Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance (9 page)

Fucked up? Sure. I
never said I wasn’t fucked up. At least I’d managed to keep my
hands off of her. Except for the first time we met. And that time in
New York. Last night lying in bed, unable to sleep, I’d thought
about that night. We’d been in a hot tub, together in the steam
surrounded by the city. That night had given me something to think
about while I’d lain in bed, hand around my thick cock, stroking,
pumping, imagining it was her hand on me.

I stood there outside
her door but I couldn’t hear a thing. Maybe she’d left early
while I was still asleep? Or maybe her alarm hadn’t gone off? Jewel
was wound so tight, if she ever overslept she’d probably never
forgive herself. The girl had more discipline than most of the pro
fighters at the club, and that was saying something.

I could imagine
knocking. She’d open the door, her hair messy from sleep, rubbing
her eyes and yawning, her tits thrust against some little sleep shirt
as she stretched. She’d blink those big, green eyes at me and I
could see myself taking a step inside, running my hands along those
curves, crushing her against me before she even fully woke up. I
could take advantage of the moment with her brain still sleepy and
half shut-down, and I could seize it, grab her, inflame the physical
need I could sense within. She felt it, the same as me. We wanted
each other.

Fuck it. I wouldn’t
open the door. I’d let her sleep, if that’s what she was doing.
Or maybe she was out on a breakfast date with Mike. That was probably
the kind of shit a Marine Mammal Center guy like him did, sunrise
hikes with granola and yoga. I hated him. I’d never laid eyes on
him, but that didn’t matter.

I adjusted myself, hard
yet again from thoughts of Jewel. The girl had me torqued up. My
plans for celibacy were being tested, that much was sure. My coach
was strict: no boozing, no drugs, no partying. Whether you had a girl
in your life or not was somewhat open to interpretation. Some guys on
the team had girlfriends and coach seemed to think that was OK, when
they were supportive.

What coach didn’t go
in for was drama, the girls showing up with fake nails and hair
extensions to scream and hit the bastard they’d fucked last night.
He didn’t want his fighters distracted. He wanted them keeping
their eyes on the prize. The thing about a girl was she could make
you motivated like nothing else, give you a reason for it all, be the
one person who told you she believed in you and what’s more, make
you believe it, too. But that kind of girl was hard to find. The
other kinds, the ones who played games and knocked you down worse
than any guy in the cage? Those ones seemed to be a dime a dozen.

I couldn’t figure out
what kind of girl Jewel was. Jewel, the shy, timid poker-player. The
smoking-hot yoga girl super nerd.

I wanted Jewel to come
see me fight. I couldn’t exactly say why, but I knew I did. Plenty
of girls would be there watching me. My fan base was growing. I
wasn’t interested in any of them. I wanted Jewel.

But that didn’t
matter. It didn’t make sense to think about what type of girl she
was. She’d never be any type to me, other than a part of my
fucked-up family. For a while. Our parents’ marriage might end
fast, or it might die a slow death full of cheating and spite. Either
way, I knew it wouldn’t last. But for now and for the for-seeable
future, Jewel was my stepsister and I had to get her off my mind.

I had one goal this
summer and one goal alone: going pro in MMA. I’d told my father I
was doing an internship so he’d stay off my back. He was pretty
checked out anyway. He hadn’t been thrilled about state school
after two generations at Princeton, but I think he still assumed my
future was in the bag. All I had was one more year and then I’d be
on the treadmill in some hedge fund or brokerage firm.

But I had other plans.
I was done being his puppet. After this summer, I was walking. As
long as I played my cards right.

In the morning:
training. Afternoon: more training. Evening: training. No girls. No
booze. No partying. Three regular meals a day, lean proteins and
veggies. Protein shakes and water. A full eight hours of sleep every
night. Who knew what I could accomplish? I sure wanted to find out.

Sharing this house for
eight weeks with Jewel? That was just the universe’s way of
tempting me, trying to see what I was really made of. Could I take
it?

Hell yeah, I could. I
was tough as nails. From what I’d seen, she was a little hermit,
her nose stuck to a book, no drinking, no partying. So, I’d be the
monk to her nun.

I’d make it through
the summer, seeing her in her little yoga outfits and swimsuits. I
had the physical toughness, now I needed the mental toughness to
match. That and a hell of a lot of cold showers.

Jewel

Thursday morning when
the alarm started to sound, I hit snooze. I’d been restless last
night. But by six-fifteen I headed out poolside for some yoga. I knew
Tuck might see me, that it would be safer to go through my routine in
the locked privacy of my bedroom. But this was L.A. What was the
point in putting up with all the traffic and pollution and plastic
people if you didn’t do yoga outside in the sunny 80-degree
weather?

I knew I could wear
more clothing, cover myself up. But I felt defiant. I didn’t need
to change for Tuck. Business as usual, I’d wear my capri tights and
jog bra and he’d just have to deal with it.

About twenty minutes
in, I could feel his gaze on me, hot and heavy from the kitchen. He’d
come back from his run. I kept stretching and working through my
routine, arching back and bending over. I wasn’t going to let him
make me hide up in my room.

He was still in the
kitchen by the time I finished up.

“Morning,” he
grunted, gruff. He was drinking some kind of a dark green power
shake. I didn’t even want to know what was in it.

“Morning.” I made
my way over to the stove and put on the tea kettle. I knew I could
microwave water in a mug, but I liked the ritual of tea, the kettle’s
whistle, the leaves steeping. It calmed me. Standing that close to
Tuck, where I could hear his breathing and feel his heat, I
definitely needed something to calm me down.

I snuck a glance over
at him. He wore nothing but running sneakers and athletic shorts, of
course. I wondered how many traffic accidents he’d caused running
down streets looking like that. His bare chest should be illegal.

He had another cut on
his face, up over his eyebrow. He always had cuts and bruises, along
his cheekbone, over his eyes. Sensing the focus of my gaze, he
brought a hand up to his brow and touched it, tentatively.

“From fighting?” I
asked.

“Sparring.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Why, do you want to
be my nurse?” He grinned and I looked away. I did want to take care
of him, damn it. I did want to bring my hand to his face, soothe him,
make sure he felt good. This was so fucked up.

I spooned some yogurt
and berries into a bowl. That was his cue to leave. We didn’t do
normal chit chat. We didn’t seem capable of it.

But he surprised me by
asking a question. “What are you up to tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night?” I
turned toward him. “I don’t know.”

“It’s Friday night.
We should play poker.”

“No!” I took a step
back, suddenly feeling shaky.

“Why not?” He
grinned, enjoying how much he flustered me. “You name the stakes.”

“No, it’s not a
good idea.” I shook my head.

“Afraid you’ll
lose?”

“No, I know I’d
win.” I couldn’t just let his taunting fly by unnoticed.

“Tough talk,” he
teased.

“I’m going out.”
I suddenly decided. Mike and Maria and a few other interns had plans
after work tomorrow. They’d invited me and I’d demurred, but now
I decided it was just what I needed, some time out of the house and
far away from my stepbrother.

“You’re going out?”
Now he took a step closer to me, all powerfully corded muscle.

“To happy hour.” I
focused on keeping my breathing steady. There was no reason for my
pulse to start jumping. “There’s a taqueria next to the center on
the beach. I’m going there after work with some of the other
interns.”

“Will Mike be there?”
Tuck’s eyes looked dark.

“Yes.” He was such
a cave man, so big and possessive. Why did I like it? I needed to
keep thoughts in my head, keep the conversation going. “Why aren’t
you going out?” I asked. Playa played on Friday night. Only I
hadn’t seen too much of that lately from him, had I?

“I have a fight
Saturday night.”

“You do?” I asked.
He nodded. “In boxing? Or martial arts?”

He cracked a smile.
“You’re so cute, you have no clue, do you?” My heart stopped
when he looked at me like that, not teasing, not messing with me,
honestly seeming to have a lighthearted moment.

“I don’t have a
clue.” I agreed, my mouth feeling dry.

“People call it MMA.
It’s mixed martial arts.”

“So, like, karate?”
I remembered him saying something about a black belt back when we
were in New York.

“That, and the best
pro fighters mix in wrestling, boxing, kickboxing.”

I winced. “You’re
in a pro MMA fight Saturday night?” I suddenly felt worried for
him. I’d never been to anything like it, but I pictured a large,
crowded room with all eyes on him. His opponent would probably be a
huge machine of a man intent of clobbering him. He could get killed.

“No, I’m an
amateur,” he reassured me. “You have to work your way up if you
want to go pro. But I’ve been fighting on the amateur circuit for
the past year and a half.”

“Really?” I had no
idea.

“Yeah, and this is an
exhibition match. Scouts, promoters, sponsors will all be there to
check it out.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No.” He answered
quickly but he looked different than I’d ever seen him before.
Slightly tentative or unsure. In a low voice, he asked, “Want to
come see me?”

“Really?” I
couldn’t hide the surprise from my voice. “You want me to come
watch?”

“Forget it.” He
looked away.

“No, I’d like to,”
I took a step closer to him and almost reached out to put a hand on
his arm. Good thing I stopped myself before I did it. “I’m just
surprised you asked me. Where’s the fight?”

“A hotel downtown,”
he looked up again, meeting my eyes. “Near the STAPLES Center.”

“The STAPLES
Center?!” That held like 20,000 people!

“No, not in it. A
hotel near it. This is an amateur event. They bill us as ‘rising
stars.’” He smiled at me. Freaking irresistible.

“You want me to come
watch?” I had to ask again, it seemed so incongruous with his
behavior. Prior to this he only had two modes with me: ignore or
tease. This couldn’t fit into either category.

“Do you want to come
watch?” he tossed back, eyes looking into my own.

“I don’t know.” I
bit my lip, feeling shy.

“Forget it.” He
shook his head and turned to walk away.

“No, wait.” Now I
did reach out and touch him, on his bicep, my hand around his hard
muscle. He looked down at it, instantly hyper aware of our physical
contact.

“I want to go,” I
insisted. “Do you have a ticket?”

“I can leave your
name at the door.” He looked at me and swallowed.

“Leave my name at the
door.” I nodded, transfixed. We stood so close.

“OK.” His voice
came out gruff. I forced myself to remove my hand. Oh man I was in
trouble.

§

In the full-length
mirror in my bedroom, I checked out my reflection, turning this way
and that. I had no idea what had possessed me to buy the dress. I
told myself it wasn’t so he could see me in it. All I knew was when
I drove past it displayed in a shop window my car had simply stopped.
A parking spot right out front just for me, I’d found myself in the
store and trying it on before I knew what was happening. My
threadbare credit card still worked and before I knew it I had a
brand new white dress in a shiny shopping bag.

What a dress. It
reminded me of Marilyn Monroe back in the 50s, a total movie star
siren dress, hugging my curves up top, flirting into a flippy skirt
that ended above my knees. It wasn’t a formal dress, just stretchy
cotton, but it was a far cry from the typical sort of thing I threw
on. As I looked at myself in the mirror, striking a pose, I couldn’t
believe the woman looking back at me.

Somewhere along the
line I’d gotten curves. Real ones. I still thought of myself like I
looked at age 13, braces, glasses, wild orange hair and skin so pale
it made my freckles look like chicken pox. I’d been flat as a stick
through all of high school.

But something had
happened in the past two years. At 20, someone else entirely looked
back at me from the mirror. She had soft auburn hair, curving hips, a
small waist and generous breasts. My mother had blonde hair, of
course, but I had to admit it, I looked a lot like her.

It wasn’t as if I
hadn’t noticed the changes in my body at all. I’d gone bra
shopping when I outgrew my cup size. But I hadn’t exactly stopped
to check myself out, not like this. My mind had been fixed on other
things, focused on getting out of the situation with my mother and
gaining real independence. For me, that had meant focusing on
academics at all costs.

I spent most of my time
up in my head. But lately, I’d been more aware of the rest of me.
The way Tuck looked at me with carnal heat, like an animal. He made
me acutely aware of my curves, the rises and swells of my most
feminine features, the ways in which I was all woman, him all man.
I’d never experienced anything like it. I had no idea what to do
with myself.

It wasn’t fair the
way he distracted me, walking around next-to-naked around the house
all the time. I’d head into the kitchen and find him there, sweat
beading down his thick, corded muscles, his head tilted back as he
chugged water from a gallon jug. Even the way his throat worked
looked sexy, his Adam’s apple moving up and down while he
swallowed. I wanted to touch every inch of him, and not just with my
fingers, with my lips and tongue.