Against the Ropes Page 16

  He nuzzled against her neck, inhaling her scent. Imprinting the moment when she smelled like jasmine, looked like heaven and felt like sin. Her hair, loose from its normal twist, tickled his nose and made him want to laugh.

  Why? Why had he been denying them both this moment?

  Because you wanted to make sure there were more to follow.

  He ground into her, pressed hard enough that his pelvic bone rubbed against her in a way that had her jolting, like she was coming out of a dream. “That, oh God, more of that.”

  “The lady asks, and I deliver.” He did it again, and barely managed to bite back the smug grin when she moaned and her eyes rolled back with pleasure. That, right there, was the biggest compliment a man could receive. And getting it from the woman he wanted to impress more than anyone else? Priceless.

  “Yes, please . . .” She gasped, and he kissed her, absorbing as much of her sexy sounds as he could. No telling how thin the walls were, and though he wouldn’t give two hot damns who knew, he wouldn’t have her embarrassed.

  Before long, he knew he was a goner. The pulsing of her walls around him told him she was just as close. Balancing on one elbow, he maneuvered around enough to reach down one hand and caress her clit.

  That touch was the catalyst she needed to explode. Head thrown back in exultation, she bared her throat to him. He kissed against the rapid pulse point, fighting to finish with her. Just as she tilted her head back down to capture his lips, he followed her into his own climax, muffling their groans together as they kissed and their bodies erupted.

  * * *

  GREG rolled so Reagan was splayed over the top of him. She was no lightweight thanks to her height, but her weight felt good pressed against him. He liked the reminder that she was with him, and not going to just fade away, as if their lovemaking were only a dream instead of a real event.

  “I’ve got to be crushing you,” she moaned, but didn’t move. “I couldn’t care less, though.”

  “Shut up,” he said mildly, and kissed the top of her head.

  “I suppose,” Reagan said, tracing a hand over his shoulder, “I have to disclose our relationship now to my supervisor.”

  She said it with all the excitement of a woman walking in front of a firing squad. “You could skip that, but it wasn’t the best idea when Marianne and Brad tried that.”

  “I know.” She sighed again. “It’s just my supervisor isn’t really my biggest fan right now.”

  “Speaking of your biggest fan, that’d probably be me. How could I not be your fan after you did that thing with your hips where you—” He muffled a laugh as she kissed him to keep him quiet. “Sorry. Slipped out.”

  “Uh-huh.” She glared at him, then snuggled into the crook of his neck. “I could just stay here for a day or two.”

  “Fine by me.” His fingertips walked a path up and down her spine, starting at her neck and ending right above her butt. Each time he circled that little dimple of skin, she shivered. “So the real question is . . . are you going back to your room now, or in the morning?”

  “Now.” She started to push off his chest, but he held her flat against him. “Greg, I have to. I don’t have clothes here.”

  “Sure you do. I’m positive I took some clothing off you at some point this evening.”

  “Any fresh clothes,” she corrected, looking exasperated. “Men. Only they would think you could wear the exact same outfit two days in a row and nobody would notice.”

  “We do it every day,” he pointed out. “Nobody says, ‘But Greg, you wore those cammies yesterday!’”

  “I’m going to ignore that.” She sat up and ran fingers through her hair. She looked up, disgruntled, when they snagged in a snarl of hair. “I also don’t have a brush, or anything else I need to get ready in the morning. And I refuse to do the walk of shame ten minutes before I’m doing wakeup rounds.”

  “Task master.” He sat up himself and kissed her shoulder before hopping over to grab his boxers. “Fine. Get dressed and I’ll walk you down to your room.”

  “You will not.” Looking about as offended as possible while still buck-ass naked, she rose up on her knees and let her jaw unhinge itself. “You’re not walking me back. I’m five rooms down. I can manage myself, and it’s much less suspicious if I do it alone.”

  “But we’re not hiding the fact that we’re dating,” he said reasonably. That, he knew, was his first mistake. Being reasonable with a naked female.

  She glared, then started gathering up her clothes. She’d gotten as much as she could when she walked into the adjoining bathroom and closed the door sharply.

  “Okay, then.” He picked up his jeans, then changed his mind and turned the air up in his room. It had been comfortable . . . but that was before he’d gotten sweaty in the sheets. When the door opened a few seconds later, he turned and found a wet dream standing in the opening.

  She wore her skirt, her bra, an unbuttoned suit jacket, and bedroom hair. Her feet were bare and she was scowling at him.

  “Hold on. Don’t move.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I need to commit this to memory, so when I’m ninety-two and I can’t remember my birthday or my middle name, I can still remember what you looked like just after sex.”

  She slapped a hand into his gut and walked by. “Clearly, I forgot something when I went to the bathroom.” She took the jacket off, slipped her tank back on and righted herself . . . dammit. After a few tugs, she pulled her hair into a haphazard ponytail. Minus the shoes, she passed for normal again. Not quite as starched up as she normally would be, but anyone giving her a passing glance wouldn’t see a problem.

  After he got one leg through his jeans, she bent down to kiss his forehead. “I’m going now.”

  “No, wait.” He hopped, trying to catch his balance to slip the second leg into his jeans, but fell back on his ass. “Stop. I said I’d walk you.”

  “And I said I was going alone.” She grinned as she opened his door just enough to slip through. “I win. Good night, Greg.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her retreating back just before she closed the door behind her. It was oh-two hundred, and he had about four more hours before he had to be up.

  That meant he needed to get some sleep. So for tonight, he’d let her go. They’d hash out her hasty exit in the daylight.

  CHAPTER

  17

  The next morning, Reagan began her true education on the sport of boxing. And while she’d paid attention during practices, what she’d witnessed paled in comparison to watching the real deal.

  Though she had watched a few boxing matches online to prepare for the job, the actual match—unofficial though it was—took her breath away.

  Tressler waited for his opponent to touch gloves before the bell rang. But the moment they had, it was on. Tressler came out swinging, which didn’t shock Reagan. The young Marine had more cockiness than he could back up, from what she’d seen. His opponent, who she guessed to be closer to twenty-five or so, let him take a few swings at air before coming at him with several punches on his torso and shoulder. Tressler stumbled back, looking dazed and maybe a little shocked.

  But training won out, and he pulled his head out of his butt enough to refocus and strategize on the fly. Reagan could almost see the wheels turning in his head while he ducked and dodged his opponent’s attacks. After a few moments, he managed a more complex bob-slash-weave thing, then threw an upper cut while still half-ducked over that took the Paris Island Marine totally by surprise. Blood flew as the bell rang to signal the end of the first round.

  Marianne, along with Coach Willis, assisted in the corner while the Paris Island Marine stumbled over to his own corner to be looked at by his coach. Sixty seconds sped by as the coach fought to keep the blood in check, and right at the bell, he ducked back under the rope to let the Marine fight round two with the energized Tressler.

  Reagan sat beside Nikki the athletic training intern as Tressler fought his second round. With each punch, Nikki blanc
hed a little more. She was definitely not used to a more physical sport. Maybe she’d been lulled into complacency by watching the guys fight in the practice gym, where they mostly tagged instead of threw hard punches.

  No tagging here. It was full-out boxing, with flying fists and crunching knocks. The sounds alone made Reagan’s stomach turn. But she swallowed it down, forced a smile on her face, and cheered their team on.

  It helped, maybe, that they were winning. It wasn’t a blowout—because Greg’d explained it, Reagan watched for signs of backing off, and saw them—but it was definitely a solid win.

  But next up was Greg’s round, and she wasn’t at all sure she could swallow down the feelings that was going to evoke.

  The crowd mixed and mingled while the referee and the maintenance switched things out for the next matchup. Coach Cartwright, the corner man for Greg, took his spot next to his boxer.

  When Greg let his robe fall, Reagan nearly swallowed her tongue. Completely naked, the man was a specimen of all that was right and good in the world. But there was something special about seeing him in a pair of boxing shorts, with his hands stuffed in boxing gloves. Those little bits were hidden from the view of the normal public, and only she knew what they covered.

  Nikki leaned over. “He’s so hot, isn’t he?”

  “Hmm.” Reagan wrote down a few notes—work-related, of course—about how the event was running to distract her from the sight in front of her.

  “Nervous?”

  She glanced at Nikki a moment. “No, why?”

  “Your leg.” Nikki bumped her knee against Reagan’s, which was jingling rapidly. “I thought maybe you were nervous for the team. Or maybe you don’t like the violence.” She leaned in closer. “It sort of makes me feel sick to my stomach, honestly. The guys are all so freaking hot, but the blood . . .” She shuddered, then mimed gagging.

  Lovely.

  “No, I’m good. Just . . . anxious, I guess.” Anxious about watching my boyfriend get punched in the face. He was a damn good boxer, she knew that. Faster than greased lightning, but even the fast ones got a few knocks from time to time.

  And when that first bell sounded, and Greg and his opponent knocked gloves then started throwing the punches, she did suddenly feel a little ill. Damn Nikki for putting that in her head . . . Greg threw a combination, and she nearly jumped out of her seat cheering. He took one to the shoulder, then the torso, then a few more to his stomach and she wanted to groan. He evaded, dodged, weaved, and threw a few more punches his opponent didn’t see coming until the bell sounded for round one. Greg retreated to the corner to sit on the small, almost child-sized stool Coach Cartwright had placed there. His back was to her so she couldn’t see his face, which was probably a good thing.

  She looked down and found she’d crumpled the notebook paper in her hand. Smoothing it out, Reagan fought hard to keep her breathing in check. “I’m sorry, I have to . . .” She stood and left a confused Nikki as she exited the gym and moved into the cool air of the hallway beyond.

  Leaning against the tile wall, she hesitated, then took a few slow, deep breaths. How could she be so stupid? How could she think she could sleep with the man one minute, then watch him get punched the next and not let it affect her? She should have been more prepared. Should have readied herself for it.

  How exactly did one ready oneself to watch one’s boyfriend get beat up?

  Must look that up online when she got home.

  A tall, lanky man walked out of the gym and approached. “Feeling okay?”

  She squinted, then barely took in the features of Levi, Marianne’s other intern. He was quiet, usually, but a good student and followed directions well. And had a horrible crush on Nikki, bless his heart.

  “I’m good, thanks.” She took another cleansing breath. “Shouldn’t you be in there?”

  “Taking a break. This one was Nikki’s to assist.” He shrugged and leaned against the wall beside her. Not close enough to crowd, but there, nonetheless. A comforting presence. “Saw you come out here, thought I’d make sure you were okay.”

  “Thank you.” She hesitated. “How do you like your internship?”

  “Ms. Cook is a good teacher. She lets us get our hands dirty when we need to.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Not sure I would have chosen to work on a base, but it is what it is. I’m learning.”

  She wanted to ask more, but he seemed content to be quiet, so she let him. After another few minutes, she heard what she thought was the final bell of the last round, and a round of heavy cheering.

  “He won,” Levi murmured. “That’s my guess, anyway. He was in the lead when I left.”

  “The violence of the sport doesn’t bother you like it does Nikki?”

  He smiled a little. “Nah. Nikki’s smart, but she lets her gut get in the way.”

  More like her young heart. While Levi seemed content to quietly pine for Nikki, she flittered around the training room, offering her heart willingly to any Marine who would hold it for a moment.

  Luckily for all involved, nobody had yet offered.

  “Well, I guess that’s my cue to get back in, then.” She pushed away from the wall, waiting a moment for him to join. When he shrugged and settled in with his cell phone, she nodded. “Have a good break.”

  * * *

  SHE entered the arena again, thankful that the ropes were empty and Greg was somewhere other than having his face punched. She didn’t doubt he’d won. That was, in her mind, indisputable. But seeing him get hit, get hurt, no matter what the scoreboard said, hurt her, too.

  And yes, she was being such a weenie about it. But how the hell was she supposed to feel? Contact sports were not really her thing. She’d been clinical about the rest of the team, but watching someone she looooooo—liked a great deal be hit was too much.

  Whew. Close one, there.

  She settled down behind the Marines who had already boxed or still had time to kill before they started getting ready for their own date with destiny. A few gave her small smiles as she eased in, but most either didn’t notice or didn’t acknowledge her. Fine stuff. She was there as a support, not to garner attention.

  Unlike . . . Nikki. Reagan watched with a grimace as the young woman pouted because apparently, her seat had been taken while she’d been up doing her job. She joked, then mimed sitting on the young Marine’s lap as a solution. And Reagan had to bite her lip to keep from laughing when the smart Marine popped up and out of the seat like a Jack sprung from the box. With a slight scowl, Nikki sat.

  Sorry, sweetie, but we’re here to work.

  Another minute or so passed, and she saw Levi tap Nikki on the shoulder, apparently relieving her to take her own break.

  Over the roar of the crowd, Nikki cupped her hands and called out, “Does anyone need anything?”

  There were a few shakes of the head, but most ignored her, again.

  She put her fists on her hips. “Does anyone want to get some air with me?”

  Even fewer head shakes; most kept their eyes forward and ignored.

  Wise, wise men.

  With an eye roll and a glare, she stormed past the team and up and out of the arena.

  “She’s not happy.” Marianne sank down beside Reagan. “I’m not sure what to do with her.”

  “Give her a talk.” Reagan was over the childishness. She wasn’t even sure how Marianne put up with it daily. “It’s sort of pathetic.”

  “No kidding.” Her friend sighed and rubbed at her temples. Now here, Reagan thought, was a woman she could look up to. She dated a member of the team, but managed to hold herself together without running out the door at the first sign of contact. The team respected her—truly liked her—and nobody had a problem with them dating. And they could be in the same room together without doing that sick touchy-feely thing some couples resorted to.

  Brad sat in a clump of younger Marines . . . his own little mini-platoon, Marianne had called them earlier. He doled out advice and encouragement whe
n warranted. Greg did the same thing, as did Graham Sweeney.

  It was nice, seeing them all get along. Reminded her of her brothers.

  A momentary homesickness pinged against her heart, working its way like a pinball through her ribs until it embedded in her stomach to sink like a cold iceberg. She rubbed discretely at her stomach, hoping in vain to dislodge it. God, she missed her family. And wasn’t that a joke . . . She’d all but run away from them, from home, to make a point to everyone she could do it alone. That she wouldn’t get sucked into the poverty trap of her hometown. That she’d be better. She’d be more.

  And yet, she missed them.

  “You okay?” Marianne nudged her a little. “You look a little sick.”

  “Let’s just say, boxing isn’t my thing.” She sent Marianne a wobbly smile. “How was Greg?”

  “You didn’t stay?” Marianne widened her eyes, then nodded slowly. “Okay, I can see that. Well, he did good. He won, obviously. Though I think the coach was pissed at him for dragging it out as long as he did.”

  “The rounds are timed. How could he drag it out?”

  Marianne smiled a little and bumped her shoulder. “You need to watch more fights. He was unmatched, basically. Could have put the guy down at the end of round one, but he played with him instead. There was no point to it, he just wanted to get some extra swings in, I guess. More practice. It would have been over way faster if he’d wanted it to be.”

  “Oh.” Reagan let that sink in. “Maybe he wanted to give the other guy a fighting chance.”

  “Nice pun,” Marianne said, but shook her head. “Nah. He just wanted to stay in the ring as long as possible. It’s not surprising. I think these guys are all pulling their punches a little, without trying to make it look obvious.”

  Reagan nodded, trying to look like it made sense. Past what Greg had told her about not making things a blowout, she just didn’t know.

  But then the lights dimmed for a moment, and the crowd started to pick up in intensity and she knew another match was coming. Picking up her camera from her bag, she scooted out to the aisle along with Marianne.