Off Limits: A Bad Boy Romance (19 page)

I couldn't help but obey the loving command in his voice, each tone dripping with desire. When I was on my side, Dane lifted my knee, spreading my legs before he drove forward again, this time mostly from behind, filling me all the way with one sure, mind-blowing stroke of his cock. I couldn't help it. I grunted and cried out softly. The hammering beat of his cock drove me wild, my body flushing over and over again with the explosion of pleasure that came from deep inside me. I turned my head, burying my mouth into my forearm to stifle my cries of pleasure.

The only sound I could hear was the rush of my pulse in my ears and the sound of Dane's hips slapping against my ass. Other than the soft whistle of his breathing through his nose, he kept totally silent as my man fucked me hard and fast on the carpet. My pussy clenched around him and my body rippled as my first orgasm shot through me, my teeth clamping down on the meat of my forearm hard enough to leave marks as I moaned and cried out. Dane held me, his cock throbbing inside me. He was so close, letting me ride out my orgasm in my own pace, comforting me and letting me know he would be there.

When the wave passed, I turned and kissed him softly. “You didn't come yet,” I said, feeling him still hard and pulsing.

Dane grinned as he readied himself again, pushing inside and sending fresh waves of pleasure up my body. My fingers clutched at Dane's back as he pushed in and out of me, driving me down into the pillow as his body rubbed against my clit. I felt something building inside me in a deeper place, someplace that I'd never felt before. I wasn't sure what it was, but it kept growing, larger and larger, until I was nearly frightened out of my mind. It was too large, I was feeling too much, but at the same time, I couldn't refuse it even if I wanted to.

Somehow, Dane knew what I was feeling. “Let it go,” he whispered in my ear. “Same time as I do.”

I bit my lip and nodded, untrusting of my voice as he kept pounding into me, strong and confident. I felt him swell, and with a strangled gasp, he thrust into me one last time, his cock erupting. His orgasm triggered an explosion inside me, so strong that I couldn't hold back, burying my mouth into his shoulder and screaming, it was so strong. I tasted the rich, coppery flavor of Dane's blood, and I blacked out for a moment, my mind unable to deal with all of the input at once.

Dane held me, nestling me on his right leg while stroking my hair. “Welcome back,” he whispered. “I was wondering if I could sneak you down the hall to your room without someone noticing me carrying you.”

“Well, that wouldn't be good, now would it?” I asked, reaching for my t-shirt. “On the other hand, if we walked down the hallway together, we might be quiet enough that you could join me.”

Dane smiled and took my hand, stroking it tenderly with his thumb. “I don't know,” he said with a smile. “Your Daddy might still have that shotgun around. And now he's got a Marine, too.”

I
t was
a rarity in Atlanta as snowfall dotted the winter landscape. It was a rare gift to get the day after Christmas, and one that I appreciated. “You're probably one of the few people who aren't freaked out by this,” Patrick said to me as I looked out the big glass window of the rented hotel ballroom area. “Think you can get us all home without a problem?”

“Patrick, it's less than a quarter-inch of snow,” I said with a light laugh. “I think even you Southerners could drive home in this. The most dangerous thing out there right now is the other drivers, panicking and acting like idiots.”

“Never underestimate the ability of mankind to act like idiots,” he replied, taking a sip of his whiskey. He was looking remarkably well for a man after his second heart attack. Part of that was due to his month with Monica, I was sure. She’d imbibed a bit of Marine spirit into him, and he took up jogging, working himself up to two miles a day over the ground in the back yard. I'd even paced him once or twice, and he did pretty good for his age. “By the way, congratulations again on the first semester. You did well.”

I turned away from the window and took a sip of my own whiskey and soda. “I'll be honest. I was scared stupid for about the first week or so. It was only because of Abs that I was able to get my head out of my ass and recognize that I actually enjoy learning.”

“I'd say a 3.2 GPA for your first semester back after a decade off from school is more than cause for celebration,” Patrick said. “Come on, let's enjoy the rest of the party. Those from the company who showed up, at least.”

“Hey, more for us then,” I joked. “You know, besides the bar.”

“This is my month's ration of fried foods, so don't make me regret it too much,” Patrick joked in reply. We left the entryway and went back into the party, where the place was only about half full. We hadn't expected a big turnout. After all, the party was being held the day after Christmas, but with everything else going on in our lives, it was about the only way to fit it in.

“So you really won't mind that I'm taking a few weeks off?” I asked as we made our way through the room. “I mean, three weeks right after the beginning of the year isn't exactly easy for the company.”

“You know, Dane, I've watched you carefully the past six months,” Patrick said, stopping about a third of the way across, near a large cake that was shaped like an excavator and festooned with a fondant banner that read
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Rawlings Construction
. “And I'll admit that I've been more than a little tough on you. I've given you enough rope to hang yourself more than once, and each time you keep busting your ass and working hard. So let me give you a little bit of advice.”

“What's that?” I asked, curious. While I didn't think that he’d ever let me out to dry, I do know that he consciously avoided giving me the rub around the office. He wanted me to stand and become respected on my own, not because I was his daughter's fiancée. It had taken a fair bit of work, but I felt like I was fitting in around the place now and could hold my own with some of the regular workers.

“You're getting married tomorrow,” Patrick said, pointing to the table where Brittany and Abby were chatting. Their relationship had grown closer in the past six months, and while I doubted that she would ever call her Mom, Abby had certainly come to understand and appreciate more about Brittany than I think she had in the nearly twelve years prior. “The one thing that I value most, looking at that table now, is the time that I spent not building properties. It's the time I spent playing with my little girl. I'm prouder of the fact I could make Barbie's horse whinny than the fact that I can buy a couple of real horses.”

“So you think I should back off?” I asked, incredulous. “After all you've pushed me toward in the past half-year?”

“I think you should work just as hard as you have every moment since they let you out of Leavenworth,” Patrick retorted, giving me a half-grin at the end. “Just make sure you're working on the right things, that's all.”

One of the company vice presidents came up, wishing us a happy holiday, and I used it as an opportunity to part ways with them. I'd come to admire Patrick, and while our relationship got off to a rocky start, we got along well enough. There was, of course, the unstated but obvious tension as his daughter let him go and became closer to me, but I think every man goes through that when he gets engaged.

I headed over to Abby and Brittany, who were laughing as Abby described in detail our new apartment. We'd moved in just after Thanksgiving, after the neighbors in the first apartment complex we'd tried had turned out to enjoy partying a bit too much for our tastes. “Yeah, I know it's still nowhere near what I had at home with you and Daddy, but it's ours,” Abby said as I approached. I figured she was telling Brittany about our upstairs neighbors, who had a slightly disturbing habit of turning their nightly yoga sessions from Iyengar to Tantric, if you know what I mean. Still, better than listening to Flo Rida all weekend long. “We figure it'll keep us going for a while though. At least until I finish my Masters.”

“You ladies make this party a lot better looking than any decoration or band could,” I greeted them as I came within greeting distance. Abby got up and we kissed, laying her head on my shoulder. “Hey, Abs. You miss me?”

“Not too much,” she teased me, rubbing my chest. “Just enough that I can't wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh, you can wait another few hours,” Brittany laughed, sipping at her champagne. “After all, it isn't like in my parents' day when the couple would have to spend every night apart until the wedding ceremony.”

“Good for us, then.” Abby laughed. She reached down to the table and took a sip of her ginger ale, something I'd noticed earlier. Abby had never been a big drinker, but then again, neither was I. I used to be, but I’d seen firsthand what nastiness alcoholics could do. In the apartment, we didn't have any alcohol at all other than a bottle of Malbec that we'd been given as a gift for moving in. “Say, babe, are you sure you'll be good for picking Shawnie up from the airport tomorrow?”

“Yeah, this is my last one,” I replied, taking the final sip and setting the glass down on the table. “I don't want to have my nuptials marred by a hangover or anything.”

Brittany smiled in approval and finished her glass of champagne as well. “A wise decision. Well, you two enjoy yourself. I need to powder my nose, as the saying goes.”

She left us, and I led Abby closer, away from the table, and took her out to the dance floor. The live band wasn't the best in town, but even a second-rate band in a city like Atlanta can beat the pants off anything a lot of other places can offer. We found an empty spot on the dance floor and I pulled her into my arms. “Think of it as practice for tomorrow.”

“You know, I think Brittany is expecting at least a little bit of Viking tomorrow with all of that Norse stuff you talk about,” Abby said as we danced. “She's going to be highly disappointed.”

“Well, I guess I could rip off my shirt, grease myself up, and try to wrestle a bear, but those are kind of hard to find this time of year,” I joked. “I guess she'll have to settle for the roasted meats and maybe a song or two. You know I just take it in stride anyway.”

“I know. It's why I love you so much,” Abby said. “Enjoying the party?”

“Better than listening to the Washingtons upstairs,” I replied. “Trying to watch
The Charlie Brown Christmas Special
while they were having sex was not the experience I was hoping for.”

“We've kind of given them a concert or two as well,” Abby reminded me. “Or did you forget Monday night?”

“How could I?” I chuckled. We turned on the floor, moving in gentle circles, not really following any one pattern but just moving together. “Hey, Abs, I don't want to pry, but you seem to be a bit off tonight. Worried about tomorrow?”

“No,” Abby replied. “I'm excited, yes, but not worried. Why?”

“I just noticed you're only hitting the ginger ale. You don't think we'll get too drunk and oversleep, do you?”

Abby leaned back, her honey blonde hair shimmering in the soft light, her blue eyes twinkling like twin sapphires, and laughed, long and loud. If it hadn't been a party, or if the music had been softer, she would have garnered a lot of attention, but as it was, she barely registered. When her laughter was over, she pulled my head down and kissed me. “I’m not worried about that at all,” she whispered in my ear after the kiss was broken. “I wanted to wait until we were alone tonight, but I have a late Christmas gift for you.”

“Oh? What's that?” I asked, flummoxed. We hadn't exchanged too many gifts, so a late one seemed strange.

“You get to find out in about nine months,” Abby whispered, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “Merry Christmas . . .
Daddy
.”

M
y feet were aching
, and what I wanted more than anything else in the world was to sit down with a light drink and relax. But I was working, so I had a happy and engaged look on my face as I made my way across the concrete poolside. I hate these types of events. You’re supposed to look glamorous, sexy, and seductive while at the same time somehow come off as wholesomely approachable.

I mean, think about it for a second. Do you really think those
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit models are happy to be wearing a bikini while frolicking around in the snow? Even worse, realize that those shoots normally take place in mid to late winter, and you’d wonder why anyone would find that sexy at all. But, the bottom line rule in modeling is if the customers buy it, you do it. Luckily, while I’d done some uncomfortable shoots, I’d never had to wear swimwear in a snowstorm.

At least my discomfort was related more to my footwear than anything else. I was wearing a bikini, but the event was taking place in summer, so I wasn’t inwardly shivering the whole time. We were even in Malibu, which is one of my favorite places to hang out most of the time. Best of all, I didn’t have to feel out of place, as almost everyone else was wearing swimwear or something of the sort.

The problem was my shoes. I’m five ten, and as you’d expect with a woman my height, I have quite large feet. In casual shoes I wear a women’s size ten, which is close to the size of an average man’s foot. That’s not too bad when you consider that I’m taller than the average man as well, but for some reason fashion designers and runway reps think that they can get away with being lazy and bringing nothing but size eight shoes. Eights are good for some, mostly the pinup girls who don’t do the runway, but for us tall girls . . . painful. Pure pain.

Still, I was a professional, and I made sure to keep my face as happy as possible as I jammed my feet into the undersized shoes. I couldn’t knock the pay—I was getting fifty thousand dollars for two days’ work. It was a unique opportunity. The UFC was having an ‘all big men’ event, with every fight being either light heavyweights or heavyweights. But that presented a lot of problems, the main being that most of the fighters were giants. Seriously, most of the light heavyweight and heavyweight fighters were six-three to six-eight, so to not make them look like NBA-style freaks, the UFC wanted the models for this press event to be tall as well. The only normal UFC girl in attendance was Arianny, who I got to meet for the first time. She was pretty nice, a lot nicer than I thought she would be. She gave us a few pointers on how to interact with the fighters and gave me and the other girls working the party the rundown on the schedule of the evening.

Still, regardless of how nice Arianny was, the UFC’s marketing deal with Reebok meant I was wearing brand-new, out-of-the-box, black leather, size eight tennis shoes. I‘d quickly ditched my socks to gain me a little bit of wiggle room, but still, an hour into the two-hour event, my feet were screaming at me. I‘d lost feeling in my little toes, however, so I was at least holding out hope that by the end of the event I‘d have numbed up the rest of the way.

While there were certain various photo ops, video blurbs, and other things that I had to do, my primary job for the night was to mingle at the pool party, held two nights before the main event, which was taking place in Los Angeles. I didn‘t even need to work the actual Pay Per View, as the UFC wanted more of their
name-brand
girls to do the actual card holding for the event. I would do the pool party and the weigh-ins the next day and walk out with a nice paycheck in my bank account, supposedly more than a lot of the fighters earned, surprisingly enough.

“Hey, how‘re you holding up?” one of the fighters, a heavyweight who was fighting on the undercard, asked. We‘d chatted at the press conference earlier in the day, where he‘d been accompanied by his wife and two kids. He was a total family man and looked a bit embarrassed to be at this press event slash pool party. It obviously catered to the single male demographic the UFC was aiming for. I could understand his feelings. I’m not one for this sort of action on my own either. I’d rather spend my time by myself or with the few people that were allowed into my life. It’s not that I’m arrogant, I just don’t feel comfortable hanging out with a bunch of strangers.

“I’m doing okay,” I said, still giving my best smile. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s weigh-in, though. It’s going to be my first.”

“Well, enjoy it, it’s a lot less stressful than the fight cards full of the little guys,” he replied. He looked around the party, pointing out the one fight that was at a lighter weight, two guys who were fighting at one hundred and eighty-five pounds for the number one contendership. “They look and act like rabid zombies during these events, they’re so drained from cutting weight. Half of us are big boys, we don’t have to cut weight at all. All I need to do is eat clean and I drop below the two seventy weight limit.”

I nodded in understanding on both of his points. The man was a giant, easily six foot six, not an ounce of fat on his body. On the other hand, like any model who had to do photo shoots in swimwear and lingerie, I knew the temporary advantages of wringing out some water from under my skin right before going in front of the camera. I guessed the same idea applied to the fighters who were mostly worried about making a weight limit. “So how’s your weight looking?”

“I did well this camp,” he replied casually, taking a drink from his flute of what looked like champagne. “This morning I was an easy two sixty, so I’ll be able to relax tonight and make weight just fine. It’s actually easier on my body than when I was in college and playing football. Then we had to try and pack on weight as well as stay high-impact athletes.”

“Never had that problem,” I replied, chuckling. “My father was always worried about me keeping weight on. Just the way my metabolism was back in my childhood years, I guess.”

“And now?” the fighter asked, curious. “What does he think of your modeling?”

I shook my head sadly. “My father died years ago. I hadn’t seen him in years, so I doubt he ever got a chance to see me do any modeling at all.”

The man looked apologetic, so I smiled despite the emotional pain. I was there to make the party more enjoyable, not rain on someone’s day. “You didn’t know when you asked, so don’t feel bad. Good luck with your fight.”

“Thanks,” he said, and I drifted off, keeping to the rule the UFC executives told us, which was to not monopolize our time with any one fighter. We were eye candy, and if we spent all of our time with one person, that could lead to not only a poor event, but rumors on Twitter that the UFC didn’t want to have. For the rest of the party, I tried my best to enjoy myself, chatting with the fighters who said something or waving, posing for photos, and even getting in on the planned “spontaneous” water fight, which ended with the girls throwing the president of the UFC into the pool.

The party was just starting to break up when I saw my boyfriend, Sydney, on the fringes of the pool area near the drink table. He had finagled a deal with the UFC to get a press pass for the event, ostensibly as a photographer. He had a reputation among the glamour industry, especially for his sexy shoots. While I didn’t approve, he’d even done some shoots for
Playboy
and
Penthouse
, earning a reputation for being able to walk that fine line between sexy and slutty that aroused readers and increased sales. How that translated over to being able to photograph two men beat the hell out of each other inside a fenced octagon I didn’t know, but Sydney loved the UFC and he had the ability to talk people into almost anything. I knew from personal experience.

I resisted the urge to wave to Syd, knowing I couldn’t be seen with my boyfriend as I worked. As I looked closer, I felt my heart break. He was standing with some woman, a pretty half-Chinese, half-Brazilian girl who I thought was there as one of the fighter’s girlfriends or sisters or something. They were sipping drinks and chatting when she started laughing and giving him the look. I’m pretty innocent, but I could read the signs in her face. What was even worse was how Sydney nodded and leaned in, whispering in her ear in such a way that I knew his lips were doing more than just forming words. The woman pushed her body up against him and nodded. They walked off, his arm resting far too low on her waist for my comfort, heading inside the mansion that the UFC had rented for the party.

Ignoring the looks and waves of some of the people at the party who wondered why one of the paid models was walking away without an explanation, I followed Syd and the girl. I had to work my way through the crowd, my smile going from professional to forced as I went. There was something that spoke in my head, something that I just couldn’t dismiss.

It took me nearly seven minutes to find them in a bedroom. The mansion, unique to California in that it seemed to follow no particular architecture style, was one of those big places with a seemingly endless collection of hallways, rooms, and corridors, and I seemed to keep getting stopped by people who were either in my way or just wanted to chat me up. Sydney and the girl were upstairs, his pants around his ankles with her head between his legs, him leaning against a nightstand with most of his back to me. I had seen all I could take.

“You son of a bitch,” I said, my voice surprisingly dead and lifeless as I watched. “How could you?”

Syd’s head whipped around and he stared at me in open shock. The girl, who’d paused her cock-sucking long enough to at least see who was speaking, smiled and said something in Portuguese that I didn’t have the mental focus to translate from the little bit I had picked up. Instead, my eyes were locked on Syd, who stammered an excuse I didn’t care to listen to. Ignoring his lies, I turned on my heel and stalked my way back downstairs, ducking into a bathroom to let the tears flow before dabbing at my eyes. I had a job to finish, regardless of what this asshole had just done to me.