Against the Ropes (21 page)

Greg's large hand cupped the back of her neck and he pulled her in for a seriously heated kiss. One that melted her memory and erased the day's stresses.

So he could settle and soothe, but he could also frazzle and ignite. Point made.

“Missed you today,” he breathed as he pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. “Practice wasn't the same without you clacking around the gym in those heels of yours. Where were you all day?”

She started to answer honestly then closed her mouth. It wasn't something she wanted to relive again, for the third time.

She swatted at his arm and closed the door behind him. “I wasn't expecting you tonight.” Which explained why she was wearing a pair of ripped sweatpants and a loose, see-through ribbed cotton tank. She could have done a little better with some advance warning.

“Missed you,” he reiterated, toeing off his running shoes. “Hanging with the guys is nice, even with a half-sized man-cub in the mix, but this is where I want to end the evening.”

The simple statement, made effortlessly as he moved to her kitchen to get a bottle of water, warmed her even more than that kiss had. “How was hanging with Zach?”

“Interesting. I don't have much experience with little kids, so that was different. Sweeney guarded him like a hawk. Seriously, he had his pantry stocked with enough Oreos to feed a platoon. He's crazy about that kid.”

“Aww.” She debated for a moment sharing what Kara had said about there being no chance with Graham, but she figured that was Kara's battle to fight. Or not fight. Personally, as much as she respected and admired Kara's independence and willingness to make it on her own, Reagan was secretly pulling for Graham on this one.

“But he's ten, and smart, so not completely green.” Greg grinned as he sat on her couch. “I got quite the lesson in dating.”

“Oh, really?” Reagan straddled his legs and settled herself on his lap. Thanks to their near-identical height, her face was a few inches above his, and she had to look down to smile at him. “Share the wealth, please.”

“Well . . .” Greg set the bottle down on her side table, careful to use the coaster she'd placed there, and ran his hands up from her hips under her shirt to press against her back. She leaned against him. “I've learned that guys and girls ‘hang out.' That's what we're doing. Hanging out. Adults, of course. Kids don't do this sort of thing.”

“Naturally.” She breathed in the comforting scent of his skin and nuzzled against his neck.

“Ah, woman. Your nose is freezing.” He pulled away a little, but she pressed harder into him.

“Tell me about your family.”

He stiffened under her, but she pressed a kiss to his jaw. It hadn't escaped her that he'd fought off questions about his past before. But things were different now. It wasn't like she needed him to spill all his deep, dark secrets. She just needed something—anything—to tell her she was important enough to open up to, even if it was crack by crack.

He said nothing, and she felt his hands start to drift from her back. “You said you don't have experience with kids . . . no nieces and nephews?”

“Why are we talking about kids when I've got my hands on your skin?” he growled, kissing her hard.

But she couldn't let him get away with it this time. It was too important to her now. “Just something. Anything.”

His hands gripped her hips, thumbs sweeping down below the waistband of her ratty sweats. “My life started at seventeen, the day I stepped onto that bus on the way to boot camp. Can you accept that?”

She could have pushed. Probably should have. Relationship
experts would have said she was a pushover. But the desperation in his voice, hidden under a thin layer of steel meant to armor, squeezed at her heart the way no amount of deflection could have.

She smoothed a hand down his cheek, cupping his face with her palms. “Sounds like we both ran from something.”

“So let's start running
to
something.” He captured her lips with his.

21

H
is initial instinct had been to avoid. Distract, duck, evade and maneuver his way out of the conversation that led to him confessing his entire ugly childhood. He didn't want to go there willingly.

But as Reagan deepened the kiss, pressing into him, his motive turned from distraction to . . . oh, who the hell cared what his motives were? There was a smoking hot woman on his lap and she was kissing him senseless. Motives be damned.

“God, you do the best things to my body,” she said, gasping when he nipped at her ear. And when she started to pull the tank up and over her head, she was grinning. She threw the fabric to the armchair and arched her back as he took one nipple into his mouth. His hands rubbed down her bare back, loving the feel of her soft, smooth skin. The arc of her body was almost artistic as she rested her hands on his knees behind her.

He was crazy for this woman.

Slipping one hand inside the waistband of her sweats, he
squeezed her ass. No panties. Perfect. She wriggled, but made no move to help him out with the sweatpants like she had the tank. So, he'd just do it himself. He walked that hand, those fingers, around to the front, where she giggled as he pressed into her stomach momentarily before finding her center. Parting her, he found the exact spot he wanted by touch alone and rubbed at her clit.

“Oh . . .” She rubbed against his hand. “Yes, please yes.”

“Like I'd say no to you,” he growled, moving to pay attention to her other breast. Her hands squeezed hard on his knees in response. She was still arched back, offering herself to him in every way possible.

After just a few flicks, a couple of caresses, she exploded against his hand. Her body raised up and then over him, pressing him deeper into the couch as he helped extend her orgasm as long as he could. Thighs pressed against thighs, skin against skin, and he was ready to throw her down, rip her pants off and plunge into her with all the grace and elegance of a water buffalo.

But she finally stilled, gripped his wrist to pull his hand from the waistband of her sweats, and climbed off with a secret smile. “Come to bed.”

“What's wrong with the couch?” he protested, following along easily. He liked a bed as much as anyone else, but there were other ways to make love. Creativity and variety added a dash of something else to the mix.

“It's a nice couch, and I paid good money for it, that's why.” She grinned as she entered her bedroom, then hopped out of her bottoms. “The bed's more comfortable, and less likely to be wrecked when I attack you.”

“Attack me, eh?” He pulled his own shirt over his head and tossed it, working on the buckle of his belt before she could say more. “Sounds exciting.”

“Hopefully.” She chewed on her bottom lip a moment, and he immediately dropped what he was doing and walked to her.

“Whatever you're thinking, stop. I can't wait to have you again. Whether it's slow and sweet or fast and sweaty, I'm going to be inside you in the next two minutes, and it's going to be damn good. Because it's with you, and there's no other way for it to be.”

Her eyes closed briefly, and he wasn't sure if she were composing herself or convincing herself. But either way, when her eyelids lifted, it was determination and anticipation he saw in those beautiful brown depths, not trepidation.

Picking her up with a squeal, he tossed her on the bed and jumped on top of her. He reached into her nightstand and fished around for one of the condoms they'd thrown in there the evening before. Then he stood, shucked his jeans and donned the protection. He slithered back on bed and rolled them so she was on top, straddling him.

“Off you go.”

She glared at him. “Off I go? What, like I'm a racehorse now?”

“No,” he said slowly, enjoying himself more than he could ever remember before. “But I'd been ready for some girl-on-top sex on the couch, and you deprived me of it. I think it's only fair you make up for it now.”

Her scowl was adorable, and totally unbelievable. “Make up for it, hmm?” Grasping him with her hand, she squeezed once, and he swore he saw stars behind his eyelids. “You want me on top, riding you, like we were on the couch? You want me to do all the work, so you can watch me bounce around?”

“Yes, please.” He grinned when her annoyed look only darkened further. “Bounce away!”

She positioned herself over him, slid down his length, taking him entirely. He moaned, knowing she liked the sound of reassurance. “There we go. God, that's good. You're amazing, Reagan.”

She huffed.

“A goddess. Temptress.” She pulsed around him without moving a muscle. “Ah . . . siren. Pick a noun, it's yours.”

She rocked, just a little. “Let's try
tease
.”

His eyes flew open. “No, please. Back to goddess. That was a good one.” When she simply stared at him, unmoving, he added, “Reagan, please move.”

“I'm not in a very bouncing mood currently. But maybe just a little . . .” She squeezed and rolled an inch. The smile she shot him was sharp. “You did say you wanted me to do all the work. Me on top, riding you. I get to pick the pace. Girl on Top's prerogative.”

“Dammit!” He swore, then reached up and pulled her down for a kiss. She complied easily, meeting his thrusting tongue. But her hips stayed irritatingly still, minus little pulses just random enough in tempo to keep him guessing.

“C'mon baby,” he whispered as he worked down her jaw to her neck. “You can pick the speed—” He gritted his teeth when she pulsed around him, rolling forward and back quickly before stopping with a cheeky grin. “You can pick the motion, anything.” His hands glided over the smoothness of her spine, around her hips, to where they were joined. She sucked in a breath, but stayed stubborn. “Maybe this will help?”

He fought for his most contrite look when she reared back and glared at him. But as his fingers played through her intimate curls, then found and played with her folds, her eyes closed as if in unbelievable pleasure. He removed his hand, and her hips rocked forward to find his fingers once more. He did it again, playing for a moment then removing, and she moved without thinking, seeking his touch. Then her eyes popped open, aware of the game he played.

“You suck,” she bit out, thrusting again. “You suck so bad.”

“But you like it.” He grasped her hips, pulled her hip a bit, then let her naturally slide back down. Their twin groans were in harmony. “Let's do this, Reagan.”

As if those words unlocked her willingness, she started to move. Slow at first, then gradually picking up steam. Relief at finally having a pace he could match, could anticipate was
quickly covered by the realization he was going to come way faster than her.

Those little pulses and quick thrusts, frustrating as they were, had done a number on him.

“Not so fast,” he muttered, finding her clit once more with his thumb.

“You wanted fast. You begged for fast.” She let the motion of their hips rock her, and she arched back, face tilted to the ceiling. She was a goddess. “Now you want me to slow down?”

“No, I . . . forget it.” He pinched her between two fingers. From the way she tightened around him, he'd found what she wanted. “You do whatever you want, baby. Your show.”

“You say that now, after you manipulated me to—oh!” She shot up straight as an arrow, looking down at him. “Do that again.”

With a grin, he did. She fell forward until her hands landed beside his shoulders. “I'll pay you a million dollars to never stop . . . never stop . . . that.”

“For you, Reagan, I'll do it for free.” He didn't stop, until neither of them could slow down the inevitable climax that gripped them both.

Spent, she draped over him, their sweat causing a suction of skin to skin along their bellies.

“Bouncing,” she grumbled, biting his collarbone. He yelped, because she wanted him to, and smacked a hand over her ass playfully.

“You do wonderful work in that department, baby.”

*   *   *

GREG
was currently hogging the shower—and all the hot water for the day. Reagan debated a moment fighting him for it—ha! like she'd win that one—then gave up. Let him have the hot water. She'd go surf online for a bit. Maybe dig up some dirt on Mr. David Cruise that would have him begging forgiveness.

Probably not. But it was a nice thought, at least for the moment.

She sat down at her computer, tapped a finger to the mouse pad to illuminate the screen, then just stared at it for a moment. There was nothing pressing, at least not yet. But it wouldn't hurt to get started on another round of positive campaign ideas. Maybe something about the yoga lessons. She could work that into making the boxing team sound more gentle and nurturing . . . you know, when they weren't beating the crap out of others inside the ring.

Her phone vibrated beside the laptop, and she glanced at the readout. Mom. Before she could even think twice, she sent the call straight to voicemail.

Two minutes later, she received a text from her younger brother, Dale, who was three years behind her.

Dale:
Answer mom's call. I'm sick of listening to her bitch about it.

A few moments later, the phone vibrated with another call from her mother. She hesitated, checked to make sure Greg was still in the shower, then answered.

“Mom? Everything okay?”

“Well, you answered this time.” Huffing out a breath, her mother sounded like a wheezing chew toy that had the squeaker ripped out. “Figured you'd send me to your answering machine again.”

She recognized that tone. No, there was no problem. Just her own mother's impatience and belief that there was nothing more important in this world than your mama's call. “It's a cell phone, Mom. No answering machine, just voice mail.”

Reagan could actually visualize the eye roll her mother was now performing in Wisconsin.

“Never mind that. Tell me how things are going.”

“Going good. Everything's good. I'm . . . good,” she finished, then winced. That wasn't even remotely believable.

And her mother, using the maternal intuition that must be created along with the hormones in pregnancy, caught
on immediately. “Reagan Marie Robilard, tell me right now what's going on.”

She could lie. It wasn't as if her mother were going to know the difference. If she lied and said all was fine, or hedged and gave half-truths, she could make it out of the phone conversation without bleeding.

That's wrong. You just mentally scolded Greg for not being up front with you. Start taking your own advice. Don't hide from your own mother. Maybe this time, she'll surprise you.

“Well,” she said, fingers nervously tapping on the desktop, “I've had some trouble with my job recently.”

“Trouble?” Her mother's voice sharpened. “What kind of trouble?”

“Just . . . stuff. Vandalism issues with the team, which aren't my fault of course. But I'm struggling to keep everyone and everything together, and keep the PR spun the right way. There's a reporter who can smell blood, and my supervisor won't get off my ass about it and . . .” She bit her lip, and the feeling of helplessness swarmed her once more. Which only served to piss her off. “I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on.”

“Good.”

Reagan blinked. “What?”

“Good. Then you can come home.”

Some children might think that was a loving thought. That their parents wanted them to come back and be a part of the family unit. That they missed their daughter. That they missed their sister. That it was love that gently tugged her back.

She knew better.

“Mom, I'm not coming back.”

“You just said you're failing out there. You know you shouldn't have taken that job. But you got all high-and-mighty about that degree of yours, and thought you could do anything you wanted to do. Everyone knows that's a crock.”

“Gee, Mom, you should put that on a motivational poster for elementary school classrooms. ‘That's a crock.'” Reagan focused her eyes on a spot on the wall above the laptop screen. If she stared hard enough, she wouldn't cry.

“Don't you start that. You know you were meant to be here. Your brothers didn't hightail it out of here when they graduated.”

Only two had actually graduated high school to begin with.

“And they stay around here and help me out around the house. Your brother is getting close to marrying the Casper girl. And where are they gonna live?”

“In your basement?”

“Three blocks over,” her mother said, as if she hadn't spoken. “Because they know where they belong. Never could impress on you that a degree was pointless. You'll just end up back here anyway. Nothing in this town needs a degree. You spent all that money,
still paying
all that money, and for what?”

So I could get yelled at once a week by you for my stupid choices, Mom. Obviously.

“Hey, Mom, I'm ahead of you time-wise so I'm getting pretty tired.” She faked a yawn, though after it was finished, she realized she truly was exhausted. “I'll have to call you another time to catch up. Say hi to the boys . . . and that Casper girl, whoever she is.”

“Doreen,” her mother snapped.

“Sure. Add her to the list. Love you, bye!” She hung up before her mother could argue and demand she stay on the line. Then she blinked as hard as she could to clear the tears.

“Family sucks sometimes, doesn't it?”

She gasped, dropped her phone and turned to find Greg leaning against the door from the bedroom. “How long were you there?”

“Long enough.” He walked to her, wrapped her in a hug where she sat, and just held her awhile. Reagan wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face to his stomach,
which was at face-level. “I'd apologize for listening in, but I'm not all that sorry.”