Going the Distance (9 page)

“Thanks for this,” she told him as the waitress left. “I hadn't realized it, but I needed a night out. Away from my sister, mean as that sounds.”

“Hey, my sister was a teenager once. I can sympathize.”

She opened her mouth, but suddenly there were no words. One good look at that handsome face, lit by the candle flickering in a glass cylinder at their sides, and her insides went all squishy, brain turning to goo. Never mind the stitches. Never mind the accent or the sheer brutality of Rich's job. He looked like the most gorgeous, sophisticated thing she'd ever seen.

He raised an eyebrow, amused by her scrutiny.

“Sorry. I spaced out.”

“Long day?”

She nodded as the waitress appeared with their drinks.

Rich eyed his beer. “You let me off easy.”

Lindsey grinned and swapped their glasses, sliding the cosmo in front of Rich.

He frowned. “Oh, come on. It's pink.”

“I know,” she said, faking commiseration. “I hate those things. But my beer looks fantastic, doesn't it? It's Danish.”

He smiled—the sexiest, snidest, pursed-lip smile she'd ever seen—and narrowed his dark eyes.

“Payback for the freaky bedroom rumor you started with my client.”

“Fine.” He lifted his glass, implying a toast. Lindsey reached out, urging his pinkie coyly to the side.

“There you go. Very prim.”

She could sense him suppressing a smile. “You really make a man fight for his dignity, don't you?”

“And you really like fighting, don't you?”

The grin broke through. They tapped glasses and sipped and Rich made a face. “Jesus. Are all girly drinks this strong?”

“Yup. And the sugar doesn't help. Here—we'll share.” She set her glass between them and he did the same. They traded tastes of each, and it took only a few minutes and half an ounce of vodka for Lindsey's lips to loosen enough to demand, “Is this a date?”

Rich nodded.

She bit her lip.

“Here,” he said, pushing the cosmo toward her. “Finish that and ask whatever it is you're dying to.”

Feeling a touch giddy, she did. As she set down the empty glass she asked, “If Jenna's text hadn't wrecked everything that night...”

His brow rose.

“Would you have tried to...come upstairs with me?”

“Maybe. If you'd given me some signal I was welcome to.”

“Oh.” Lust wriggled in her middle at the thought of Rich Estrada's mouth on hers, his mind on whether or not he might get invited up to take things further.

“Would you have?” he asked.

She shook her head. “My ex-boyfriend was upstairs.”

“Oh, right. And if he hadn't been?”

“I dunno. I've never done that. Invited anyone up for, you know. A one-night stand.”

“Never?”

Why exactly did it sting to have him confirm that's what it would've been? It never
could
have been anything more, not with him leaving Boston so soon after, not with her own singlehood being so fresh and complicated. Not with the two of them playing in such vastly different leagues.

Whatever, let it sting. No need to overthink it.

“Never,” she confirmed. “I was with the same guy for all those years. On and off, but mostly on. And even when we were off, I never did much more than go on the odd first date. It's hard to get psyched up to move on when you're moving on from somebody who feels like...I dunno. Like such a part of who you are.”

“I can see that.”

Making out with you was the closest I've come to sleeping with a man who's not Brett since I was...
God, she hadn't felt a different man's hands on her body since she was eighteen. Since her first boyfriend, the one Brett had never approved of back when they'd only been friends. The only other guy she'd slept with.

It made her curious. About Rich. How his palms would feel, sliding down her sides, hips, thighs. How he'd smell, how he'd sound. What he'd say.

And who knew what he'd be into?

Panic shunted lust aside as she realized all the security she'd had with Brett was lost. Surely a man like Rich drew lovers like moths. He was only a couple years older than her, but their lives were so different. All at once Lindsey felt like a blushing virgin.

“Sorry,” he said, snapping her from the thought. “Shouldn't have brought him up.”

She shook her head. “No, no. It's not that. Just the vodka starting to work.”
Just way ahead of myself, worrying you're into sex stuff I've never even heard of.
What a waste of a date with the most gorgeous man who'd ever deigned to flirt with her. She eyed their dwindling glasses. “I think we need another round.”

“I know exactly what we need,” Rich said, and snagged the waitress's attention. “We will have...” His gaze skimmed the menu. He pointed to something Lindsey wasn't meant to see, and the waitress nodded, heading for the bar.

“What did you just order?”

“A taste of unfinished business.” He leaned back, a smile curling his lips, eyes narrowing.

She knew what that must mean, and smirked when the waitress returned with a bottle of champagne and set two flutes between them.

Rich spared the woman the rigmarole of opening it, motioning for her to let him. If it violated any safety policies, she ignored that fact, making Lindsey wonder if Rich appreciated the ease with which he got women to give him whatever he wanted. And just how easily Lindsey herself might be persuaded to do the same—let him strip the foil from her body and pop her cork with a deft, practiced hand.

She watched his arm flex as he unwound the wire, triceps twitching as he squeezed the cork free. Lindsey clapped as he poured, and this time an articulated toast couldn't be avoided.

She held up her glass. “To...”
To whatever happens when we leave here.
A wistful notion that—considering she lived with her sister, and he with his sister and mother—ought to have been a prayer and not a toast. Privacy was at a premium in Lynn.

“To our five glorious minutes in the back of a taxi,” Rich announced.

“The ones from last fall, or ones I don't know about yet?”

He grinned and they drank. “That is a
very
good question. And I'll just let you wonder about the answer.”

Lindsey laughed. “You're not a subtle man, are you?”

He shook his head, splashing more fizzing wine in their glasses. “Whether you're getting hit on or plain old
hit
by Rich Estrada, you will know it.”

No wonder she was already reeling. Nerves had her itching for some warning she could offer, to cut him off at the pass—
nothing's going to happen between us in the taxi tonight.
But why wouldn't it?

She wanted that, insecurities or not. She was single, so was Rich. And they liked each other. If things went too far and they did have a one-night stand, it wouldn't be some shameful mistake. She'd get to watch him fight on TV in six months or a year, and maybe think,
That man gave me the best sex of my life.
And if he didn't? If it turned out flash and swagger and an insane body couldn't hold a candle to what a lover of five years could do to her...? Well, that would make getting over him that much easier.

For a couple of minutes, they didn't say a word. Rich was studying her, squinting with something softer than mischief. She returned the look, until it began to feel too intimate, too scary, and she turned her attention to the street.

“I think you're real pretty,” Rich said, matter-of-fact.

She met his stare. “Thanks.”
I think you're the most handsome man I've ever seen.

“I meant what I said, about thinking about you while I was on the road.”

“I'd have guessed the ring girls would be more than happy to keep you distracted.” She realized as she said it, her stupid, glib armor was coming on, deflecting his compliments. She wished she could take it back.

“You probably didn't think about me,” Rich said. “Sounds like you were pretty busy while I was away. Stomping on your cockroach.”

She pursed her lips. But he'd given her another chance to return his sincerity, his flirtation, and she wouldn't waste it. “No, I thought about you. About what happened in the cab.”

“Oh?”

She stared at his fingers, curled around the base of the glass's stem like a napping cat. “I...I think what happened...”

He sipped his champagne, waiting as she got the words out.

“It changed everything with my ex. I'd forgotten I could feel that much, just from a kiss. That I could feel that with another guy. I think it was the final nail—realizing I was missing out on feeling that stuff as long as I stayed with him.”

Oh, God, why had she just said all that? Did that sound completely clingy and feely and psycho? She met Rich's eyes, scared of what trepidation she might find there.

His expression was hard to read, and for a few breaths he just blinked at her.

“That probably came out wrong,” she murmured.

“I hope not. I liked how it came out.”

Her blush was hot, sizzling in her cheeks and flushing her neck. “It sounds dumb, since all we did was kiss. But I don't know...I just hadn't felt that in so long. It made me sad that he couldn't make me feel that anymore.” She paused and sank back against the seat. “Sorry. We're supposed to be on a date. I'd never advise my clients to start yammering on about their exes on a date.”

He smiled. “Do I look like I know anything about dating etiquette?”

“When you're wearing a suit? Yes, you do.”

“Right now I'm wearing a stinky old T-shirt, so trust me, I don't give a shit what you're talking about, as long as I get to watch your mouth while you're saying it.”

The blush again, and Lindsey bit her lip. Rich mimicked it, seeming to find her endearing when flustered.

“You're different tonight,” he said. “Usually you knock everything I say aside like I'm chucking rocks at you.”

“Do I?” She knew she did. Sarcasm was her defense mechanism, and men like Rich put her on guard. She didn't know how to handle him any better than she might a charging bear. “I'm a little drunk.”

He smirked, noting she'd yet again blocked his flattery with a flick of her snarky gauntlet. “It's a good look for you.”

But under the banter, something had shifted. This wasn't the Rich she knew from around the office. No bravado, no persona. There was no crowd for him to play to, only her. She'd met this Rich exactly once, in those quiet moments after his fight. She felt naked, knowing Rich could spot her flimsy armor so easily. There was no intimacy unless both people stripped away their defenses, and right now, looking into those dark eyes, she felt unmistakably bared. And it scared her. She didn't know if she could feel this way with a man, unless it was more than simple sexual attraction. Her gaze escaped out the window once more.

Rich filled their glasses and asked, “You think your sister's going to make it to September before we scare her back to western Mass?”

Was she relieved or disappointed that he'd shifted the conversation, closing the shutters on that connection she'd felt? She wasn't sure, but she rolled with it. They sipped the champagne until it was gone, talking about their sisters, about the future of the gym, about Lindsey's clients. Her anxiety receded as they fell into an easy rapport.

When the last of the champagne was gone, she checked her phone. No calls, but— “Jeez, it's after ten.”

“Time flies.”

“We should probably head home soon. I have to be up at seven.”

“I have to be up at five, but you don't see me rushing to get my slippers on. Hey—I got an idea.” He sounded a bit drunk. That didn't bode well for her own state, given they'd been drinking at the same rate, yet their size discrepancy was probably equal to a middle-schooler.

“What idea is that?”
That you take me home to your bed and ravage me?

“Let's go to the gym and whale on stuff.”

Close enough. She was eager to keep this high, liberated feeling going.

Knowing they might prove famous last words, she uttered them all the same.

“Sure. Why the heck not?”

7

T
HEY
WOUND
UP
walking back to Chinatown—slow going with the crutches, but only ten minutes' journey. The air was fresh, the evening breeze cool and the night electric, enhanced by Lindsey's tipsiness and Rich's proximity. Simply being seen with him made her feel sexy. It was thrilling, borrowing a taste of his spotlight.

She unlocked the foyer's front door.

“Hang up here a sec,” he said. “I'll make sure the coast's clear.”

“Good thinking.” There wasn't anything seedy about their actual plans, but they
were
decidedly strange. She didn't relish explaining to Mercer or some other trainer.

“Clear,” he called, and Lindsey headed for the steps, excitement spiking.

She kicked off her flats at the base of the stairs. Rich rummaged in the equipment closet, returning with the cotton tape and gloves. Lindsey remembered how to do the wrapping—she'd practiced at home with a pair of tights, nerdily enough. She secured her gloves and got into position in front of the nearest bag.

“Teach me something tough. Like hooks or uppercuts or those ones where you spin around and whack a guy with the back of your fist.”

“Tough to uppercut a heavy bag, but those other two, sure.”

He showed her how to throw a hook with her front fist then her back.

“Really
twist
your body.”

“This is...going to hurt tomorrow,” she huffed between shots. “In my...nonexistent abs.”

“Hook's tough. Don't pull anything.”

Weirdest foreplay ever.
But each time a punch echoed up her arm, it set her nerves buzzing, got her blood pumping quicker, harder. This must be why make-up sex—or indeed midfight sex—was so intense. Spike desire with aggression and everything primal bubbling inside Lindsey burned that much hotter.

Whack.

Pain burst in her fingers. “Ow.” She glanced at her hand, finding two skinned knuckles.

Rich stepped close. “No more left hook for you. Hang tight, I'll patch you up.”

She gave the bag a few softer punches with her right hand while she waited, recalling some silly fantasies that were the inverse of this—daydreams in which she dabbed Rich's scrapes and sweaty brow. Damn fighter fetish.

He hopped back with a first-aid kit. She stripped the fingerless glove and tape and he swabbed her bleeding knuckles with a stinging antiseptic wipe, smeared them with medicinal goo, then carefully wrapped each in a bandage.

“Nice,” he said. “First blood.”

“Yeah, my own. Very butch.”

He snapped the case shut. Leaning close, he took her other hand in his, tearing the strap open and tugging off the glove. Slow as a seduction, he unwound the tape, around her palm, between her fingers, over and under until he held her bare hand in his gloved one. Lindsey swallowed.

Softly, he said, “We're gonna be back in a cab together soon.”

She nodded.

He slipped his fingers between hers, then did the same with her other hand, the gesture making the difference in their sizes all the more explicit. Her breaths came shallow and short.

“You gonna let me finish what we started last year?”

Are you going to
let
him?
That distinction—him doing, her the target—didn't bother her. It excited her.

Her usual quips were gone. She answered without uttering a syllable, raising her head, cocking her jaw. Rich leaned in and took what she offered.

His lips tasted sweet. After a flurry of shallow kisses, he took things deeper, the slick, hot intrusion of his tongue knocking the sense clean out of her head.

He was the one with a broken foot, but Lindsey felt ready to topple, every muscle from her waist down turned to jelly. All at once it was October again. The cavernous gym was gone, and they were shut in an intimacy no bigger than a backseat. Rich's fingertips in her hair, thumbs on her cheeks. The lips she'd mourned all these months were exactly as she'd remembered, down to the very flavor of this kiss. The way his mouth owned hers... She'd follow him anywhere, just as long as this feeling didn't stop.

And suddenly she
was
following him.

They staggered a dozen paces to a weight bench. One moment they sat side by side, the next she was straddling the padded seat, seconds later her thigh had edged over his, their mouths never separating. The desire felt like gravity, an unstoppable force pulling their bodies together, never close enough. His palms were on her waist, the grazing touch hot and curious.

She stroked his hard shoulders and raked her nails down his arms, spurring his kiss. Bossy hands coaxed her hips. She did as they asked, fumbling onto his lap. With a palm on her butt, he hauled her against his chest, lips slipping to her throat.

She'd been imagining this contact for ages. The two of them pressed together, all her excitement reflected back in the restless twitching of male muscle.

In her fantasies, Rich always seemed to just turn up in her bedroom in low-slung sweatpants, face set with dark determination, crawling across her comforter and taking her without a word. Never had a weight bench featured, but she wasn't complaining.

His arms were strong. Her body tightened as she imagined him doing this during sex—holding her in his lap, dictating their motions with those gruff, demanding hands. He slipped one beneath the hem of her shirt, and the mismatched sensations of his gloved palm and bare fingers made her tremble.

For so long, she'd been fantasizing about the man from those videos—the fighter. But here in reality, he had so many more dimensions. Who Rich Estrada was had nothing to do with his stats or record or stills posted on the web. None of those could tell a woman how hot his body ran, and how that fever burned when they were pressed so close. No measure of his reach could quantify the power of these arms, locked at her ribs. She'd never met a man who seemed so elementally like
himself
in sexual mode. She couldn't have said she knew him, not until their bodies were communicating this way, without any words.

“Rich.” She hadn't meant to say it. Her stubborn side was reluctant to sound so overwrought, so affected and worshipful, but here in his arms, in his lap, why fight it?

The mouth at her throat grew hungrier, the drag of his lips sharpened by the soft scrape of teeth, rousing her pulse to a tight throb. One hand roamed up her back and tangled in her hair as the other tugged her closer, closer. Close enough for their centers to brush, and for the stiff press of his erection to suck the air from her lungs.

“Rich.”

“Lindsey.”
He said it softly, huffed through the breath that heated her skin. The hand on her hip slid between them, up her side, and finally cupped her breast. His fingertips were warm, gloved palm neutral. She shivered.

Without even realizing, she'd begun moving in his lap. Tiny motions were all she could manage with her legs dangling, but even that subtle friction had heat building. She clasped his arms just to feel the hard muscle.

His mouth ravaged her throat, her jaw, then claimed her lips once more. As they kissed, their hips moved in a mutual rhythm. Lindsey felt desire flash and gather and solidify to a vital, physical force in her belly, all misgivings and hesitance gone.

Just as her lips grew tender, Rich released her. He coaxed her to stand and she obeyed on shaking legs. When he rose, the very size of him made her weak, the way he stared down from so high above her. She swallowed.

He smiled, the gesture plainly telling her he found whatever expression she wore amusing. Small wonder—she probably looked rabid, ready to devour him from his feet up.

“We aren't stopping, are we?” she asked.

His grin doubled every bit of arousal she felt—hot as his arms, his scent, the restless, hard body she'd felt against her own. “I hope not. But there's only so much we can accomplish on a weight bench.” He ripped open the Velcro tab at his wrist.

Hell, if this was a one-time-only, no-strings opportunity, what did she have to lose? She slapped his hand as he went to tug off his glove.

“Leave them on.”

His eyebrow rose. “You're one of those, huh?”

She stepped closer, running greedy palms down his chest and stomach, holding his hips and marveling at the hardness there.

He trailed the backs of his fingers down her arm. “I should probably shower, at least.”

She met his gaze. “Dear God, no.”

“Wow. You win—that's a new one. How freaky are you, exactly? Should I wear a mouth guard?”

“No...” She ran her palms up his biceps again, ravenous. “But maybe I should.”

Rich laughed. “You're not the woman I thought you were.”

She smiled at that, not merely from the flirtation but from being called a woman for a change, not a girl. And let him think she
was
freaky—why not? It was how she felt right now. Wild and free and sexy.

Despite her protests, Rich tore off his gloves and flung the tape after them. “You may not have any hygiene standards, but I know where those have been. C'mere.”

She expected him to own her with more hungry kisses, but he surprised her by grabbing one crutch and taking her hand, leading her haltingly across the floor. Where exactly was this tryst going to go down? She hoped Mercer wouldn't be finding her panties wedged between the filing cabinets after they despoiled his office.

He didn't lead her to the office, but to a room beside it. It was a plain and tidy space, painted cinder block decorated with the odd fight poster, an old TV and DVD player on a stand across from a couple of beat-up recliners. A white projection screen hung from one wall.

“I never knew there was a lounge down here.”

Rich left the lights off, letting the glow leaking in from the gym be enough. “For studying match footage, dissecting the competition or your own form.”

But Rich didn't have a show in mind, not one that featured anything beyond the two of their bodies. Fine by Lindsey. She'd happily study his form, live and in person.

He led her to the larger of the two recliners, resting his crutch against the wall.

“Here.” He sat and beckoned her to join him.

For a minute or more, it was sweet, nearly tender. She settled sideways on his lap, calves dangling over the armrest. His kisses were lazy and deep, fingertips trailing up and down her bare arm before cupping her jaw, that touch that made her so reliably crazy. She wanted to press closer, find out if he was hard for her again. But these kisses were so sensual and slow, her brazenness abandoned her. She hadn't expected to discover this man. A rough, eager fighter, yes. A shameless man who moved more quickly than she was prepared for, sure. But not the one she was tasting this moment, the one kissing her deeply, whose steady breaths warmed her cheek.

He pulled back to look her in the eyes. His lids were heavy and she ached to see that gleam behind them, aimed down at her from above, in bed.

He didn't utter a word, but his hands spoke—they issued a simple order, tugging at her hips. She did as they asked, wedging one knee on either side of his thighs. It didn't look a thing like her fantasies, but her desire burned as hot as she'd known it would, just feeling him so close, filling her lungs with his scent. No cologne this time, only a faint hint of perspiration and the smell of his skin and hair, of Rich.

He tugged again at her hips, seating her tightly. A gasp fled her lungs to feel him so hard and ready, and though he didn't smile, she could sense a grin lurking behind those quirked lips. He knew what he did to her, and he liked that power.

Two could play that game.

She braced her hands on the back of the recliner, perfected her angle and began to roll her hips. That smirk was gone in an instant, his expression tensing with unmistakable surprise and arousal. He felt obscene between her legs, his cock just as big and hard as every other part of his physicality, just as dangerous. He swore softly.

Charged by this sudden reversal, she tangled her hands in his hair, holding his head. She'd never been this way with a guy. All...rampant. It made her feel like the sort of hottie she imagined Rich normally hooked up with, and in the moment, feeling the part was far better than looking the part.

“Goddamn, you feel good.” No missing it—his voice had gone raw, as though she'd turned him into an animal, brought out the beast in him. It raised goose bumps along her arms.

“So do you.”

For a moment he nuzzled her neck, the caress caught between desire and tenderness. Then she felt that scrape of his teeth along her jugular and the steam of an exhalation, and she knew any gentleness she'd sensed was her imagination's doing.

His whisper warmed her skin. “You have no idea how long I've wanted this.”

Ten months and two days.
That's how long she'd been waiting to finish what they'd started. Add another couple weeks if you counted the fact that she'd wanted him the second they'd laid eyes on each other. “I can guess.”

“But I didn't exactly come prepared,” he said between kisses, lips just below her ear.

Though part of her was disappointed, another was pleased to think he wasn't such a playboy that he carried condoms wherever he went. That their winding up here together was unexpected, maybe even special...circumstantially, if not romantically.

“I didn't, either.” Lindsey had never bought a condom in her life, and hadn't used one in years. The idea excited her—it smacked of the impulsive hookups of youth and all the experiences she'd forfeited, staying with the same man for so long and never exploiting their time apart.

But it wasn't to be tonight. “We can still...you know. Mess around.”

He smoothed a stray lock behind her ear. “That we can.” He laughed, a silent hitch of his shoulders and a squinting of his eyes.