Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance (10 page)

These weren’t the
kinds of thoughts I was used to having. I was used to moving through
each day as a small, organized piece in my short-term plans to meet
my long-term goals. Instead, I felt impatient, restless.

I looked at myself in
the mirror, giving myself a sultry pout. I wanted him to see me in
that dress. At the fight tomorrow night. I couldn’t believe he’d
invited me. I hadn’t decided yet, would I go? Would I wear the
dress?

I could even walk
downstairs in my white dress right then. I could head into the
kitchen and get myself a drink. He might be there. He seemed to stay
in every night like me. If he saw me and asked why I was wearing it I
could act casual, explain I was trying it on, deciding if I should
keep it.

I’d love to see his
eyes take me in. He’d like me in this dress. I knew he would. I
wanted to stoke his fires like he stoked mine.

But it was dangerous. I
shouldn’t do it.

Forcing myself, I undid
the zipper and hung it up in my closet. Some day maybe I’d wear it,
but not tonight. Tonight I’d go to bed like a good girl. Tomorrow
night I’d go out to happy hour at the tacqueria, hang out with the
other interns. Then there’d only be seven more weeks left. Seven
more weeks with Tuck.

But once I’d slipped
in between the sheets of my bed, after I’d turned out the light, I
let my mind wander. Saturday night… Would I go? What would it be
like to watch Tuck fight?

I bet I’d like it. In
the secret, private world of my bed, I could let myself admit how
much I liked watching Tuck. How much it had turned me on to watch him
fuck that girl against the wall. Back in New York, in that hot tub
together, we’d come so close. I’d wanted him to touch me. I’d
wanted him to slip his hand down, like I did now, sliding my fingers
down to my sex, wet and waiting for him.

His bedroom was only
two doors down. He might be in it right now, no shirt on, those
tattoos winding and snaking their way across his fully ripped
muscles. He wouldn’t know, he’d never find out if I closed my
eyes and pretended my hand was his, stroking, coaxing out the need in
me.

The silky, dark tones
of his voice. The ridges and planes of his body, so sculpted, hard
and huge. The way he looked at me, as if he burned to touch me.
Stroking my slick folds, I brought myself closer, circling and
working my clit.

The other morning, I’d
seen his cock pressing erect and full against his shorts. He looked
so huge, so powerful. I could see so much, erotic and vivid, his
thick crown outlined against the nylon. What would it feel like to be
with a man that big?

I could feel myself
tensing up, needing release. My fingers slipped in and out, so wet,
my body twisting and writhing toward climax. Close to the edge, the
waves of pleasure mounting, building, I imagined his husky, deep
voice telling me to come. In the dark with a deep moan, I followed
his command.

Tuck

At nine o’clock
Friday night I decided I felt like fish tacos. I’d made my weigh-in
earlier that day at 235. The pressure to cut weight in the
heavyweight division wasn’t bad; you didn’t want to get too
skinny since you could be up against a guy who weighed 260. At 6’3”,
nothing but muscle, 235 felt just right. A brick shithouse. I pitied
the fool showing up against me tomorrow. I’d seen him at weigh-in,
some guy from Fresno with crappy tattoos. He’d tried to stare me
down. Good fucking luck with that.

I’d heard there were
great fish tacos at this place over by the Marine Mammal Center. I
figured I’d go check it out. And while I was there, I might as well
look around for my stepsister. Happy hour went from five to seven.
That meant it had ended two hours ago. Where the fuck was she?

The place was hopping,
little colorful lights surrounding an outdoor patio. A few heads
turned my way and checked me out as I entered, guys sizing up the
competition, girls looking like they’d like to climb on up. I gave
one of them a smile and a wink as I walked up to the hostess. Bet her
panties just got wet.

“Welcome! Are you
here to sit down or take out?” She held a menu in her hand and I
took it from her.

“Take out.” I
scanned quickly and ordered up at the counter. Leaning against the
wall, I crossed my arms against my chest and surveyed the scene.

I spotted her right
away. Long red hair cascading down her back, she sat with a group of
seven or eight people. She laughed at something, tilting back her
head, exposing that lovely throat. My hands tightened into fists. Was
Mike over there with them? He wasn’t going to get to lay a hand on
her, not if I had something to say about it.

Jewel looked radiant
and relaxed. Maybe a little tispy? Her cheeks rosy, she leaned back
in her chair and took a sip of a drink. She was dressed simply in
flip flops, a plain t-shirt and a skirt that went down to her knees
but somehow she made it all look sexy. The girl at the bar trying the
least hard, wearing the least make-up, looking the most fuckable by
far.

As if sensing my
admiration, she looked over and saw me standing against the wall. Her
eyes widened with surprise. Then she surprised me by breaking into a
smile and walking over. I enjoyed watching her come to me, her soft
breasts and hips swaying with each step.

“What are you doing
here?” she asked, almost sounding happy to see me. She had to be
drunk.

“Getting dinner to
go.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, here. I’ve
heard the fish tacos are good.”

She broke into a smile
again, delighted. “You’ve heard that?”

“From a reputable
source.” I nodded.

“I’m ‘treamly
reputable.” Oh, she was drunk all right. “Have you tried their
margaritas? They’re soooo good.”

I didn’t like the
thought of her drunk in this place. Anything could happen to her.
With anyone.

“How are you getting
home?” I asked, steadying her with a hand at her elbow.

“Oh, I have my car
over at the center.” She waved off my concern like I was being
silly. I continued looking at her dead serious and she realized she
needed a better answer. “Or… I guess I can go home with one of
them,” She gestured vaguely over toward the area where she’d been
sitting. “The tree-huggers. I mean one of them can take me home.”

“I’m taking you
home,” I decided.

“No, no you don’t
have to do that.”

“That’s what I’m
doing.”

“No, I’m fine.”
She started to walk away and promptly tripped on nothing. I caught
her with a strong arm around her waist. She brought her hand up to my
shoulder and looked up at me, breathless. She felt so good in my
arms. I let her go.

“You’re drunk,” I
stated the obvious. “And I’m driving you home.”

With a grumble and a
small pout, she relented. I watched her head back over and get her
purse, say her good-byes. I couldn’t tell which one was Mike, a
couple of guys sat with their backs toward me. None of them stood up
to say good-bye. One of them gave her a hug but stayed seated. That’s
right, I thought, watching, tense. Keep your ass in the chair.

She rejoined me,
smiling now, and held onto my arm as we headed into the parking lot.

“Just sos you know,”
she wagged her finger at me, “I’m the ‘sponsible… responsible
one.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I opened
the passenger door and helped her in. She was such a lightweight, I
bet the amount she’d drank could fit inside a thimble. I liked the
perc of her leaning on me, wobbly and needing my support. I was glad
it was me and not some other guy.

“And I could have
driven myself home.” She was finishing up a lecture to me when I
climbed in my side of the car. It seemed she’d been talking to
herself the whole time.

“Bullshit.” I
started up the engine. “Even when you’re sober I don’t like you
driving that car.”

“I like my car.”

“Your car is shit. I
don’t know why you won’t use one of the others we have. They’re
just sitting around.”

“Because they’re
not mine.” She sounded so calm and matter of fact, her pride a
seamless part of her. Never mind that the muffler to her car was
practically being held in place by rubber bands and a chunk of the
hood had rusted all the way through. She had a crack in her front
windshield and her rear wipers were missing. “It never rains in
L.A.,” she’d said to me when I’d pointed it out.

So stubborn. We had
about seven cars sitting around in our giant garage. A few of them my
father wouldn’t even let me touch, vintage, custom-designed, etc.,
but there were a few more that had her name on them. She wanted
nothing to do with them. Like she wanted nothing to do with me.

As I drove us down the
streets of L.A. at night, she hummed and played with a strand of her
hair. Close together inside the car, I could smell her. I wanted to
pull over, wrap my hands in her hair, close the distance between us
and bury myself in her.

Instead I asked, “How’s
Mike?”

“Great,” she
replied, so upbeat. “He’s so funny!”

“You like him?” My
hands gripped the steering wheel.

“Of course!”

She leaned forward and
started punching buttons on my dashboard.

“What are you doing?”

“Tunes!” she
exclaimed as she finally found the radio. I never used it, just
synced my iPhone, but she went old school and scanned through
stations until she found a pop song she liked and started belting it
out.

“I love this song!”
she declared, making little motions with her hands along with the
beat. She was a really bad singer, off key and brash. It cracked me
up. She serenaded me—the kind of serenade that would make wolves
howl and babies cry—until a sad song came on the station.

Scrunching up her face,
she punched it off. “I don’t like that one.”

Without the music, my
giant SUV felt too small, heated, close. Her skirt had ridden up to
mid-thigh. I swallowed as she crossed her long legs.

“‘s your fault,”
she nearly whispered.

“What?” I wasn’t
sure I heard her correctly, or even what she meant.

“Is your fault I’m
drunk.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m all wound up.
I’ve never been wound up like this before. But now I’m all wound
up.”

I said nothing. I was
too wound up. Fuck. The car ride would end soon. We were nearing our
street.

“Are you coming to
the fight tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I won’t put you
cageside,” I promised her. Lots of people wanted to be right up
next to all the action. They wanted to get spattered by the fighters’
sweat and blood. I didn’t think Jewel would go for that. I wasn’t
even sure she’d enjoy watching the fight. But I was a selfish
bastard. I wanted her there.

“Cage?” She sounded
confused. “You fight in a cage? Like an animal?”

“It’s not a literal
cage. There’s no wire bars or anything. It’s an octagon.”

“Could call it that.”

“That’s a lot of
syllables for this crowd.”

“Oct. A. Gon.” She
said it slow, like she was proving to me that even drunk she could
pull it off.

“Trust me. I’ll put
you back a few rows, but where you can still see.” And I can see
you, I mentally added. The lights were bright when you were in the
cage, but I’d put her where I could still see her. I wanted to be
able to look out in the audience right before it all started and see
her face.

I pulled the car into
our garage, the interior lights turning on, the door automatically
shutting us in. I parked the car, but didn’t want to get out. She
didn’t move to leave, either.

“What if you get
hurt?” she asked in a quiet voice, looking over at me with those
big, green eyes.

“You worried about
me?”

She nodded. Sober,
she’d never admit something like that. She acted like she hated my
guts. This I liked much better, as she looked at me with her plump
lips slightly parted. Her skirt had ridden up even more and I could
see so much of those creamy thighs. It would be so easy to reach a
hand over and stroke her silk. She’d part for me, sigh, melt into
me.

The old me would have
done it in a heartbeat. This new me, the one who was all work and no
play, I didn’t even like him. He nagged, told me I shouldn’t do
it, not while she was drunk. She’d be so angry at herself
afterwards.

And, selfishly, I
wanted her stone cold sober when I touched her. Because I would touch
her, I decided. Enough of this hands-off shit. And when I did I
wanted her to be alert, fully aware of every whisper of a touch,
every stroke, every lick. I wanted her to feel each second of her
struggle and sweet surrender as I knew she would, eventually. Fuck I
wanted that.

I growled, “get out
of the car, Jewel.”

“What?” she
started. I realized she’d been drifting, too, her thoughts probably
running parallel to my own, here together in the confines of the car.

“Get out of the car.”

“Oh!” She unbuckled
and brought her hand to the latch. “Are you coming?”

“In a minute. You go
to sleep.”

She looked at me with
what could be interpreted as reluctance, or even disappointment. I’d
like to kiss that right off her lips. Another night.

Tonight I’d let her
slip out of the car and walk away from me into the house. Tonight I’d
rest my forehead against the steering wheel, sitting by myself in my
BMW willing my raging hard-on to subside.

Tomorrow she was coming
to my fight. I realized I’d never had a girl come see me fight
before. Plenty of girls in the audience watched me fight. Hell, I’d
started even having some fans who came and cheered for me. I was
starting to build a reputation, starting to have a following. But I’d
never had a woman I’d wanted to come, someone special I’d invite
and look out and see.

I’d only really ever
had one girlfriend, back at boarding school. We’d held hands
walking to the dining hall and shit. We’d been 17 and she’d
looked like a model. Then she’d started fucking my roommate. Ah,
young love.