Break Me (Alpha MMA Fighter) (18 page)

Until then, he decided, he was going to have to keep her close. And as far away from Shane Hoskins as humanly possible.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Greg Schultz, head of tournament security, was a tough ex-fighter and a good friend of Avery’s. He put Avery in touch with a private firm that handled personal security for clients in Reno. With the veracity of the police in question—someone as powerful as Shane Hoskins probably had the police chief on caller ID—it made sense to give Rose around the clock protection while she was here. The bodyguards weren’t cheap, but they were experienced. At least one of them would guard her at all times: sit outside her room while she was inside, or accompany whenever she went out.

But it would be at least two hours until they arrived at the hotel. No way Avery was going to leave her alone till then. And with Marlon needing
his
sleep before the tournament start tomorrow, he left them as soon as he’d kissed Rose goodnight and said how glad he was she was all right.

“Me too. And thanks for stepping in, man. Seriously. I won’t forget it,” she replied.

“Have a good one, slick,” Avery said to him.

“See you bright and early, boss,” replied Marlon. And to Rose, with a wink: “Don’t let him tell you none of his creepy ass bedtime stories.”

She smiled. “Bet you I can creep him out first.”

Marlon glanced at her legs. “I seriously doubt
that.
Later, you guys.”

“Later,” she said. When he’d left, Rose went straight to the mini bar and pulled out a couple of bottles. “Nightcap?”

“Sounds good.” In Avery’s still-hyperactive mind, a tug of war was taking place between two observations: how good she looked right now in that dress, her white calves, shoulders, and a slight hint of cleavage on display; and the way she nursed her sore neck. Rose wasn’t exactly a damsel in distress—from all accounts she’d given a good account of herself in the brawl tonight—but she was recovering from a painful, traumatic experience. She’d been assaulted by five men. Taking advantage of her in such a vulnerable state would be almost criminal.

There again, given how hot she looked, and how often she’d flirted with him over the past few weeks…

Hmm, it was up to her, he decided. Under the circumstances, he wouldn’t make a move unless she did. He could be her chaperon, her personal bodyguard until the professionals arrived. Unless she was as strangely turned on as he was by the idea of being with someone he’d fought alongside tonight.

God, he would have given anything to see her throw those guys around, using the moves he’d taught her. That was worth a bottle of…Smirnoff Vodka, right there.

“Let’s sit on the bed,” she said. “Swap war stories. Promise I won’t bite.”

Pity,
he almost answered aloud.
I would have promised to bite back.

She upended a pillow and patted the bed for him. He kicked his feet up beside her, and they clinked bottles. Hers was a Caribbean White Rum.

***

Though he seemed reluctant to get close to her, Avery couldn’t take his eyes off her. Rose had noticed the change in him the moment she’d turned up in the hotel lobby that afternoon, sporting her new look. A lot had happened since, but he still liked what he saw, she was certain of that. And with her personal bodyguard arriving in a couple of hours, she might not have another chance like this to make a move on him. Back in Mitre, when her fashion meter flickered close to zero again, would he look at her this way ever again?

“What’s it usually like at these big fight events?” she asked.

“What do you mean? The routine?”

“No. You know, the social side. I bet you get hit on all the time.”

He gave a modest shrug. “Sometimes.”

“So what kind of girls do you hook up with? I mean what kind of girl do you go for?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“She has to stand out.”

“In what way?”

Again he shrugged. “Can’t answer that. I just know it when I see it.”

“Oh. So you don’t have, like, a type or anything?”

“Sure.”

“Like what?” she asked.

He laughed. “You writing a book or something?”

“You reading
a book or something?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t seem all that interested in talking,” she said, feeling the chemistry between them evaporating. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“No. I want to. It’s just…the way you hone in on what you want to hear. It’s so you.”

“Yeah? Well, sorry for having a pulse.” The sting in her heart swelled like a toxic bubble. “I guess I just got my answer.”

“No. Actually, you didn’t.”

God,
why did he have to be so infuriating! Why couldn’t he just tell her one way or the other instead of keeping her guessing? The urge to slap some sense into him left her face burning. “Fuck off.”

“Rose?”

She wouldn’t cry. No, she
mustn’t.
Not after all she’d been through to get to this moment.

“Rose.” He went to put his arm around her, but she threw it off. “What’s wrong?” he asked, as if he didn’t know!

“God, do I have to spell it out for you?” She cocked her fist, but couldn’t decide where to hit him or if she even wanted to. It had
been a strange, strange night. Rose slumped back onto her pillow and let out an enormous sigh. It excited her tired, sore lungs. She coughed and then drowned it with a swig of rum.

“It’s not you,” he said.

She hiccupped. “What’s not me?”

“You asked what my type was.”

“And you said I was being nosey.”

“And now I’m telling you: you’re not my type.”

She hiccupped again. “Gee, thanks for sugar-coating it that way, Bub.”

“But that’s what makes you stand out,” he added.

“You think I stand out?”

He shifted position onto his side, crooked his left arm so he could support his head while he gazed at her. “I think you couldn’t blend in if you tried. You’d stand out anywhere, in any crowd.”

Rose slowly sank onto her side, looking into the striking sincerity in his eyes. If he was turning on the charm the Wright way—at long last—she didn’t want to miss any of it. “I thought you’d never notice,” she said.

“I noticed all right. The first time I met you—the real you—that night you were working out in the dark.”

“I thought you were going to call the cops on me.”

“I probably would have, if you didn’t have such a nice ass.”

She chuckled. “Is that all?”

“Well, you have me at a disadvantage.” He threw her a wink.

Rose colored and took another sip. “My secret, you mean?”

“It’s hardly fair. You’ve seen me naked, and the most I’ve seen is…this.” He leaned in to try and see down her dress. She covered up coyly, gave his cheek a gentle pat. “See what I mean?” he said. “You’ve got your big secret, and I got nothing. They call that a no-contest, and everyone goes away disappointed.”

The memory of him standing there in the locker room, completely undressed and at ease, his muscly physique sleek with sweat, his large, gorgeous member
right there
for her to gape at: it was one of those indelible moments she referenced whenever she got horny and had to pleasure herself. But he was no longer right there; he was right
here,
in her bed, telling her he wanted to strip her naked…for starters.

She began to tremble, the way she had the night she’d seen him in the raw. He wasn’t trembling, and that made her self-conscious. He’d had a lot more experience at this than she had. Her experiences with sex had involved lots of hype, sucking guys off, being felt up and touched below so that it had built up the anticipation to feverish levels, followed by brief (though enjoyable) shots of actual, penetrative pleasure.

“I’ve never had a man.” She hated the way that sounded as soon as she’d said it. “I mean I’ve only had guys my own age…”

“And it’s been a while?” he asked.

She nodded and chewed her lower lip. “But I want to end my losing streak.”

Avery raised an eyebrow. The twinkle in his eye spoke volumes. “Think you can take me, huh?”

“It’s a done deal,” she said, “but do me a favor, okay?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t take it easy on me.” Rose reached for his crotch, where the tented fabric of his pants made her shiver with anticipation. She began to rub him. “I want to fuck a world champion.”

The corner of Avery’s mouth twitched a knowing grin. He slid his hand up her leg, gently gripping her thigh. Then, he reached inside her dress and touched her moistened panties…

Round one was underway.

***

Their wakeup call the following morning wrenched them both out of bed at the same time; it wasn’t her alarm clock, because she’d forgotten to set it. It was
Marlon
telling them to get their asses in gear.

0948. The draw for the tournament’s first round was due to start in less than forty-five minutes. Rose threw Avery’s boxers at him, and he threw her panties at her. When his shirt was half-buttoned and his pants almost buckled, she took his face in her hands and kissed him for last night. The sex had been beyond amazing, and afterward, they’d cuddled together until the bodyguard arrived, talking about what would happen when they got back to Mitre. He’d suggested she leave the sofa and share his bed every night, which got him laid a second time.

A whirlwind of excitement seemed to whisk her around the hotel room while she got ready for the day ahead. “Don’t be long,” she told him, then literally kicked his butt out of the room, where her bodyguard, Max, was pouring over the horse-racing results in yesterday’s paper. Max smiled and greeted them with a laid-back wave-cum-salute, and she knew he was going to be a good guy to have around, not one of those crew-cut types with a steel rod stuck up his butt. He wore a polo shirt and a casual tan jacket that said
I know a bookie or two.

“What about breakfast?” Avery’s hurt look made her snicker.

“We missed it,” she said, but after he flashed her an even more pitiful, sulky glance, she added, “or we can grab a brunch from the restaurant right after the draw.”

He blew her a kiss. She caught it and put it in her pocket then dashed back inside to get ready.

Max didn’t leave her side all day, and in truth it helped her to focus on the tournament and not on her new—and official (
woohoo
!)—boyfriend, who was similarly all work and not much play. She liked that about him. When Avery gave his word, he kept it. This trip was a big deal to Marlon, who was trying to break through into the top rankings of his weight class. A tournament win here, or at least a high-placed finish, would propel him into contention for one of the regional MMA titles, if not a shot at a UFC belt. And the coaching Avery gave him was something to watch. The psychological advantage of having an undefeated world champ in his corner, gearing him up before each and every fight, was plain to see in the way Marlon moved around the ring. He believed he was the best fighter there, and his body language, while cocky to those who didn’t know him, told Rose he was buoyed by the kind of confidence most athletes would kill to have.

Last night’s dust-up in The Dolphin had likely helped him. Fighting to win a prize was one thing, but fighting to protect one’s friends was something else. He was proud of it, she could tell. And having her there, ringside, would be a constant reminder of what a tough bastard he’d proved himself to be in the real world, when it mattered.