Fighting Love (Love to the Extreme) (27 page)

Bending, he hoisted her up into his arms, keeping his lips firmly on hers, teasing the inside of her

mouth with his tongue. When he reached his bed, he laid her on the mattress, knowing he would take his

time exploring every part of her.

Leaning down, he started on the top button of her blouse. With each one he undid, he placed a light kiss

on her skin. Her chest jumped on stuttered exhales, but she didn’t move away, allowed him to do as he

wished. As he parted the shirt, he sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers over her belly, then

grazed the tip of one breast until the nipple strained against the pale purple satin of her bra. Then he met her

eyes.

At the tender way she gazed down at him, his chest felt like a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound

fighter was lying across it. God, he was such a fucking fool. She had everything every other woman

he’d been with had lacked—laughter, joy, and home, all wrapped into one.

She was perfect. So fucking perfect.

He palmed the plump flesh of her breast with his hand, running his thumb over the erect

nipple. Her sharp inhale made him do it again. When she reached for the clasp in front, he

brushed her hands aside, wanting to do it himself. After he flicked it open and peeled the fabric

back, her pert nipples jutted forward, asking for his mouth. Ignoring his instant need, he turned

his attention to getting her completely undressed. He undid her pants, tugged them and her

panties off, and dropping them to the floor. He stood and peeled her blouse and bra over her

shoulders, tossed them aside, and removed his own clothing.

As he joined her on the bed, he stretched out beside her, loving the length of her body pressed

against his. He leaned down and took the tip of her breast between his lips, flicking his tongue

across it. Her fingers dug into his hair, and she pushed herself farther into his waiting mouth.

“I-I want,” she gasped as he sucked the nipple into his mouth. “Oh, God, Tommy.”

He loved hearing her breathe his name in abject pleasure. Wanted to hear it again and again.

He switched to the other nipple. Her mewls of excitement filled his head. She met him each step,

pulling him closer. Begging. He got lost in the feel of her, the smell of her. All he was aware of was

her and her response to his touch. Returning to her mouth, he saw to her pleasure first, lowering

his hands between her thighs. She immediately parted for him. As he used his fingers to love on

her body, he used his lips to love on her mouth, feeding on each one of her glorious gasps as she

climbed higher and higher. When she climaxed, her body arcing like a bow against his, her long

moan wrapping him in shivers of passion, there was no need to take or to devour.

All he wanted was to be inside her. No kinky positions. No fast and hard fucking. Just feeling her

body beneath his, joined as one.

Rolling between her legs, his chest met her naked breasts and the air gushed from his lungs at

the feel of her tight nipples scraping his skin. He braced his forearms on either side of her and

gazed down, watching her wide hazel eyes as he slowly entered her. Her lips parted on a soft sigh.

Just to hear that sigh once more, he did it again, closing his eyes as the sounds of her pleasure

wrapped around him. He loved listening to her.

He loved her.

Not in the way he’d spent the last twenty-three years loving her. Because now she was his. For richer,

for poorer, for better, for worse.

And suddenly he knew she always had been.

He
wasn’t
his mother’s son. He
was
capable of love. Deep, wanting to have a family with the love of

his life, lasting-forever love.

That was why he’d gone from woman to woman. Not because he had some kind of fucked-up

broken gene from his crap mom. He’d known, deep down, the women were nothing compared to

Julie. She had always had his heart. It had just taken a bit longer for his head to catch up.

He’d been incapable of making love to anyone but Julie. This slow, even pace was just as thrilling and

fulfilling as a hard, fast rhythm because Julie was the one beneath him looking up, eyes glazed with

passion, lips swollen from his kisses.

His
.

Capturing her mouth, he poured every bit of his incredible discovery into that kiss, letting her feel the

change, grow accustomed—accept it. Sure, he’d continue to crave this woman with a lust that bordered on

insanity, continue to fuck her with a mindlessness he only reached with her, but now he’d learned the true

beauty of lovemaking, and he wanted everything that came with it.

He wanted her. And her alone.

When her palm cupped his cheek, he took that as her acceptance.

Their relationship had changed.

They were a couple.

Afterward, he cradled Julie in his arms, kissing the top of her head. A part of him wanted to tell her he

loved her, to put words to what he’d just shown her with his body. But they’d said those same words to

each other thousands of times in the past. They didn’t have the same meaning as they would have if spoken

for the first time after making love.

And just because he’d finally
made
love to her, that didn’t mean she was willing to accept he was
in

love with her. It went against everything he’d always done. Everything he’d always said, even to her. Hell,

especially to her.

He had to show Julie he loved her.

He wanted to be her boyfriend—and to be a great one.

He’d never held that title—not with her, not with any woman. He’d never wanted it, had never even

trained
for it, and he was more than worried he’d somehow screw it up. He hugged her tighter. No, he

would be the best damn boyfriend ever, because if he wasn’t, he would lose this woman…and that just

wasn’t an option.

He drew in a deep, steadying breath.

He was about to enter a big fight. The biggest, most important fight of his life.

And he aimed to win by a knockout.

Chapter 13

Tommy walked into the gym just as Mike was closing the door of his office. Tommy kept walking, but

his coach quickened his steps toward him, clapped him on the shoulder, and steered him in the opposite

direction. “We don’t have time for a pre-fight chat,” Mike said. “Tate had something come up, so we have

to get started now.”

“Shouldn’t we cancel, then?”

“No. It’s got to happen now.”

Tommy frowned, not understanding Mike’s insistence that the fight happen today. This was just

sparring at a gym, not a real fight. They could do it later this week.

He spotted Tate over in the corner getting his hands wrapped with tape, and he dropped the subject.

Maybe the guy had something serious going on and wouldn’t be able to fight in a sparring session all week.

“All right, let me get geared up,” Tommy said, and snatched up his headgear.

“No gear. Get your hands taped, your gloves on, and that’s it.”

Tommy stared at his coach with a frown. “This is a sparring session, right?”

Mike sucked on his teeth for a second before saying, “No. You’re fighting.”

Tommy’s mouth dropped in surprise. “Mike, what the hell’s going on?”

“I need to see what you’ve got. Tate is a good opponent for you, for me to gauge how far you still have

to go.”

“So this was never about me being an opponent for him?”

“It’s for both of you. Tate needs the practice, too, and you
are
a good match-up for him. I’m killing

two birds with one stone. So get out there and give me, and him, everything you’ve got.” Mike looked at

Tate, who’d walked up to join the conversation. “That goes for you, too. Don’t be easy on him.”

Nerves hit Tommy, and he hated the moment of weakness. This was important. He didn’t have time for

nerves. But he felt them nonetheless. He inhaled deeply, then breathed out, cleansing the anxiety away and

focusing on what he had to do.

He didn’t want to put on a good show. He didn’t want Mike impressed with his progress. He didn’t want

him coming back with a list of things he needed to work on.

He wanted his coach to be confident that Tommy “Lightning” Sparks was back, and there would be hell

to pay.

Which meant he had to beat Tate. And beat him good.

One of the other guys taped Tommy’s hands and shoved his gloves on. He warmed up for five minutes,

then Mike called him and Tate over. After a quick smear-down of Vaseline over their faces and their mouth

guards put into place, they were ready to duck under the ropes.

As Tommy hopped around the middle of the ring, getting his blood flowing even more, he studied his

opponent. The auburn-haired man had the same look—firm resolve narrowed his eyes as he studied

Tommy.

Tate was just as determined to win as Tommy was. Excitement shivered through him. The thrill of an

impending good fight enveloped him, and he smiled, welcoming the sensation.

He was so ready for this.

“All right, we’re doing five five-minute rounds,” Mike yelled from the side of the ring.

That took Tommy aback, and he shot a glance at his coach. Mike was watching him closely for his

reaction, so Tommy sent him a calm nod, as if that information hadn’t just shocked the shit out of him.

He’d been training for
three
five-minute rounds, a regular bout in the cage.

Not a damn championship fight.

A bell echoed inside the gym, and Tommy had no more time to think. He automatically brought his

gloves up to his chin and searched for his opening. It wasn’t easy, since Tate was a southpaw.

Being a left-handed fighter, Tate definitely had the advantage. Orthodox fighters like Tommy mostly

went up against other orthodox fighters, with a southpaw thrown in only on occasion. Southpaws,

however, went up against right-handed fighters all the time, so they didn’t need a period of adjustment.

Because Tate’s stance mirrored his own, Tommy had to do opposite of what came naturally to him,

which was circling right. Every move felt off, even though he’d actually practiced this over the past few

days.

He had a couple of options to take the fight onto a more even playing field. Get Tate in a clinch or take

him to the ground. Tate was weaker in the clinch, but if things went in Tommy’s favor, he wouldn’t get a

chance to show Mike what he had on the ground.

Crap. Ground it was, then.

Tommy studied Tate. With his right leg forward, his opponent’s stance made a double-legged takedown

difficult, but he could always go for the single leg.

Fake it. Open up his stance more.

Tommy feigned a right hook, which made Tate react with his left side, opening him up. Tommy delved

into the pocket, pressing his face against the other man’s chest and locked his arms around his opponent’s

left thigh as he dropped to his knees.

As soon as they hit the mat, Tommy scrambled for the half-guard by sprawling across Tate’s upper

torso. Both fought for dominance. One second, Tommy had Tate pinned as he tried for a submission hold,

the next, Tate had landed a mind-boggling left punch that made Tommy loosen his grip. Tate took the

opportunity to worm his way out of the hold and get back on his feet.

They circled each other again. That southpaw left-cross caught Tommy on the side of the head, but he

shook off the impact, giving back fist for fist.

Four rounds went by where they beat the bloody hell out of each other. One round Tate would

dominate, the next Tommy would. Tommy succeeded in getting the other fighter into a clinch three times,

landing damaging body shots. But Tate never wavered. It became clear why he was close to being a

contender for the belt.

His opponent landed another left. Blood gushed down Tommy’s face into his eyes. He tried to wipe it

from his face so he could see Tate, but it was useless. More blood just poured out. Tommy locked his arms

around Tate’s waist and lifted him high in the air before crashing him against the mat. He’d just landed a jab

that opened up a gash under Tate’s eye when the bell dinged, signaling the end of the round.

Breathing heavily, he made his way to the corner.

“You’re doing great out there, Tommy,” Mike said as one of the guys from the team pressed an ice-cold

piece of metal against the gash to control the swelling. “One more round. Tate’s just as tired as you are right

now. Take advantage of that.”

Mike slapped him on the shoulder then hurried over to Tate, most likely to tell him the exact same thing.

There’d be no special treatment for either of them.

The bell rang for the start of the fifth and last round.

Tommy jumped to his feet and met Tate in the middle of the ring, fist protecting his chin.

He was exhausted, arms heavy, face and body hurting to high hell. But he was satisfied to see fatigue in

his opponent’s moves, too. The seasoned fighter
was
just as wrung out, just as beat up—and just as

determined to finish this before the final bell rang.