Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Page 17

  At least he was taking the weigh-in seriously. Judging by his earlier actions, she was under the impression he was worried about it. Why else would he suddenly burst into exercising? Yet, now he appeared...calm. As if the weigh-in didn’t matter—which perhaps to him, it didn’t.

  Logan and Chloe stood near the back curtain about ten feet behind Keane. The kid, Willie, stood off to their right, preoccupied with making odd, I-am-trying-to-look-mean-but-only-seem-ridiculous faces. Jerry had positioned himself off to one side of the scale, just out of Keane’s reach. Smart move. Keane looked ready to throttle ol’ Squirrel Face.

  A raucous AC/ DC song, “Back in Black,” boomed overhead. An appropriate song, as Keane’s track suit covered his back in black oh-so-well.

  He kicked off his beat-up sneakers and tugged his sweatshirt over his head, mussing his hair into a just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

  Her breath caught when the tight dark T-shirt followed. This was a sight she’d never grow tired of; deliciously taut pecs and abs that made you want to run your tongue along their grooves. She blushed, thinking of how she’d done just that, remembering how his muscular chest pressed her down into the mattress, how strong he was—all over.

  “He’s hot,” Chloe whispered. No arguing with her there.

  Mr. Eyegasm slid his thumbs into the waist of his sweatpants and, with one fluid tug, yanked them down his legs. Stepping out of them, he presented her and Chloe with two perfectly shaped butt cheeks outlined by soft white briefs.

  Despite having watched the other fighters strip down, Logan exhaled deeply, and an honest-to-God grunt came from the woman next to her. Keane was just...the total package, like caramel cream inside a bonbon. He tasted just as fine, too.

  “Boom-Yay O’Shea!” the crowd began to chant. Keane’s rear end tightened along with the rest of the mass of muscles so amply displayed in front of them.

  He shook his head, as if the slight gesture would stop the excited crowd. Raising one foot, he went to step up on the scale, hesitated, and stepped back. Placing his hands on his hips and turning slightly, his head swung around so he could look directly at...Willie. She shifted on her feet, wanting—needing—a sign of reassurance. Instead, he ignored her completely.

  What the blazes was he doing? Why wasn’t he stepping up on the scale? Damn. His actions spoke volumes. He wasn’t going to make it.

  He turned a fraction of an inch more, presenting them with a perfect profile as he assessed Willie thoughtfully. Raw restrained power reverberated off his chiseled form. Six foot two of sweaty, rugged male caused a surge of adrenaline to fire through her and her heart to thump wildly. The intricate tribal tattoo rolled across his body like a dark inky wave as his muscles flexed even with the slightest of movements.

  Chloe shifted next to her but Logan didn’t care how her companion responded to Keane. How could any woman not react to such male perfection? His face was downright beautiful, with strong cheekbones, a well-proportioned nose—no knots or bumps from fighting there. Logan licked her lips, remembering the taste of his own full ones.

  The fine sheen of moisture coating his chest drew her gaze lower. Still lower, she sought out that mouth-watering indentation above his hipbone, fully displayed just above the elastic of his low-hanging briefs. But even her favorite spot didn’t hold her attention long as her eyes continued downward, to the large bulge nestled within the thin cotton material. She felt drunk, lightheaded, giddy, knowing the full extent of what was barely concealed there. How so perfectly masculine he really was.

  “Hold on there, Jerry. One more thing,” Sal called as he jogged across stage with a towel in his hand.

  The spotlight overhead seemed brighter, the heat more intense. She needed a towel, a moistened one. Something to cool down her raging libido.

  Sal snapped the material and tossed one end to Jerry. They stretched it out in front of the scale and formed a sort of barrier between the crew onstage and the crowd. Low enough that the audience and cameras could still see their faces.

  Against her will, her eyes shifted, then quickly lifted. No one held a candle to Keane in briefs...not even Marky Mark in those Calvin Klein ads. Close but not close enough. Interesting how the only piece of clothing Keane wore that wasn’t black were snug, white briefs.

  “Come on, Keane,” Sal urged, breaking the sensual spell.

  She snuck another peek. But as she glanced up, her eyes collided with Keane’s bright baby blues. Something changed within them. The fine creases, so prominent when he was angry, softened. A hint of an oh-so-naughty smile tugged at his lips. He knew what she was thinking.

  Then, without breaking eye contact, he stripped off his underwear.

  The crowd picked up their chant of “Boom-Yay O’Shea!” Chloe let out a nervous giggle. And Logan, blushing furiously, tried her very best not to look. Not with the way Keane stood, studying her—almost daring her with his beautiful body.

  A second later, his expression changed. He shook his head, turned and stepped up onto the scale.

  “Whoa. For a second there, I thought he might wrestle ya down onto the stage,” Chloe leaned in and whispered in her ear. With that, the girl fell silent again, probably checking out the eyeful of ass standing there on the scale.

  His upper legs were muscular, thick and corded. His hips narrowed, setting off a small, tight ass, white as baby powder compared to his darker skin elsewhere. Powerful buns.

  “One hundred sixty...eight pounds,” Jerry shouted, pleased and excited. “We have a fight, everyone.”

  Babyface stepped toward the photographers and struck a pose with fists up and legs bent.

  Keane stepped off the scale, uncaring that his jewels swung about with his abrupt movements. Bending at the waist, he grabbed his clothes off the floor, stepped into his briefs and sweats, and swiftly tugged the T-shirt back over his head.

  Jerry reached out to touch his arm but snatched it back, thinking better of it. Instead, he gestured toward Young Gun, muttering, “Picture time.”

  Chloe gasped as Keane sauntered toward them. Barefoot, his sneakers dangled from his fingers and his sweatshirt and coat were swung over an arm. “Let’s go.” With his free hand, he lightly grabbed Logan’s elbow and nudged her to move.

  “Piiictuuuure time, Keane,” Jerry repeated loudly, sounding more anxious and irritated.

  Keane led her across stage toward the curtain as if he hadn’t heard Jerry’s order.

  Logan forgot about Jerry, the audience and the reporters snapping shots from the corral. Her awareness shifted to the man at her side. The lingering warmth from the fingers that had just been on her elbow.

  The surprising feel of his big hand, as it touched the bare skin of her backside and propelled her forward.

  He led her along a small corridor in the underbelly of the arena. Once at her locker room, he stopped, his palm leaving her ass to hit the door open. He followed her inside.

  “What’s wrong? You made the weigh-in. You were worried about it, right? I could tell by the way you were exercising. What else—”

  “He’s a kid.” Keane hunkered down on a bench in front of the lockers. Dropping his gear, he braced his forearms against his legs. One palm ran across his face and his fingers skimmed over his brow bone.

  “So, you’ll win the first bout easily.”

  “You are so fuckin’ naïve. How many fights have you watched?”

  Logan looked down at him. His hand cupped a cheek as he studied the floor. Something was drastically wrong. He wasn’t exactly angry...more pained. Upset.

  “Huh?” Though rage simmered below the surface, judging by his prodding. He wasn’t going to like her answer. “Um...I’ve worked five bouts, including yours. They all ended quickly. There was no need to stand around, watching and waiting. Jerry’s so busy, he doesn’t care whether I stick around while the other girls
work. Up until now, I never wanted to watch someone get his face kicked in or getting slammed into a mat. It’s not exactly my type of performance. So I usually keep to myself inside the locker room. But don’t forget, I worked with Sal at the gym and observed many sparring matches, mostly with Jaysin Bouvine. I suppose for an Octagon Girl this sounds odd—”

  “Now what?” This word was muttered in a voice so low, Logan almost missed it. She’d rather have him angry...she didn’t know how to deal with this unidentifiable emotion. This wasn’t anger, but something more frightening. Something deeper, more tragic.

  She reached out, wanting to comfort him, and touched his arm. He pulled it back as if burned, but his head swung up and his blue eyes shimmered with raw emotion.

  “Can’t do it.”

  His words felt like a jab to the solar plexus and left her breathless.

  “What can’t you do, Keane?” she whispered, fearing the worst.

  He wasn’t going to fight.

  All the time spent cajoling, worrying, training and hoping. Just as she was growing into her Octagon Girl role. Just when her future seemed brighter...

  She waited for him to finish, for him to say that one word that would crush her dreams... fight. But when a few heartbeats passed without further comment, she marched away. Her hand was still warm from where she’d touched him, yet her throat had tightened from his rejection.

  “Fuckin’ Jimmy.”

  Fuckin’ was right. And why bring Jimmy up now? It wasn’t like he was here, telling Keane not to fight.

  Her locker was around the other side. The shadows from the broken fluorescent overhead fit her mood perfectly. She entered the combo and glared at the stack of Octagon Girl outfits in cellophane, neatly piled on the top shelf and labeled with the number of each bout. Outfits that now wouldn’t get used. Jerry was going to be pissed off at the unnecessary expense once he recovered from his coronary after learning Keane wasn’t going to fight.

  She swallowed hard and listened for Keane, hoping he was still there. But what did she expect, his emotions on a platter? Not his style.

  Hastily kicking off her other sneaker and tennis sock, she headed toward the end of the row of lockers and turned the corner. His big body stopped her dead in her tracks.

  “Keane,” she breathed.

  Time halted for a fraction of a second. Not a second after that, Keane was on her. She was grabbed, spun around, and pushed up against the hard locker by one hundred and sixty-eight pounds of tight-lipped male. His head angled and ducked in for the kill. He kissed her with such force her world tilted. Her body cried out for more. More. Forgotten were her pride, worries and any lingering sense of preservation. All she wanted was him.

  His knee wedged between her legs. One arm slid around her waist. His free hand tugged at her top’s knot and yanked it free. A low growl vibrated against her lips. He stepped away and tore off his black T-shirt.

  “Grab the bench.”

  She shot him a look. His jaw was tight, mean. But the heat in his baby blues spoke volumes. There was need there, a desperation she felt to the bottom of her toes. She said a quick prayer that Chloe wouldn’t wander in, and then, as fast as her shaky legs could carry her, she did as she was told and found the bench.

  He placed a warm palm on her back, bending her forward. She clutched the sides for support. Before she knew it, her boy shorts were sliding down her legs. She stepped one foot out of them, leaving her completely bare. A rustling of clothing behind her made her skin prickle with anticipation.

  An arm wound around her waist, adjusting her. A hand ran along the length of her back. A knee pressed between her legs and widened her stance. His palm caressed her buttocks, one at a time. A slight slap caught her off-guard. She gasped.

  “That’s for what you did earlier. On stage.”

  His fingers fondled her moist folds. A shiver ran up her spine and continued, even though he broke contact.

  He bent farther over her and reached around to grasp her breasts in his hands.

  Feminine intuition took over. Her hips thrust back and connected with the hardened length of him. She wiggled.

  Keane grunted.

  His tip found her warmth. One smooth thrust and he filled her completely. A hand shifted from her breast to between her legs, his fingers expertly stimulating her nub. He slowly withdrew, plunged and massaged her until she was panting. He was everywhere at once: his wicked hands caressing her, his massive body surrounding her, his warm lips pressing against her skin, his careful handling making her entire body shake.

  She wasn’t alone in her need. His mouth paused from suckling her neck as he made a sound low in his throat. His chest heaved against her back as he pressed her forward.

  Nothing had ever felt so wonderful. So beautiful. So naughty.

  On the next earth-shaking plunge, he grunted, “Condom.”

  “Uh...”

  “Shit, don’t move, hear me?”

  She heard his sneakers on the thin carpet as he left the locker room. Her skin flushed pink. Splitting leotards, here she was, bent over a bench with her bottom in the air, more than ready for what was coming next, in the women’s locker room!

  The door vibrated, and Keane returned.

  “Lock it, okay?” She heard the metal lock snap into place.

  “Told you to stay put,” he said from behind her. Every fiber of her being was on high alert. She heard his clothes rustle as he stripped off his pants, a box hit the carpet, and the condom lightly snap before he rolled it on himself. “Now you’re gonna get it.”

  He tugged her upright, rotated them around, and sat on the bench, yanking her firmly down on his lap with her back to him. Her legs automatically spread as she took him in one smooth thrust. Her groan filled the locker room.

  His legs spread wider as he lifted her upward and tugged her back down, his pace quickening.

  Her body shook as pleasure rolled over her.

  A slight shift of her hips caused him to hiss. His pace became frantic. Small kisses found an ear, cheek, until her head turned and her lips captured his.

  Incredibly, her body welcomed every rough inch of him. Squeezing her thighs into his legs, she arched at his withdrawal and dropped down on his thrust. The fingers at her waist tightened as their rhythm intensified. Like the swirling path of his tribal tattoo, her release coiled up within her, beginning deep within her womb and snaking its way up into her chest.

  He must have sensed it. Slowing his pace, he ground up into her and urged her on. She rose and crested in a huge tidal wave of warm, slick moisture.

  “Logan,” he said, the low gravel in his voice resonating deep inside her. His arms wrapped around her body and he pulled her in tight. She felt his heart beating wildly as his chest pressed up against her back. He thrust up into her hard as his own wave followed her over and, together, they shattered.

  * * *

  Afterward, she felt his forehead pressed against her shoulder. His long, warm breaths caressed her skin. He wasn’t the only one breathless. Mindless. Speechless. No words could describe what had just happened. She had never felt more connected to someone, so in tune to their every movement, every breath. A euphoric feeling filled her senses. It was even better than a standing ovation. She’d never felt so desired, so thoroughly pleased.

  He sat back, but the warmth of his body remained. She wanted him to hold her. What she didn’t want was for him to let go.

  One hand left her hip. He’s going to pull away.

  A good thing his back was to her. She feared her rush of emotions for this beautiful, troubled man were plastered on her face like a neon billboard. This is a business arrangement with benefits to him. Don’t get all adoration-eyed and...emotional.

  Another rush of pleasure ripped through her as she stood and slid off of his semi-erect penis. Ho
w was that even possible?

  His other hand fell from her hip. Yep, aside from the hard evidence to the contrary, he was done. His purpose—and passion—had been served. Better for her to be the first to move away. Distance herself before he did. Without looking at him, she crossed the small space and bent over to retrieve her shorts.

  “Leave ’em, baby.”

  He moved behind her, snatched the shorts away, and hurled them across the locker room. His arm snaked around her waist. He hoisted her up against his chest, and sauntered off toward the glass enclosed showers, grabbing a towel from her locker en route.

  Logan had always believed that of all athletes, ballerinas possessed the greatest stamina. She was happy to be gloriously, deliciously, and oh-so-thoroughly proven wrong.

  Chapter Thirteen

  BUTTERFLY GUARD: When a fighter hooks both ankles inside an opponent’s thighs to prevent him/her from moving. Often used to get out of a Submission Hold and often followed by a Sweep

  Three times. Three locations. Three positions. That’s what it took for his troublesome mindfuck to go away. Or so Keane wanted to believe. Except he was pretty sure the first time, with Logan bent over the bench, had done the trick. The other two times...well, he’d rather not dwell too deeply on the itch he couldn’t seem to stop scratching.

  Logan winced as she brought the dinner plates over to the kitchen sink. He tensed, almost spouted an apology, until he spotted the satisfied smirk of her lips. He relaxed, only mildly disappointed that the source of his itch was too tender for a fourth round. Hopefully, that meant she was also too tired to probe further into his fucked-up psyche.

  He’d put her off the first time she tried questioning him about the comments he’d made in the locker room. Silenced Miss Inquisitive right smack in the middle of his foyer, too. Jesus, the couch or a bed would have been more comfortable. Yet, Logan hadn’t seemed to mind.

  Shit, how was he supposed to explain his mindfuck—the memories and guilt plaguing him—to her?