Knock Out (Worth the Fight) Read online

  Slowly, he swung his legs off the bed and stood. She didn’t notice. Instead, her arms fluttered out to the sides and fingertips wiggled, caressing the air. Slight, quiet movements complimenting the mellowing beat of the music.

  With a few long strides, he narrowed the distance between them, coming up behind her. Her chest was flushed a sweet shade of pink, its reflection in the mirror rising and falling with every breath. Heat rose up off her skin. Her hair was a mess, partly still swept up in a knot of sorts but mostly falling onto her shoulders in disarray. One part of her neck was bare, exposed, and to his liking.

  The music began to crescendo. In response, she came up onto her toes. As the rhythm built, her bounces changed to small jumps with arms elongated over and upward. The tiny tutu fluttered as he stepped closer.

  Hell, he’d been waiting all night for her to make a move, not pull away like she’d been nipped in the ankle by the devil. Her performance was both surprising, and flat-out stimulating.

  Also, it was about to end.

  On the next jump, his hands found her waist and caught her mid-flight. Her toes pointed downward and her body came to a fluttering halt as she dangled in the air.

  “What...?” she gasped and stared at him, wide-eyed, in the mirror.

  He let his hands reply, slowly lowering one of her legs to the floor. He hooked the curve of his arm behind her other knee, lifting higher and higher until her leg was back up beside her head. Returning her to this position made his blood run hot all over again.

  Gently, he pressed his body against her back, bumping her up against the mirror. Their eyes locked while he waited for an invitation to continue.

  She blinked but didn’t look away. A myriad of emotions appeared in her somber, green eyes. Uncertainty, nervousness...but, thank God, no fear. Desire flared deep within their depths.

  Inch by inch, Keane lowered his head, breaking eye contact. Her back stiffened as his lips found the warm, exposed skin of her neck. He sucked, and her calf muscle twitched against his arm.

  “Wouldn’t it be...easier on the bed?” she whispered.

  He nipped at her neck and worked his tongue in an upward trail to the back of her ear. “Yep,” he breathed.

  She ground her ass into him. He shifted her foot in his hand. Beginning at her ankle, he ran his fingers downward, over the raised skin of her scar, and still lower, over her bare calf. His other thumb moved in unison, massaging small circles across her inner leg.

  Her tight muscles flexed beneath his digits. She liked it all right. A pleasant surprise, those muscular legs of hers. Long, endless legs, with skin so fucking soft, it felt like the fine chalk powder he poured into his fighting gloves.

  He returned his tongue to what was becoming his favorite spot on her neck as thumb and fingers journeyed lower still. Flexing his abdomen into her back, he pushed her against the mirror.

  His thumb shifted lower and, with fixed intention, rubbed over her panties, right between her legs.

  Moving his tongue along the dewy trail to her ear, he whispered, low and deep, “Flex your leg higher.” Seeing her dance, that taut, limber body of hers moving, had given him ideas.

  She gasped, and for a moment, he fought for control. The urge to unbutton his pants, part the red material between her legs and bury deep inside of her was that strong. Instead, he followed through on what he’d planned on doing since the first time she’d pulled that lovely leg up alongside her head.

  He ran his thumb along the elastic band on the scant piece of material covering her center and, with a slight nudge, slid it beneath.

  A shiver ran up her back and against his chest as he found her moist cleft.

  “Oh my God,” she groaned.

  He kissed her neck as his thumb pressed deeper, pulled away, and coated her nub with moisture. The movements were repeated, quick and urgent.

  She was close. He increased the pressure and felt her shudder. Removing his thumb, he worked two fingers inside her wetness, loving how her inner muscles greedily contracted around him. Tighter and tighter, as he withdrew and, just as quickly, slid his thumb back inside.

  It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed bringing a woman to climax with his fingers. Moving his tongue along her neck, he once again licked his way behind her ear. A few nibbles, with his thumb smoothly sliding in and out, had her trembling and ready.

  But she had one more move to complete, a prelude to another type of completion. “Dance for me,” he growled, before swirling his tongue and darting it into her ear. His thumb mimicked the action.

  “Now? Later. Oh, please, Keane,” she cried out. She felt so fucking hot around him. He promised himself that his rigid cock would find some warmth as well. Sooner rather than later.

  “I want you on your toes,” he demanded.

  For a split second, she hesitated. He slowly withdrew his digit until the pad of his thumb rested on her folds. With a thrust, he buried it back inside.

  “Dance. Do it.”

  “Okay, okay. But please... Oh, my God.”

  She rose onto her toes of her left foot. The slight shift upward caused his thumb to slide downward, and downward still. Her back arched against him, her leg flexed tighter, and with a throaty moan, she shattered.

  * * *

  Logan’s legs turned liquid as Keane lowered her onto her feet and broke contact. She rested her head against the mirror and fought for equilibrium. A drunken headiness washed over her, assisted by the louder-than-Beethoven’s-”Ode to Joy” hum running throughout her body, distorting her ability to think.

  Keane leaned into the mirror as well, his hands to the sides of her head. Big hands, with long fingers, she noted beneath her eyelashes. Hands she wanted to feel run over every inch of her body. Another rush of warmth spread to the juncture between her legs. God, it had been so long since she wanted someone with such savage intensity.

  She’d never imagined dancing could be sexually satisfying. A deliciously titillating kind of foreplay. A naughty overture to what was coming her way. With Pierre, dancing was always work and only enjoyable in front of an audience. The rare occasions where she’d danced solo for him had been anything but pleasurable—especially when his habit of criticizing her ruined her desire to ever perform for him. The egotistical jerk. Hell, he’d turned her off, never on.

  Pierre had assured her other dancers experienced the same hang-ups. Strict diets, strenuous dance rehearsals and the stress of being a prima ballerina were the reasons sex with him was bland, as non-descript as eating a bologna sandwich. What a bunch of bologna.

  Come to think of it, since meeting Keane, her libido had shifted from dormant into overdrive.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so incredibly...fulfilled. Unsettlingly so. And to think, this was the appetizer before the main course. All six foot two of muscled fighter.

  Opening her eyes, she caught his smirk in the mirror. A quiet invitation. She swallowed hard.

  He nodded toward the bed.

  “How about...” she began, her voice hoarse with desire. How about I take a beautiful swan dive onto the mattress, you join me and we go at it?

  He tilted his head and arched an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

  “...I bring us some water?”

  He stared at her for a second. “Okay.”

  She stepped away from him, instantly missing the warmth of his body but at the same time needing an intermission to find her breath.

  “Logan.”

  Hearing her name roll off his tongue made her want to sprint to the kitchen, then back. “Yeah?” She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Once we’re in it,” he gestured toward the bed, “don’t count on leaving anytime soon.”

  Her body flushed from head to toe. Hell, buckets of water wouldn’t quench the thi
rst she had for him.

  “Be right back,” was all she could muster before stumbling into the living room.

  Late-night host Sophie Morelle’s voice filled the silence. The cocky darling of cable television was Logan’s favorite after-hours host. Tonight, she was listing reasons why some washed-up actor should star in a new sitcom—something about more strippers in the prime-time line-up.

  In the kitchen, she filled two tall glasses, not really paying attention to Sophie. For the first time in months, Logan was eager for what might come next. Starting with the surprise waiting for her in the next room.

  It wasn’t until she headed back into the living room that she realized who Sophie’s guest was. That someone landed an invisible sucker punch and knocked the air out of her.

  She dropped the plastic glasses, the water showering her legs and bare feet, the glasses landing hard then rolling in opposite directions across the wooden floor. Not that Logan really noticed, as she grabbed the remote off the couch and turned up the volume. There was no mistaking that smug voice. Pierre.

  Logan glared at the TV. The fame hound sat on a chair across from the host, as arrogant as could be, while three buxom women in tight tube tops and tutus were paraded in front of him.

  “Pierre LaFeur, a favorite to win America Gets Its Groove On, is with us tonight. Pierre, some people think you’re callous for not taking any responsibility for what happened on last season’s finale, where you so famously dropped your former partner. Come on, Pierre, her average-sized tits interfered with you catching her?”

  “Well...er...for a ballerina—”

  “I understand that several other male prime-time hosts—not saying any names here—have called you an expert on female anatomy. In the spirit of joining the boys’ club and trash-talking women, tonight we’re asking you to vote for the biggest set of hooters.”

  The women pranced across the stage, each stopping to pose in front of Pierre.

  When the camera zoomed in on the awkwardly ridiculous expression on his face, Logan attempted a laugh. But her throat constricted tightly.

  If the world knew the truth. How Logan had made it through three months on a reality show she’d had no desire to be on. How four weeks before the finale, she’d been basking in the warmth of a standing ovation from her performance before the Queen of England. How one week after Pierre had fumbled his catch and dropped her on the show’s finale, she’d caught him in a pretzel position with her understudy, Anya, in her bed.

  She felt Keane come up behind her. Pimp my plié, the humiliation never ends.

  Sophie Morelle continued on relentlessly. “Personally, I find the buzz about your former partner’s breasts offensive. But hey, viewers are eating it up—as you well know, Pierre. Clearly, the network is thrilled to have you back this season. But what you might not know is not everyone agrees with you. Her knockers don’t seem to be an issue for this hunk of sin...”

  A picture filled the television screen. Logan let out a dry, inaudible rasp and her eyes darted toward Keane, who was silently towering over her. His eyes shifted from curious to narrowed and pissed-off. The lines around his mouth pulled tighter.

  Fearing the worst, her attention swung back to the offensive image on the screen. The paparazzi had really gone all out, bulbs blazing. There, decked out in full, fluorescent pink Octagon Girl regalia was Logan. Shot from the side, they’d captured her pressed up against a sinewy mass of male. Keane, no mistaking him. No mistaking either of them. Or the leering faces in the background.

  His hands cupped her bottom and back. Her head was angled toward his. And their mouths were lip-locked in what appeared to be a toe-curling kiss.

  “Fuck,” Keane growled in her ear.

  Sophie continued on, oblivious to the tension building like molten lava in Logan’s living room. “A girl after my own heart. Looks like she found a profession that appreciates a shapely woman.”

  Again, the camera panned to Pierre. A tight fake smile was plastered on his face.

  What she’d give to wipe that expression off his lying lips. Before she could muster an explanation for Keane, the photograph disappeared.

  Abruptly, one of the women stepped onto the small chair, spread her arms overhead, and leaped forward, aiming for Pierre in a less-than-perfect Logan imitation. Pierre jumped to his feet. His arms circled around her as they connected. He wobbled for a split second but found his footing.

  “See,” Sophie stated gleefully, “I proved my point. You can catch someone with a rack the size of watermelons.”

  Having Sophie on her side did not make Logan feel any better.

  An oh-so-familiar irritation washed over her. Just you wait, Pierre.

  Keane moved past her and clicked off the TV. “Your ex? From the newspaper?” He didn’t seem the type to appreciate the attention either. Not one bit, judging by the tone in his voice.

  What could she say? Even if she could speak—which she couldn’t, as a fistful of rage lodged the words within her throat—how could she discuss the depths of despair that sucked the life out of her every time her ex lied about that damned dance?

  Oh, she was going to get even with Pierre, that much was certain. Once her life was in balance. Once she was back on her toes again.

  “I’m gonna fight, all right.”

  Her mouth fell open as she stared at him. Perhaps something good had been salvaged from tonight’s wreckage.

  His thumb caressed her cheek. Something crossed his face. Compassion. Sympathy. Just as quickly, his finger was gone.

  “Not for the title,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

  He headed into the bedroom, marched over to the bed and grabbed the folded blanket lying across the foot of it. Moving past her frozen in the doorway, he tossed the blanket onto the sofa. “Better get some rest.” His actions were abrupt, but his tone was kind.

  Still, it didn’t matter. Pierre had ruined the evening.

  Her eyes shifted from the pile on the sofa to the Renoir-style painting above it. Revenge was going to taste even sweeter than taking his prized possession.

  Just you wait, Pierre.

  “Logan.” The way Keane stressed the a in her name in that deep, gravelly voice of his soothed her irritation. “We’ll see how quick your ex-partner is on his feet. Pretty boy LaFool is gonna eat his teeth.”

  As Keane spoke, his voice changed. Less kind, more menacing. So much so that shivers ran up her spine. His threat said it all.

  The market on revenge wasn’t exclusively hers.

  Chapter Four

  FOOTWORK: How a fighter moves his/her feet to best maintain balance, mobility and striking power

  Bam, bam, bam.

  The steady thump of someone pounding on the oak door of his Victorian home seeped into Keane’s semi-consciousness. He awoke with a jerk, sprang to his feet and immediately reached for his gun. Only his hands came up empty. Shit. The Afghanistan/Pakistan border was a world away but at times like this, it felt so real. Realizing his mistake, he rubbed his palms over his face in an effort to wake up. There it was again, loud enough to clear away the last of his drug-and-booze-induced stupor.

  The digital alarm read 10:00 a.m. Who the hell was looking for him this early?

  His neighborhood, Shadyside, was nice enough, with its Victorian mansions and well-maintained apartments. For the most part, people were polite but kept to themselves. Which suited him fine—he didn’t want anyone nosing into his business. Less wise-asses looking for trouble, too. It was the anonymity of this posh neighborhood that made him spend a bit more cash on the place.

  Keane made his way downstairs to the foyer and without pausing, threw the door open.

  “Dude, did you see yesterday’s Pittsburgh Post? Your ugly mug is front page news, though the real reason I picked up a copy was because of that Octagon Girl...
Luscious Logan.”

  Keane glared at Stevie through throbbing, tired eyes.

  Jesus. Her again.

  The memory of Logan’s long, firm leg flexed against the mirror plagued him like a frustrating hangover, in spite of how his cock stirred each time he thought about it. He wasn’t one to dwell on past hook-ups—hell, getting a ballerina off with his thumb two nights ago hardly rated at all. But something about her stuck with him.

  The 6:00 a.m. cocktail hadn’t relieved his pounding head, and this unwanted publicity made him want to pound someone else’s head.

  He moved to close the door in his friend’s face. Stevie’s reflexes were quicker—it sucked to have sober friends—and he shoved his foot in the doorjamb. “Shit, man. I haven’t seen you in a year and this is my welcome?” His friend pushed his way inside.

  “Ever hear of a phone?” Keane asked, his tone harsh, but relented by stepping back a few inches. One thing he knew about Stevie: the man was stubborn, with a stiff back that rivaled his own. A trait that had served them both during their third tour together in the Marines.

  “Nice place,” Stevie commented. He tugged off his jacket and tossed it on a chair, making himself at home as if a year hadn’t passed by. The kid was fit, had slimmed down some, and seemed...happy.

  “But you, Coach, look like shit.” Stevie was joking, but Keane caught the concern in his eyes.

  “Don’t call me that.” Scowling, he changed the subject. “Why the visit?”

  “Can’t I look up the only friend I have in Pittsburgh? I’m headed to New York City. They want me to train personnel at a new recruitment center. Thought I’d make a stop to see your sorry ass on the way from Ohio.”

  Clearly, Stevie had overcome his driving issues—the constant searching of the roads for booby traps, the ball-clenching fear you’d experience in everyday situations that flared up when least expected. At least there was hope for one of them.