Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance (24 page)

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The driver moved the
car slick along the L.A. freeway, maneuvering through traffic,
finding a way to keep pushing forward at all times. At five o’clock,
the late July sun still shone bright. Tuck sat beside me, coiled
tight like a cobra ready to strike. He held my hand and didn’t say
a word. I could tell he was getting into the zone, getting ready to
climb into that cage and give it everything he had.

The minute I’d seen
him earlier that day in the kitchen, all my worries had ended. I’d
stammered something apologetic about falling asleep and he’d
stopped me, taking me into his arms.

“I wore you out,
girl.” He’d looked at me with pride. “Better get used to it.”

Then he’d told me
tonight he wanted me to wear the green dress I’d worn at the
Bastille Day party.

I had it on, sitting
next to him in the limo. The silk clung and melted to my skin. The
skirt rode up so high I still couldn’t believe I’d worn it in
public, and was about to do so again. But the thought of Tuck wanting
to see me in it, of pleasing him when he looked out at me from the
cage, there was something animalistic about it. He did something so
primal to me, making me feel consumed by need. I wanted to do it for
him, giving him anything he wanted.

The driver took us
around to a back entrance at the hotel. A bodyguard with a headpiece
let us in. I could tell this fight would be big. The hotel was nicer
and bigger than his last exhibition fight. I hadn’t wanted to make
him nervous by asking, but I wondered what would happen if he won?
Would he go pro? I didn’t honestly even know what that meant. Did
you join some league? Was there an induction ceremony? I had no idea
about this world he was entering into, immersing himself in, and I’d
been so busy avoiding him I’d never asked him these questions.

Now wasn’t the right
time. Now, all I did was hang on to his huge hand as he guided me
through the underground maze of hallways.

“Have you been here
before?” I asked, marveling at how he knew where to turn right,
then left.

“Weigh-in,
yesterday.”

A couple of guys
wearing the shirts from his L.A. gym met him in front of a room. They
fist-bumped, clapped him on the back, huge and pumped with
testosterone.

“Ready to crush?”
one asked. Tuck just growled in response. A man of few words, but
crazy skills. A shiver traveled up my spine.

“I’ll show the lady
to her seat,” the other offered, taking my arm.

“She’s with me,”
Tuck said, pulling me to his side with a hand around my waist.

“OK, then.” The guy
took a step back, getting the message.

We walked into a simple
room with a few lockers, bench seating, a punching bag hanging from
the ceiling. A door led to a bathroom. Tuck’s coach greeted him
warmly, shaved head gleaming in the lights, his neck as thick as his
head. I remembered Tuck had told me this L.A. gym was one of the
best. That must mean this coach was at the top of his game. He looked
it.

He looked at me,
questioning.

“This is Jewel,”
Tuck said, hand at my back. “She’s with me.”

“Good to meet you.”
The man accepted my presence, giving me the nod. I didn’t know
anything about this world, but sensed I’d entered into some inner
circle.

Tuck and his coach
began talking about the fight that night, his strategy, what he
should bring right out of the gate. I sat on the bench, nearby but
giving them space. I knew he’d been training for this all summer,
but I couldn’t really believe what he was about to do. Willingly,
voluntarily stepping into a cage with a trained heavyweight fighter,
expert in boxing, wrestling and kickboxing. The other guy sounded
fearsome.

I felt privileged to be
there, and realized Tuck, the guy I’d seen surrounded by his
network back in New York, was really on his own here. And he’d
chosen that. A man who easily could have rested back comfortably the
rest of his life, never lifted a finger, and he’d chosen this
instead. I loved that about him.

Love? Where had that
word come from? Now wasn’t the time to think about it.

Tuck warmed up, punched
the bag some, bounced light on his toes, took advice from his coach.
The adrenaline coursed through him, the tension building. The muscles
corded thick in his body, his veins standing out.

“In ten,” a man let
us know, poking his head into the room.

Tuck came to me, walked
me into the corner and held me tight against him. I could smell him,
animal musk, ready to throw down. I trembled in his arms, excited,
frightened, aroused. He pressed his forehead to mine and we stood
there together, arms around each other, saying nothing, feeling
everything.

Then we broke away and
a guy from his team led me to my seat. This time I was only three
rows away. I’d be able to see everything. Amped and nervous, on
edge and excited, I could barely sit down.

The crowd had to be
twice the size of the first event. I wasn’t good at judging
numbers, but I had to guess several thousand people were there, TV
cameras, an announcer in a tux, three judges sitting at a table. The
lights blared, music pounded, the crowd screamed and cheered. It was
on.

The first fight passed
by quick. It didn’t go past the first round. One guy took down the
other a first time, then a second, then the third he gained advantage
and his opponent tapped out. Simple as that.

Sometimes. The second
fight went long and bloody. Each pounding fist to the head I winced,
imagining it was Tuck. He’d be next. Would he be the one taking the
beating, cut and bleeding and staggering right before my eyes? I knew
I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I’d probably become the first
woman in MMA history to jump into the cage and try to stop the fight.

But the minute I saw
Tuck again, my heart soared with confidence. He had this. He stood
there while the announcer trumpeted his arrival, The Crusher, the
Eminem song he’d chosen as his anthem blasting through the arena.
The crowd went wild, screaming, yelling, up on their feet. More than
last time. I could tell he was gaining a following, people coming to
see him fight, people rooting for him to win.

My stomach clenched
tight as he walked down, all power and muscle, none of the theatrics
of some of the earlier fighters with their hands in the air
encouraging more cheering, or taunting and vamping for the crowd.
Tuck was all business, a gladiator to the fight, eyes on the prize.
The hard driving beat thumping, the packed crowd roaring, my heart
pounded in my chest. Outside the cage he stripped down to shorts and
when he stepped in, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

Neither could any of
the other women in the crowd.

“I want you,
Crusher!” I heard one scream.

Another one went in for
it, straight and direct. “Fuck me, Crusher!”

I wanted to claw their
eyes out. Mine. My man.

All muscle, his tattoos
under the lights, sculpted and huge. I shook with excitement, the
adrenaline shooting through me, the screams and heat and lights
pounding through my veins. His opponent looked fierce, covered in
tats and spitting fire. He stood an inch shorter than Tuck but looked
thicker. I’d never understood the appeal of sports like these, or
any sport really, until now. Now, I got it. Hand-to-hand combat, so
elemental, so primal, battling it out. It got right to the core of
our deepest, basest urges. Tuck was introducing me to all kinds of
those.

Before the bell rang,
Tuck looked over at me, straight into my eyes. I couldn’t breathe,
the intensity was too much, all rugged male power, his chest
glistening and bare as he looked out at me. My sex clenched in
response to his maleness, his domination. I knew he’d win.

Always on his feet,
ducking, weaving, Tuck got in some hard jabs and uppercuts and a few
vicious roundhouse kicks and knees. Every hit made me gasp. I
couldn’t believe what he could do.

It went to round two. I
didn’t see why it had to, he’d dominated round one. But in the
second round, Tuck came out pummeling. It hardly took him a full
minute to land a solid punch to his opponent’s jaw, making him fall
to his knees. Then Tuck maneuvered him into a chokehold. The crowd
went wild. The man next to me started yelling, “Rear naked choke!
Rear naked choke!” I had no idea what that meant, but I could tell
it was good for Tuck. The referee in the cage called it. Tuck won the
fight.

Triumphant, he raised
his hands to the crowd but he looked straight at me.

“Tuck!” I screamed,
knowing he couldn’t hear me above the roar, but he could see my
lips move. He’d know I was screaming his name. I‘d known he’d
win, but I still couldn’t believe he’d done it. So much
adrenaline coursed through me, so much heat and excitement. Screaming
and jumping up and down, I wanted to run full-throttle into the cage
and throw my arms around him. But I held back. There’d be time for
that later on that night.

It seemed to take
forever for the hoopla to subside. Ring girls and announcers and
promoters and sponsors and coaches and teammates and then more ring
girls and other girls who just wanted to throw themselves at him.
Tuck had gone to the next level. I didn’t know if that meant pro or
what, but he’d clearly raised his profile, impressing all the right
people.

I stood and watched it
all, trembling with emotion, dying to touch him, until finally Tuck
left the cage, catching my eye and motioning for me to meet him back
in the locker room. Even back there he was surrounded, everyone
wanting to congratulate, waiting for him after his shower to hype him
up, telling him how big he was going to get, how far he could take
this. Tuck listened and thanked and let them have their time. But he
barely took his eyes off of me. We were both waiting, wanting, our
minds already on the time when we could be together.

Finally, he extricated
himself, convincing the throng he didn’t want to party. Really. Not
just saying that. With me by his side, they got it, giving me a few
lecherous looks until Tuck nipped that in the bud. A warning look and
a growl and they’d shown more respect. I was Tuck’s woman.

I didn’t know what it
all meant, couldn’t think much past tonight—hell, I could barely
think at all. I could only feel, the heat in his large hand as it
gripped mine. The feel of his powerful thigh brushing against my own.
The promise in the pressure from his hand at the small of my back.

Until finally we were
alone together in the back of the car, the driver taking us home. We
didn’t waste any time, our lips finding each other the second the
door closed. He drew me onto his lap and held me like he never wanted
to let me go. He had several cuts on his face and I had to be
careful, but I felt like I had to kiss him or I’d die. In the
darkness of the car, our mouths, tongues, and lips met, stroking,
seeking, each kiss growing deeper, more passionate, more needy. The
more I got of him, the more I wanted. It enflamed me, emboldened me,
made me crazy.

When we got home, I
could barely stand to walk in past the front door. I wanted him to
fuck me straight up against the exterior of the house. But for once
he showed more decorum than me, taking me inside, sweeping me along
until we made it to the living room couch, the place where he’d
eaten me out last night.

The place where I’d
go down on him tonight. Suddenly, it was all I could think about.
Like the porn video he’d been watching that night I’d seen him
jerking off. The woman down between the man’s legs, his hands on
her head. I wanted that. I wanted to serve Tuck that way, show him
how much I felt for him, treat him so right after his fight that
night.

Slowly, shyly, I pulled
away and stood up from the couch. I still held his hand.

“Where are you
going?” he asked, sounding slightly drunk though I knew it was only
on my kisses.

Smiling slyly, in
answer I simply knelt down, my hands on his thighs, my body
in-between his legs. His eyes instantly blazed with heat.

“I want to taste
you,” I whispered, quiet, but he heard it, his eyes on me rapt as I
reached up to the waistband of his pants. He raised his hips and I
pulled them all the way down, freeing his giant cock. It sprang up,
so hard, veins running along its length.

“Jewel,” he
whispered, hot. He held himself still as if he couldn’t believe
this was happening as I reached over, slowly, taking him reverently
in my hands. He felt so delicious, so huge and pulsing, alive with
need, so male. I wanted to explore, touch, taste him.

“I want you in my
mouth.” I breathed heavy, fascinated by his cock, a drop of
pre-come forming on the tip. Licking my lips, I bent down and kissed
his crown, softly. It felt so smooth and hard against my tongue.

He moaned as I took him
slowly into my mouth. Like hot steel velvet, so male, powerful and
strong. I could taste the pearl of his come, liquid heat, so
tantalizing.

“Mmm,” I moaned,
licking him.

“Jewel,” he
groaned, his hand at my hair, fisting it. The need and hunger rolled
off of him in nearly palpable waves. He was so big, I didn’t know
how I was going to take him into my mouth, but I wanted to. I wanted
to swallow him down and suck him so good.

With the tip of his
cock in my mouth, I looked up at him and licked, then gave him a
full, wet suck. He hissed, his eyes closing for a moment in bliss.
Feeling a heady rush, my pussy clenched. He loved this, and I loved
my newfound power. Everything he’d given me the night before I
wanted to give back to him, that unbelievable crazy build up, the
mind-bending loss of control.

He was so big it was
difficult to take him in, but I relaxed my throat and pulled him in
full and wet. He swore as I did it, sucking him down deep, licking
and sucking him like the most delicious candy I’d ever tasted.