Consumed: A MMA Sports Romance (59 page)

I slipped a finger inside
her, and she moaned. Her lips tasted like cinnamon gum. Removing my probing
finger, I hitched her up against the stall door. Her legs wrapped around my
waist and pulled me hard inside. I concentrated on her bouncing breasts as we
heaved together, up and down. Her hair was black, not copper blonde, but this
was easy.

"Oh, God, you are so
strong," Talia moaned.

A urinal flushed and a
faucet started running. I paused, the pressure building as I pressed deep into
her. I needed the release – I needed to clear my head.

"Oh, don't tease me,
Fenton, just do me."

I heard the bathroom door
open. As soon as it closed, I resumed my rhythm, speeding up until we both
panted. Talia came with a shuddering giggle. I squeezed my eyes tight and let
my body push itself hard over the edge.

Talia gave me a long,
cinnamon-spiced kiss before she unwrapped her legs. She teetered on her high
heels, but giggled again and slipped her dress back into place. Before she
slipped out of the bathroom stall, she plucked my phone out of my pocket and
entered her number.

"Call me, you bad
boy," she said.

I waited until the
clicking of her stilettos disappeared. I buckled my belt, washed my hands, and
finally looked in the mirror. My head was clear, but it did no good. I knew I
wanted more than a bathroom romp, but I couldn't have it. Not yet.
 

CHAPTER TWO

Kya

I
clutched my silver purse, instead of hiking up the straps of my dress again.
The doorman eyed my cleavage before he searched the list again for my name.

"Kya Allen. Go on inside.
Have some fun for me," he said.

I felt his eyes roving up
the backs of my legs to the brief skirt of my black dress. It was almost a
relief when a gaggle of ultra-blonde girls bounced up to the front of the line
and the doorman turned his lascivious eyes on them. I felt like a ragdoll next
to their plastic perfection.

 
The Vegas nightclub was full of bright and
sparkling women, all teetering high on impossible stilettos. My red snakeskin
heels were sexy, but at least an inch too short. Between my short shoes and my
black dress, I stood out against the tall, sequined, platinum crowd like a
sedan at the racetrack.

Ridiculous
,
I thought. As if I wanted to blend in with the mindless crowd gyrating to the
never-evolving club beat. I was only there to find a client and get a new
endorsement deal signed. The location just solidified the fact that my new
client was not my kind of guy, but this was business and I could take care of
business anywhere.

I strode up to the bar
and was surprised how fast I was served. "If you order a real drink, it’s
on the house," the bartender said.

"How about a whiskey
and soda," I said.

"Thank God. I was
hoping you weren't a Cosmo or umbrella drink." He grabbed a bottle from a
high shelf and smiled as he poured it. A spritz of soda and he slid the drink
across to me, holding it so our hands touched. "These big fight promotion
gigs are not really my scene. I just needed the extra shift. How about
you?"

"Not at all," I
said. "I'm here for work, too."

"Then, you come back
and find me when you want to take a break." The bartender smiled, and I
saw a dimple flash in his cheek.

Feeling warmer from his
smile than the whiskey, I turned to take a lap around the pulsating club. It
really was not my scene, either, but my boss had insisted I branch out into a
new sport. All I knew about Mixed Martial Arts was what my boss had told me in
one of his lightning fast meetings.

"It’s a sport full
of meteors, not like your satellite golfers," my boss James Cort had said.

"Don't we want
satellites? They orbit regularly, make us steady money," I had told him.

"No, yes! I'm
telling you you've got those. Now what you need is one fresh star about to
explode. You sign him cheap and then we make bank all the way to the top of his
career. Fast and big returns." My boss had jumped up from his desk and
spun his computer monitor towards me. "Fenton Morris. About to dominate
MMA Fighting. Go to Vegas and get him before he gets the title."

I had stood up too, long
ago accustomed to the frenetic management style of James Cort. "Mixed
Martial Arts? I'm better suited for country club sports – you said it yourself.
If you want me to branch into extreme sports, I could maybe tackle downhill
skiing or ski-jumping."

"Yeah, I bet all
those trust fund boys love you at the chalet," my boss had said.
"Don't take that the wrong way, that's why I hired you. No, screw that. I
hired you because you're a great salesperson, and I'm sick of seeing you take
the low-hanging fruit. Give yourself a challenge and get me Fenton Morris."

It was not so much the
challenge as the obscenely big bonus James offered me. Peddling vitamin
supplements was not the career path I had dreamt of. But he was right, I was
good at my job. If I landed the MMA fighter, not only did I get a wad of cash
that could cover the closing costs on a new house, I got a shot at a brand name
account. No more traveling, no more hunting down clients. A brand name account
meant an office and a team of my own.

I scanned the undulating
dance floor and looked for my new client. How hard could it be to sign a MMA
Fighter? Fenton Morris got hit in the head for a living, surely I could get him
to sign a piece of paper and be on my way back to Chicago. My house closing was
days away and I was not a fan of Las Vegas.

Then, I spotted the man I
had been sent to sign. He stood at the railing just above the dance floor. His
light blue shirt was unbuttoned low, and dark curly chest hair showed through.
A matching shadow of stubble darkened his throat and jawline. Compared to the
slick and tan crowd of Vegas guys, Fenton Morris was a man. He wore black pants
instead of carefully faded jeans, and his crisp blue shirt was unmarked by
graffiti labels or prowling tigers.

A wave of heat blasted
over me and I felt my cheeks get warm. I blamed my empty whiskey and soda, but
decided I better get another one before I talked to the black-haired man at the
railing. He surveyed the crowd with a bored scowl that prickled my skin with
nerves and excitement. I definitely needed a drink.

I walked around to the
side bar behind where Fenton Morris stood. Tearing my eyes from his hard, wide
shoulders, I flagged down the female bartender. She scowled at me.

"And whatever she
wants, too," the man next to me told the bartender. She smiled at him, but
rolled her eyes when I ordered another whiskey and soda.

"Thanks," I
said. The man looked as if he just stepped out of a catalog spread. I imagined
him with a sweater tied around his shoulders and he how would laugh as a golden
retriever brought him a tennis ball. Wait, no, not tennis. He looked familiar,
but under the laser lights of the nightclub, it was impossible to place him.

"Put her drink on my
tab," a rough voice said.

I turned around and
stepped back, my spine hard up against the bar. Fenton Morris' blue eyes blazed
down at me and despite the comparative modesty of my black dress, I felt
stripped naked. The slow smile on his lips was hypnotizing as I stared.

"You've been looking
for me," Fenton said.

My nostrils flared.
"Arrogant."

"Is he bothering
you?" my all-American neighbor asked.

"I might be
arrogant, but I'm not wrong," Fenton said. His eyes stayed on me.
"Tell him."

"Mr. Morris, just
because my company might be interested in signing you to an endorsement deal
does not mean I came to this party looking for you," I said.

"Liar." He
stepped closer to me and the other man stood up.

"Look, buddy, we've
all seen your posters, your billboards, but that doesn't give you leave to
harass the lady," the clean-cut man said.

Fenton's eyes flickered
towards the other man and his whole body turned as hard as marble. His eyes
went flat, and I knew I had to do something.

"Alright, fine. I
want you. Happy?" I asked.

The man who bought me a
drink frowned. "I'll be around if you need me." He shoved past
Fenton, like pushing a Roman column, and strode off down the bar.

"I want you right
here," Fenton said. He pointed to his arm.

I took it, my fingers
flexing to test the chiseled rock of his bicep. He grinned and his blue eyes
flashed with a devilish light. He whirled me into the crowd, people
automatically giving him space. It was impossible not to appreciate his
confident gait, and I clung to his arm as tame as a kitten. He made me want to
purr, and I was horrified at the undeniable thought.

He stopped here and there
to sign autographs, my arm still clamped against his body as he scribbled. More
than one flirtatious hopeful frowned at me, and I smiled back serenely. They
all wanted to be where I was, and I enjoyed my sudden security. The Vegas
nightclub was his to command and he had chosen me.

"I am loving that
dress," he said. He pulled me closer and dropped a quick look down my
cleavage.

"Yeah, well, my
silver sequins are at the dry cleaners," I said.

"Makes you stand
out," he said. "Black's my favorite color."

"Ugh. Next you’re
going to tell me you ride a motorcycle." I swept a look up and down him,
the same as he'd done to me. "Anything you think makes you look like a bad
boy, right?"

"Last time I
checked, I had earned my reputation," Fenton said.

"Please, I know your
manager. If anyone could buy you a conviction for assaulting a police officer,
it would be Kevin Casey."

Fenton laughed, a hearty
burst that kicked my heart into high gear. "Actually, that's how I met
Kev. He was in the drunk tank that night."

"So, you're a bad
boy that likes the color black. What's with the blue shirt?" I asked.

"It sets off my
eyes," he said.

I swallowed hard. He was
right, and it was hard to avoid his bright blue glances. Every time I felt one
sweep over me, my body tingled.

"And, I drive a
Maserati, not a motorcycle." He pulled me up the steps to the V.I.P.
Lounge. "Now, I'm liking you on my arm, but I have a booth reserved, if
you want to sit with me."

My mind flashed over what
his wide hands could do to me under the discreet cover of a table. The thought
melted my insides. "How about another drink?"

Fenton steered me towards
the bar, where he unhooked my arm only to slip his hand around my waist. The
heat of his flat palm against my stomach was enough to send fissures of
pleasure through the rest of my body. I decided two drinks were enough, but I
had been so distracted by the sensations he caused that Fenton ordered me
another whiskey and soda.

"Thanks," I
took a long sip. "So, how did you know I was here to sign you?"

"I saw you earlier. Kev
told me about you," he said. Fenton kept his arm wrapped around me as he
drank a tall beer. "Too bad I don't do endorsement deals."

"You might if I
ask," I said.

His lips curled into
another sinful smile. "And here I heard you were all prim and proper. Miss
Country Club Princess."

"You can't hold my
upbringing against me," I said.

Fenton's smile softened
and my heart flopped. "I know what that's like, so you're right. I won't
hold your upbringing against you." He pulled me closer. "But maybe
other things, if you ask."

I spun out of his hold.
It was too easy to flirt with him and forget all about work. "Sorry, I
have to respond to this."

My boss had sent eleven
messages with inappropriate suggestions for how to get Fenton's attention and
expletive-filled demands for updates. James Cort had no fear of a sexual
harassment suit, as he knew how much I wanted to take my career to the next
level.

"First contact now.
More soon," I typed.

"Dirty minx. Don't
do anything I wouldn't."

I shook my head at my
boss' response and tossed my phone back in my purse. I had built my career on a
sterling reputation and I was not about to throw it away on one Vegas
prizefighter. As I turned back to Fenton Morris, my resolve weakened. He leaned
against the bar, his blue shirt open wider, and my fingers itched to tangle in
his chest hair.

He caught my look and
smiled. "I've decided you can try convincing me. After we dance."

CHAPTER THREE

Kya

I
could still hear the club music. It thumped in my ears, but not as hard as the
hangover. I knew it was bright on the other side of my eyelids, but I could not
force them open. Flashes of the night before burst out of the fog, and I
cringed in my hotel bed.

Fenton had dragged me to
the dance floor, the crush of the crowd pushing me tight up against him. It
seemed like the perfect excuse to let go, just for a moment. One song turned
into a hypnotic loop and we kept going. I remembered my palms flat on the hard
rock of his chest. The surge of desire I felt helped fight off the waves of
aching hangover.

At one point, a stunning
spotlight of memory, we were back in the V.I.P. Lounge, close together in the
booth. He ordered champagne, and we toasted to our private corner in the packed
club.

 
Fenton's blue eyes intense on mine, his voice
soft as he had told me, "I don't know how, but you're different. I just
wish we hadn't met so soon."

I had giggled, confused
by the sincerity on his stubbled face. Of course now, in the painfully bright
light of morning I understood. He would not sign the endorsement deal until
after he won the title fight. That way, he would get more money.

I groaned and pried my
eyes open. I could not laze around in bed waiting to feel better. I had to find
Fenton and convince him to sign with me right away. The white sheets tangled
around me were softer than any I had ever slept on. I savored one more stretch
over their softness before my body went rigid with terror.

These were not the same
sheets on my hotel bed. I was in someone else's room.

Suite
,
I corrected myself as I glanced around in a panic. The penthouse suite was
enormous, all clean lines and jaw-dropping views. The Vegas Strip was far below
me, already baking in the sun. Hazy swirls of heat reflected off the buildings,
and I spotted my hotel, The Tropicana, across the way. The answer nagged at me,
but I wondered where I had ended up.
 

I lifted my head off the
pillow only far enough to read the stationary pad on the bedside table. The MGM
Grand. I had not gone far from the nightclub. I dropped my head back on the
soft pillow and squeezed my eyes shut. Another wave of memories burst in my
head like fireworks.

Champagne, more dancing,
and Fenton's hands on my body. The remembered heat flared over my skin again.
The sureness of his strength, the precise movement of his muscles, and the
magnetic pull between our bodies had been more intoxicating than the bubbly
wine.

And, somehow, he had felt
the same about me. Even in conversations with fans, trash talking with rival
fighters, and flirty exchanges with other women, his hands had reached for me.
His arm was around my waist, I slipped my hands around his bicep, and we
pressed closed together, whether the crowd was around us or not.

Safe in the privacy
behind my closed eyes, I admitted I was attracted to Fenton Morris more than
any other man I had ever met. His thick black hair, piercing blue eyes,
smirking lips, and even the rough rub of his stubbled chin and cheeks ignited
my body. He made me hot, buoyant, electric, and liquid all at the same time.

It was no wonder I
remembered riding the elevator up to his penthouse suite – his lips plunging
over mine, the taste of him deep in my mouth.

A cold blast of panic
shocked my eyes open again. I could just make out my crumpled dress, dangling
over the open bedroom door. Outside, in the middle of the suite's living room,
one red heel leaned against my spilled purse. Casino coins were scattered
around the carpet.

"You make me want to
believe in luck," Fenton had said.

The slot machine had spat
out coins, as I had tried unsuccessfully to catch them in the small hem of my
dress. He had knelt in front of me and scooped the coins into my purse.

"You don't?" I
had asked him.

"No. I want to earn
what I get. That way I know it’s mine," Fenton had said.

"Then, why do I make
you want to believe in it?"

"Because if I can't
say I feel lucky to have met you, then I don't know how to explain this."
Fenton had wrapped me up in a searing kiss, the coins spilling out of my hands
and open purse.

He was close behind me in
the king-sized bed. I could feel his heat. I peeled back the covers and cringed
when I realized I was wearing nothing but my black lace underwear and bra.

Could
be worse
, I thought,
I
could be naked
.

Not wanting to know how
far I had let things go last night, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the
large master bedroom. I thanked hotel maintenance for a bedroom door that did
not squeak. Even though my exit was silent, I glanced back to make sure Fenton
was still asleep.

The square cut of his jaw
was relaxed in sleep and I noticed the dark crescent his eyelashes made against
his cheeks. He was stunningly handsome, even without his laser blue eyes open.
My eyes wandered over the stark muscles of his arm and my cheeks warmed again.
Fenton Morris was a dangerously attractive man – asleep or awake.

A small sigh escaped me
as I tried to remember what had happened with him in that wide bed. My brain
was still fogged over, some patches thicker than others, and I could not
remember anything past the elevator. It was a shame I was in no shape to enjoy him
properly.

What
are you saying, Kya?
I asked myself.

There was no way I
regretted not savoring every second of wild sex with Fenton Morris. He was
business, nothing else. I would have room for fun when I had reached my goals.
I grabbed my other stray red heel off the bedroom floor and straightened my
shoulders. It was time to get dressed and get back my professional dignity.

My phone had skittered a
few inches away from my purse and, before I took one step out of the bedroom,
it rang. I had turned the volume all the way up before entering the nightclub,
where it still had not been loud enough. Now, the ringer was deafening.
 

Fenton woke up and
stretched, his long legs tugging down the sheet as he straightened them. I
could have stepped out and shut the door behind me, but I was caught staring at
the trail of dark hair that tapered from his belly button down below the thin
border of the sheet.

"Good morning,
beautiful," he said.

"You're naked."
I snatched my dress from the top of the bedroom door.

"I always sleep
naked. You should try it some time." Fenton stretched again, then sat up,
his washboard abs standing out in sharp relief. "How about now? It’s too
early to be going anywhere."

He held out one wide
hand. His thick black hair was rumpled and his smile fuzzy and sleepy. I felt a
tug low in my belly and pressed my dress against my body to ward off the
temptation.

"Don't you have
training to be doing?" I asked. "I've got to go. I've got to go to
work."

"I thought I was
your work," Fenton said.

"I'm not that kind
of girl," I told him. "Whatever happened last night, you can rest
assured our relationship will be nothing but professional from here on out. I
have a reputation for integrity, no tricks or dirty deals. I hope you, sir, can
say the same."

Fenton ran a hand through
his black hair and frowned. "I fight clean. One of the reasons I stay away
from endorsements. What I do, I do for myself and my reputation. So tell me,
Ms. Allen, what do you honestly think I tricked you into coming here?"

I clutched the black
dress to my chest and straightened my shoulders. "No."

"And, did I force
you to drink champagne into the wee hours of the morning?"

"No."

"Then, come back to
bed," Fenton said. "There's nothing wrong with admitting we're
attracted to each other."

I ducked behind the open
door and quickly yanked on my dress. "Whether or not I find you attractive
is not the point. I make it a professional point not to get involved
romantically with my clients. It sets the wrong tone for our business dealings."

Fenton chuckled and
hitched himself back on the bed to lean against the long headboard. "Yes,
please, save us from setting the wrong tone. I much prefer my business dealings
to be uptight and nervous."

I zipped up my dress and
bumped the bedroom door open again. "I am not nervous. My behavior last
night was inexcusable and I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I
don't sleep with clients."

"That's too bad. I
was in the market for new vitamin supplements," Fenton said.

My cheeks burned, but
this time it was not desire. "I probably drank too much champagne so I
could put up with your rudeness."

His hearty laughed shook
the whole bed. "Oh, keep your panties on, Ms. Allen. Remember, you're
trying to set a business tone here. By the way, your little lace slip is over
there on the mirror. I like it. What's the word? Demure. Like another layer of
sexy."

I stomped over to the
mirror and brandished my one red heel at him. "I don't know what kind of
women you are used to, Mr. Morris, but where I come from, women wear more than
scraps underneath their dresses."

"You're right. You
will take a little getting used to," Fenton said. "How about we start
with breakfast? You could order room service. Business breakfast? Has a nice
tone to it."

I wriggled into the lace
slip, too angry to care that his laser blue eyes watched every inch as I pulled
it up. I tugged my black dress into place and ignored the molten feeling his
look caused. Fenton was offering me a chance to pitch him the endorsement deal,
something I was sure I had lost just minutes before. The only problem was my
body betrayed me. The hangover was gone, but the desire was not. I wanted to
kiss that smirk right off Fenton Morris' face.

"Like I said, I have
to go. How about we plan on lunch?" The dignity of my offer disappeared as
a casino coin dislodged from my bra and dropped to the floor.

His hand snaked out and
caught my wrist. As he reeled me into the wide bed, I wondered if he could read
my thoughts. The kiss was searing hot, his lips hungry. I was off balance and
had two choices – tumble into his arms or straddle his lap. I threw a leg over,
hoping to level the playing field.

Fenton rubbed his hands
around my waist and down the curve of my back, pressing me down onto him. I
gasped when the thin sheet did nothing to block his obvious arousal. I pushed
up on my knees, unlocking our lips and accidentally bringing my breasts to his
mouth. He growled, the guttural friction of the sound making my nipples tingle.

"Sorry," he
said, releasing me. "I just wanted... Never mind, bad timing."

I sat back on his thighs,
unable to break from the magnetic pull of our bodies. "I didn't mean to
lead you on," I said. "I don't do that."

In the other room, my
phone rang again. I hesitated, not sure of the shattered look in Fenton's blue
eyes.

"Go ahead and talk
to your boss. And, by the way, Ms. Allen, I do not take advantage of drunk
women."

"You mean, we didn't
sleep together last night?" I asked, halfway across the room.

"We slept, but that
was it. For now," Fenton said.