.”

He let his forehead drop to hers, and he simply waited. Breathing with her, until she couldn't tell if her rhythm had matched his, or his matched hers. They were simply in tandem now. “You humble me with your faith. I should be more careful with you. You're too important to be careless.”

“Have a little faith in yourself, please. I do. You're not careless. It was unbelievable to be wanted like that. Hell, Graham, you couldn't even get my pants off.”

“Or mine. God, you do something to me.” He hugged her gently, as if she were a precious, fragile thing to him and he wanted to surround and protect her. Insulate her from all things. The thought made her eyes sting, so she buried her nose in his neck and breathed in. “We're combustible.”

That got a laugh out of him. “Can we take this back to the bedroom, or do you need to go?”

She looked over his shoulder at the kitchen clock. Judging travel time, plus traffic, she said, “I don't think my lunch hour is quite over yet. I could be persuaded to look at the dessert menu before I go.”

That made him laugh harder. Standing up straight, he gripped the backs of her thighs so she had to wrap her legs around his hips. “You've got a habit of carrying me to bedrooms.”

“They don't make a patch for that. Guess I'm stuck with the habit.”

“Such a shame,” she said, drawing a pattern on his back while he walked.

She had to tell him the rest. Had to tell him not to get attached. To apologize for letting things get this far, letting things evolve so much that two hearts could easily be broken when it ended.

Maybe three hearts.

But the illusion of a happy couple with nothing but bright skies ahead was too tempting. When he laid her down on his bed and finished stripping her properly, she decided the storm clouds could stay on the horizon. At least until tomorrow.

*   *   *

FEELING
good about life, Graham headed back to the gym a little early. Kara had needed to be at her next class an hour earlier than he did, but his home, with the reminder of her and of their wild romp, felt too empty after she'd left. As he pulled up, finishing up the last of the sandwich he'd hastily thrown together and wrapped in a paper towel for the drive back, he realized Greg's car was nowhere to be found. Hadn't the other man said he'd be bringing Simpson back something to eat since he was doing guard duty between practices? He checked his watch as he climbed out of the car. He had plenty of time to double-check with
Simpson, then run out and grab the guy something from the MCX if Greg had forgotten.

As he walked into the gym, he heard nothing but the low hum of the florescent lights suspended far above. The building was old, and the lights probably predated the Second World War. Okay, maybe not that old, but the majority of the place was pretty ancient, which was why the boxing team was the only one who used it 90 percent of the time. The maintenance crew was constantly putting Band-Aids on the building. Patch job here, quick fix there. Soon enough, Graham figured they'd raze the thing and start fresh. Just not before the end of the season.

When he rounded the corner of the folded-in bleachers, he found Simpson and—surprisingly—Nikki sitting side by side against the bleachers. They spoke in low tones, so he hadn't heard them before.

As he got closer, he realized Simpson was doing almost no talking. It was all Nikki. And Simpson looked supremely uncomfortable with the whole thing. Most of the guys had wised up to the intern's game early on. Tag chaser, all the way. Even as he watched, he saw Nikki lean forward emphatically, and Simpson inch back.

Poor kid. He was probably twenty or twenty-one, and had no clue how to let a woman down gently. Everything in his body language screamed
I'm uncomfortable!
But Nikki was either clueless as clueless could get, or she was deliberately misreading the situation in order to advance her own agenda.

Graham feared the latter, but couldn't discount the former.

“Simpson!” he barked, wanting to save the kid. “Get over here.”

Eyes wild, the younger Marine jumped up, startling Nikki back a bit, and ran over to him. “Sir, I—”

“Don't speak,” he ordered, biting back a smile when Simpson immediately went to attention. He was a good
Marine, and a good boxer. The kid had a future for sure. “Simpson, have you eaten lunch?”

“Yes, sir.”

He didn't care for the “sir” when on boxing time. Together, they were a team, no one man higher in rank than the other once they stepped into the ring. No uniforms, no insignia. Their leader was their coach, and that was the end of it. But for the moment, the military hierarchy served a purpose.