Raw (10 page)

“Oz, fuck, man,” I say.

He lifts his flask at me in a toast. “I’m taking my baby to bed, let it nurse me into a good mood.”

I sigh, then I flip the envelope and add my mother’s address.

Maverick

T
wo days later we’re in the back of a bus, on our way to Denver. Oz is snoozing. I have my earbuds in, watching my father fight Tate in the ring. I’ve watched the videos so many times. Studying for weaknesses. He has none. He’s fast; my father has trouble staying balanced when he catches a hit.

If I withstand ten fighters next fight, I can get to him. Face-to-face. I get to fight him. I get to see exactly what he’s made of.

Hell, I get to see what
I’m
made of.

I sigh and turn off my phone, then I set my forehead on the window and stare outside, not really seeing anything but her.

She’s in my head. She said
He’s with me
and now, somehow,
she
is the one who’s with
me
. She’s there when I go to bed, there when I wake. I rub my thumb over my cut.

Her eyes as she stitched me up.

Her lips closing around the spoon and licking off the vanilla ice cream.

My mind goes in all directions but it ends up in the same place: her.

Her watching me fight.

Her in a nice room with me.

On a nice bed.

And me, kissing her in a very un-nice way. Hearing her make noises that are the opposite of nice.

She huffs when she exercises and makes a certain noise when she makes effort, almost a moan, and then she sighs as she catches her breath, and she’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen inside a gym or out of it.

She’s got a tiny waist I could encircle with my hands and the most delicious butt. It bounces when she runs, and so do her exquisitely delicious breasts. She’s a sexpot, made to fuck. I can’t look at her without imagining what she’d look like under me.

Dragging my hand over my face, I pull my phone back out and try to focus on the man I need to beat.

And still I think of that nice girl who doesn’t want to be nice. A girl who wants to be unforgettable, and doesn’t realize she already is.

Reese

T
he next few days we spend in Denver. The weather is fabulous during the summer. Everything is green and the breeze is fresh and clean. It’s been five days since I last saw Maverick Cage, but less than one second since I last thought of him.

Every moment of the day he’s been in my mind’s eye. I’m confused about my fixation on him, why I’m so aware that he’s not near. I live with the curiosity of wanting to know what he’s doing and a fierce body ache that’s been growing exponentially as my days without seeing him keep adding up.

It took a full day to get Racer into the perfect Denver day care, mainly because Brooke wants him to interact with other little kids and wants something close to both her and Remy’s training area and the team’s gym.

I’m at the Body Factory Gym now when I see
him
walk in. He hands over a card at the entrance and I realize he’s got himself a membership.

I’m almost disappointed that he doesn’t need me anymore. I look away from the entrance, drag in a breath, and turn to him again, waiting for him to glance in my direction.

He tucks his card away, signs his name, and I see the lady try to flirt with him, and Maverick . . . oh god, Maverick smiles at her. Then he walks inside. He hasn’t seen me but is scanning the treadmills—where I used to be. But today I’m on a Pilates bed. I sit up and stand uneasily to my feet.

And then his eyes find me.

And I’m . . .
found
.

And alive.

And nervous. It’s been an eternity.

Forever and ever since you looked at me.

And when he does look at me, he seems to stop breathing. He takes me in for the tensest second, and then he drinks me in with one rake of his eyes over my body. My breasts feel his gaze. So does my sex. And my tummy. And my heart. His fingers seem to flex at his sides and he jams them into his drawstring sweatpants pockets.

I want to act cool, but I can’t.

I’m possessed by my happiness.

I’m possessed by
him.

I head over, my smile hurting on my face.

“Maverick Cage,” I breathe excitedly. “I missed you.”

Jesus, Reese, you didn’t just say that!

My eyes widen instantly when his eyes flare in surprise too. I drop my gaze and search for something to say when I realize—

You’re staring at his crotch, Reese!

“Fuck,” I say.

“What?” he asks.

I jerk my face up to his, burning in embarrassment, to find him wearing this really male smile, and I turn around and start heading to the treadmills.

“Hey,” he says, taking my wrist.

I slip my hand into the front pocket of his hoodie to fetch his iPod shuffle and earbuds. “I really need these more than you right now,” I say apologetically, and then I stick the earbuds into my burning ears and hop onto a treadmill.

My treadmill faces him.

He’s standing there, looking at me in amusement.

I don’t know what kind of pull he has, or what kind of power over me. I want him for my birthday and Christmas and it’s always the best things at Christmas and oh my god, what’s going on with me?

He’s like the world’s most perfect sight and feel and smell and I can almost taste him in the air.

I don’t want to like you, Maverick.

I don’t want you to turn around, Maverick.

He turns around, and I do like him, and I don’t know what to do to get him to like me. He’s all hard to my softness. I feel extra voluptuous ’cause he’s so hard.

As he moves around the training area, he jerks off his hoodie and the T-shirt beneath rides up a bit as he does, revealing every concretelike square of his abs. And yeah, I feel so voluptuous right now—I just don’t know why I can’t look more like Brooke. I stopped eating a little bit when Miles pulled a Mr. Darcy on me.
Reese is nice, but I like them on the slimmer side, though she’s totally fuckable.

Nice.

Sigh.

Though I’ve lost a few pounds since the day in his hotel room, I’m just not hungry. I’ve lost my appetite. I’ve grown a new addiction and obsession, and it’s more dangerous than food could ever be to me. More dangerous than any addiction I’ve ever had.

And I stare at this addiction of mine, feeling things that are definitely very un-nice, and I notice he sips his drink and watches the other fighters beat up the heavy bag as he waits for his turn. He’s absently stroking his thumb across the cut I stitched up.

He sets his drink aside and then grabs his hoodie again, as if he’s just made some decision. He comes over.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “There’s a walking trail nearby.”

“But . . .” I’m shocked. “Your punching bags?”

“I fight tomorrow. Today’s my recovery day.”

I power down the treadmill and hop off. “In that case, how are your legs? You’re going to need to catch up.”

We head outside and I watch him from the corner of my eye as we take the trail, the noon sun blazing high above us for the minutes it takes us to wander into the shelter of the trees.

“I like spending time with you,” I mumble.

“Me too.” He smiles at me sideways, and I feel that smile in every sexual place of my body.

“Wow, look at this view.” I stop and take in all the green slopes on the horizon. We’ve been hiking up the trail for twenty minutes, and it’ll take most of that time to hike our way down. “I only have twenty more minutes or Racer will get restless.”

“How’s he liking Denver?”

“Good. He’s obsessed with the mountains. So do you hike when you’re not punching?”

“Not really. . . .” He mysteriously trails off, then shoots me a studious look before he adds, his voice soft as the breeze, “I wanted you all to myself.”

I stop. “What?
Why? 
” I choke on a laugh.

He’s not smiling, just looking amused and honest and so much like a
guy
, his eyes a little dark. “You know why.”

“Do I?” I shake my head in consternation. “Maybe I just want to hear you say it.”

“Why?” His lips twitch a fraction.

“Because . . .” I search for a reason, trying to regain my breath. “Maybe I like your voice?”

Suddenly he’s in my space, backing me up, his gaze intent. My Himalayan butt hits a tree and I gasp when he props his arm against it. He pins my body between him and the bark. All my breath goes when the front of his body makes contact with the front of mine. My nipples react so strongly they hurt.

I’m suddenly smelling forest and earth and Maverick Cage.

Maverick looks at me for a moment, his face harsh in concentration, the leaves of the lush surroundings rustling with a breeze, thankfully hiding my rapidly quickening breath. Maverick lowers his eyes so they are level with mine, not touching me with his hands, only his body keeping mine in place. “I want to spend the twenty minutes you have left kissing you, Reese,” he says, his voice—so deep, so textured, and so irresistible—running thick and heady through my veins.

But it’s the look in his eyes, asking for permission, that slays me.

“You’re attracted to me?” I ask disbelievingly.

He says, as if it’s obvious and not easy for him to stand, “Very much attracted to you, Reese.”

“I . . .” I look away, acutely aware of how hard every inch of his body is, contacting mine.

I did not see this coming.

I’m blown away.

In cinders, right here, on this trail, I’m leaving a part of me
right here.

He leans his head forward slowly, and I turn my head instinctively away, just an inch, scared to feel his lips on mine. Scared of what it’ll do to me.

He brushes his lips across my jawline instead. I hear a moan rip out of my throat. He exhales and eases back, looks at me for a moment.

The weight of his gaze feels like sex on my face, then he dips his head and sinuously, heatedly, drags his lips along my temple, up to my forehead, where he sets a kiss there, his soft, firm lips pressing into my skin in a kiss that lasts for about ten perfect, frightening, thrilling seconds.

My throat is tight, and I want to beg him not to stop when he inches away and studies me with eyes that shine with jealousy and possessiveness. “Is it him?”

No. It’s you. You make me reckless.

I like it.

But I’m afraid.

“Maybe,” I say instead, swallowing. I’m leaning against the tree, struggling to get my knees to work.

“What’s he like?”

I can’t even remember Miles, and it stresses me. I put even more distance between us as we start walking again. “He’s . . .” I search for words. Miles.

“This guy back home,” he says with a suddenly vicious, happy sparkle in his eyes.

“I know who we’re talking about, Mav.” I roll my eyes, and he laughs softly—happy that I don’t remember? “He’s . . . not like you.”

When I met Miles, I was alone in the college cafeteria and saw this guy, clean and wholesome, call two guys and a girl, his friends, over to him. They followed him to my table. “Mind if we sit down?” he asked.

And I nodded, and when he said, “I’m Miles,” I thought that at last someone got me. Somehow someone wondered if there was more to me.

I’m ashamed to tell him I’m this easy. This charmed by something so simple. A name or a penny, or a look from silver eyes and a guy who’s so upfront he tells you he wanted you alone so he could kiss you.

He pulls off a leaf from a tree we pass, cuts it thoughtfully, and tosses it aside with a frown. “Meaning.”

“He’s more polished.”

“You mean he has money.” Jaw visibly clamped now, he grabs another leaf and just tosses it completely aside.

“No. He’s . . . not primal. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a fight.”

“’Cause he’d lose.”

I smile and watch my feet as we take the trail down.

“Do you trust him? Does he care for you like you do?” he drills on.

I look at him, wide-eyed. “What is this?”

“Just gauging competition,” he says simply.

“There’s no competition,” I lie. “I’ve known him forever and I just met you. I can’t like you more. I don’t love him, if that’s what you mean. But I’ve always thought that we could have more and it would work.”

“How often does he call?” He’s been frowning ever since I said there was no competition and I can’t believe how easily the lie slipped out since I’m so uneasy myself right now.

I stop in my tracks and face him as he—hot and big—turns and does the same.

“He doesn’t call . . . often,” I admit.

Not ever. Only text, now that I think about it.

Maverick exhales, his eyes darkening even more, and then he starts forward, in three steps closing the distance between us. God.

His walk.

His talk.

His
stare.

“I think of you.” He reaches out with his bruised-knuckled right hand and touches my face. All of Maverick Cage’s fingers are
on my face.
“I think of you a lot.” He searches my face and his thumb caresses my chin so briefly, but so powerfully, my knees feel like overbaked cake. “I think of kissing you,” he says.

I feel like he’s kissing me now, with his metal eyes. Kissing me and making me fly.

His lips are so beautiful, I can’t take my eyes off them all of a sudden.

I tremble, and when he notices and his eyes flash a little predatorily, I drop my gaze and then start taking the trail down with a vengeance.

We’re silent as we hit the end of the trail. All this time, Maverick has been smiling to himself. Did he dismiss Miles as competition? Why is he looking so smug? Because he saw me tremble?

“Maverick?”

“Reese?” His lips curl.

I want to erase his smirk of superiority against Miles. I lean up, resting my arms on his shoulders—hard as rocks—and kiss his jaw. “That’s all the kisses you’re going to get.” I punctuate my next words with a few more kisses. “On this . . . very hard . . . jaw.”