Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance (12 page)

I couldn’t leave.
After two fights, it was Tuck’s turn. By that time I was shaking.
I’d twisted the program into bits. Then, up on the TV screen they
were using to broadcast all the details, I saw him. Tuck. All in
black, wearing a skull cap, hoodie and shorts, the announcer
introduced him as “The Crusher.” He looked dangerous, radiating
fierce power.

The fighters before him
had come in with an entourage, five or six guys flanking them and
following them up to the cage. Tuck traveled alone. Eyes fixed
straight ahead, he didn’t notice the crowd, the screaming women,
the pair of panties tossed to his feet. To the beat of Eminem he
jogged slowly toward the cage, all thoughts, all energy focused on
one thing and one thing alone: crushing his opponent.

Breathing fast, my hand
at my chest, I stood up like everyone around me and wanted to call
out to him, wanted to be by his side, wish him luck or maybe even
talk him out of doing this. These fighters seemed like killers. I
knew he looked tough to me, but wasn’t he really just a college
kid, the prep school son of a billionaire? These men looked like the
kind who might bite a chunk out of your ear. They weren’t playing.
Tuck could get seriously beat down.

“Crusher! You’re so
fucking hot!” the woman behind me screamed.

“Crusher!” another
yelled. “Crush me!” I didn’t like that.

At the cage, he
stripped down and what I’d thought had been deafening screams
cranked up to an even crazier pitch. Bared under the lights, his
muscles rippled and flexed. Compared to some of the fighters who were
practically covered head-to-toe, he only had a handful of tattoos.
Along one shoulder, wings curved up along his muscles, ending in a
band around his bicep. Down at his wrist, a tribal swirl.

“I want you,
Crusher!” another woman screamed. But he didn’t look at her. He
turned and looked directly, straight at me. He walked toward me in
the cage until he was right up at the black rope.

“Tuck,” I breathed,
barely making a sound, my heart pounding in my chest. His gaze pinned
me, locking on me for several, long heated seconds. Slowly, he tapped
his chest, then pointed to me. I nodded. Yes, Tuck. I knew what he
meant without any words. He was telling me he was going to win the
fight for me. And in that moment, I knew it, unshakably. He was going
to win this match.

I smiled at him,
confident. He nodded back once more, then turned to face his
opponent.

“Holy shit, he looked
at you!” the woman behind me hissed. I didn’t look back. I
couldn’t tear my eyes off of Tuck. The other man in the cage with
him looked huge and thick, but slow, I realized. Tuck bounced on his
bare feet, a tiger, ready to pounce. The referee brought them
together in the center of the octagon. An announcer blared over the
loudspeaker, the crowd roared and screamed—so many female screams.
That’s my man, I wanted to yell. Back the fuck off!

Tuck stretched and
flexed, brought his fists up, still looking loose while tense, coiled
and ready. I couldn’t breathe. I sat down while everyone else did;
the fight was about to start. Clutching the armrests on either side
of my chair, my knuckles went white.

The bell rang and the
pushing, punching, stepping forward, ducking back began. The referee
circled them, close, and Tuck made a lunge, backing his opponent up
against the side, getting his knee up to his ribs, both punching,
grasping, pummeling.

My thighs clenched. I
shook and trembled. I needed to watch but I couldn’t stand to watch
him get hurt. Sweat dripped off of him and I realized I was sweating
too, a bead forming on my brow, dripping down between my breasts as I
panted, mesmerized by the fight. Such frenzied, animal, raw power. I
couldn’t have said how long the fighting lasted, how many seconds
or minutes I sat on the edge of my seat and watched them go at it. I
felt suspended in time, holding my breath, unable to look away.

The other guy had Tuck
on the defensive now. He was slower than Tuck, but looked thicker,
less defined yet solid as a tree trunk.

“Tuck!” I couldn’t
help scream. “Tuck!” I knew there was no way he could hear my
voice, not amidst the din of screams and hollers, hoots and cheers,
but I couldn’t keep it in. I needed to scream his name.

As if suddenly fueled
from within, Tuck moved lightning-quick out of reach. He ducked,
leaned and suddenly took the other fighter by surprise. He reached
his hand in along underneath the man’s chin, then wrapped him tight
in the crook of his elbow, his hand coming around to grip his bicep.
Instantly, his opponent began clawing at the choke hold, trying to
force his elbows back into Tuck’s side, jabbing him, but Tuck had
him gripped hard and slowly brought him to his knees, then down
further until the man’s eyes shut. He tapped Tuck’s forearm in
defeat.

“Tapout!” The
announcer roared into the room and the arena erupted into screams and
cheers. Sweaty, chest having, a trickle of blood running down from
one eyebrow, Tuck looked straight at me. A gladiator, he raised his
fist in victory.

“You did it!” I
screamed, up on my feet, screaming along with the rest of the crowd.
The whole place was breaking out in pandemonium. A couple of guys
surrounded Tuck in the cage, bringing him water, towels, patting him
on the back. Girls in bikinis swarmed around, ring girls I heard
someone call them, strutting their stuff.

I couldn’t see him
anymore. I’d lost Tuck in the crowd. He was a hero, a celebrity.
Surrounded by an ocean of hot girls screaming for him, wanting him,
he could have any of them he wanted.

“Crusher! Take me,
Crusher!” I heard the lady behind me start in again. Suddenly, it
all felt like too much, the lights, the big fake boobs, the screaming
for him. I had to get out of there. I made it out as fast as I could,
nearly tripping a few times, fending off the grabbing hands of a big
guy in the back of the arena.

I shook in the car on
the way home, tears in my eyes. I couldn’t name all the emotions
swimming through me. Relief Tuck was all right, that surfaced quick.
Some strange kind of pride that he’d won, as if I had anything to
do with it. Respect for how tough and fierce he was, how hard he’d
had to train to get to that point.

And jealousy. I had no
doubt what he’d be up to tonight. Pressure off, a big win under his
belt, he’d definitely take advantage of the victor’s spoils. He
might not even make it home, maybe just party at the hotel. I could
picture him on a couch, surrounded by girls, king of it all.

Meanwhile, I went
straight home. I took off the dress as fast as I could. After a quick
shower, I locked my bedroom door, pulled on an old t-shirt and
sweatpants and climbed into bed.

I closed my eyes and
realized I was still shaking. I would have been better off not going
to the fight. But I was glad I went. He’d looked like a Viking
warrior in there, shirtless and muscled, all rugged male power. I
couldn’t stand watching him, couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

I reached down under my
panties, my eyes closing as I touched myself. So wound up, I realized
I was already aroused, already wet and needing release.

My brain rejected this.
Tuck was my stepbrother, first of all. And second, what could a
science geek like me possibly see in a brute animal like him, all
testosterone and brawn?

My body responded with
the answer to that question. I stroked my slippery folds, thinking of
Tuck so raw and so dominant in the cage. What it would be like to be
his woman? Could I go to him after a fight, be the one to tend to
him, kiss him where it hurt? He would hold me close, wrapping those
thick, corded arms around my body, pressing me against all his
strength and heat.

If I were his woman I’d
be with him right now. It would be his hand on me, stroking my
quivering, glistening folds. His tongue on me, kissing, licking,
sucking. He’d pin me down and thrust inside me like an animal.
Pounding deep inside my wet pussy, all the power of his assault in
the cage unleashed on me.

Pressing down on my
clit, imagining his huge, hard cock inside me, I came so hard I
nearly blacked out.

Tuck

“You didn’t like
it, huh?” I startled her in the kitchen. I guess she hadn’t heard
me come in. She wore a tank top and pajama bottoms, Sunday morning
sleepy and cute as hell.

She whirled around,
hand to her chest, eyes wide. “Tuck!” Her glance traveled to my
forehead and eyebrow, up where I had a few abrasions. I’d come in
for an ice pack. That was important the day after a fight, rest, ice,
Ibuprofen. I hated taking a day off of training, but I had to
understand that this was training, too, letting your body heal.
Sometimes it took more discipline to lay off than to go all in, full
throttle. Holding back was never my strong suit.

“I looked for you
after the fight.” That was an understatement. It had taken me a
while to pry myself away from the throng, all the sponsors and
promoters who now saw money signs over my head, all the girls who
wanted a piece of the newest winner. But once I had broken free, I’d
searched everywhere for Jewel, stalking and pacing like an animal,
convinced I’d find her if I looked in the right place.

“I wasn’t feeling
well.” She looked down, away from me. Shit. I should have known it
wouldn’t be her scene. I guessed she was too classy, or too
squeamish, or, hell, I didn’t know. I couldn’t figure Jewel out.
One minute she seemed scared of her own shadow, hiding behind her
glasses and books. But then I’d get a glimpse of a fierce,
strong-willed goddess, as vibrant and alluring as the fiery-red hair
tumbling down her back.

“Don’t like blood?”
I guessed, heading over to the freezer for a new ice pack. I had them
in every shape and size. Funny thing, a pack of frozen peas sometimes
worked better than all of them.

“You looked busy.”
She still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

We stood there for a
moment, saying nothing. I guessed I could turn and head out. Some
things were better left unsaid. But I wasn’t too good at holding
back.

“I liked that dress
you had on.”

Now she looked up.
Those green eyes killed me, and the way she bit her lip, shy and
nervous. She had lips for sin. I’d love to help her put them to
use.

“I felt kind of like
I didn’t fit in.”

“You didn’t.” Our
eyes met and I smiled at her. She flushed and knew what I meant.

She’d stood out in
all the right ways. I couldn’t believe it when I’d seen her. Like
a freaking angel dropped out of the skies, she’d stood there in
that white dress with her flaming red hair framing her face. In a sea
of fake, she’d looked real. And smoking hot, don’t think I didn’t
notice that, her luscious tits filling out the top, pressing against
the fabric. I bet she hadn’t been wearing a bra.

“I heard you cheering
for me.”

“You did?” She
flushed with pleasure. “How’s that possible? Every woman in there
was screaming for you.”

“Every woman? Were
you jealous?” I took a step closer. She took a step back.

“Jealous? Don’t be
ridiculous.” But she looked nervous, caught, her eyes darting to
the side as if she wanted to escape. But I wasn’t letting her go,
not yet.

“But you said every
woman. The crowd was mostly men.”

“Well.” She rolled
her eyes, exasperated. “The women were really aggressive. This one
behind me was—” She stopped herself, her eyes flitting up to meet
mine for a second. Then she looked away again, seeming to think
better of it. “But how did you hear me?”

“You’re the only
one who screamed my real name.”

“Oh.” I could see
her figuring it out, realizing she’d screamed Tuck while everyone
else used my fighting name. Hearing her had spurred me on. The other
guy had almost had the upper hand. She’d breathed new life into me
and I’d attacked and won. For her.

I took another step
toward her and we stood close, not touching.

“I liked hearing you
scream my name,” I whispered, husky. I’d like to hear her do it
again, just the two of us.

She shivered slightly.
Standing across the room I might not have noticed, but close like we
were I could almost feel her quivering against me.

Quick, rushed, she
stammered, “I’m glad you won. I’m really… you’re so good.
At fighting. I didn’t know.”

Just as I was about to
reach out, right before my hand lifted to touch a strand of her hair
that rested against her shoulder, she ducked away and left the room
without another word.

§

The game was five-card
draw. I’d played some poker myself, at boarding school, with the
guys in my frat. Most of them thought they were big shots, but really
they were pussies. Most of them couldn’t bluff their way out of a
paper bag.

I bet Jewel was good,
though. I had a hard time reading her. That was part of why I liked
making her flustered, worked up. Then I knew what was going on in her
head.

Sunday night and I
could see her sitting over on the couch on her iPad. Online poker. It
seemed a shame to let her play on her own.

I hadn’t done a thing
all day and it was killing me. I’d sat in the hot tub, taken a nap,
gotten a massage from a brutal sports therapist named Helga. Her
hands were about as big as mine and almost as strong, but I knew the
deep tissue pain would help me heal quicker. These days, I seemed to
be all about pain.

The dull ache in my
balls never stopped. Every other fight I’d had I’d blown off
steam that night, the next day with a girl, sometimes two. It was
exactly the right thing to do when you were all wound up, nothing
better than pounding some pussy after a pounding in the cage.

But this time, I had no
interest. Or I had no interest in the ring girls and hangers on and
easy girls I knew out in L.A. My cock wanted to sink deep into one
girl only, and she was off limits. Or at least she seemed to think
she was. I had other plans.