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“No.” She shifts, pressing her back to my chest and I wrap her in my arms. Can’t believe she trusts me so much now. “But I think I’d love to get one, some day.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. My back?”
“Love your back.” I kiss her nape, feel her shiver. “Love every part of you.”
She hums, a content sound. She fits so perfectly in the curve of my body. I clutch at her as if she’ll vanish when I blink my eyes.
“This is nice,” she murmurs and strokes my hand where it’s pressed to her belly. “Tell me more.”
“About what?”
“About the Hellfire Fighters.”
Shit.
“What’s wrong?” She tries to twist around, but I hold her more tightly.
“Nothing’s wrong. Hellfire Fighters.” I close my eyes, and time reverses. I’m back at the club, having my hands wrapped up for a fight, my heart racing. “It’s one of the fight clubs of the southern suburbs. Quite well known in underground fighting circles. Been up against clubs from Detroit, Milwaukee and Madison and won many times. It’s a tightly-knit group of guys—a few girls, too—and they train hard. For money. They come from poor families and foster homes. Sometimes, fighting in the club is their only hope.”
“A hope for what?”
“A future. Money needed to live, to rent a place, to get food on their plate. Not to worry about every dawning day.”
“Riot…” She turns her head, trying again to see me.
“Shh.” I’m so tired I’m falling asleep, and I don’t even care how long I’ve been here, or if I have any appointments later. “Everything’s fine.”
Because right now she’s in my arms and nothing else matters.
Chapter Thirteen
Paxtyn
It’s been a week since I did it. Since I had sex with Riot, and it was amazing. He felt so frigging good, o
n me, in me, his mouth and hands all over me. He looked so sexy as he came, and so…vulnerable at the same time. The raw need in his eyes, the sounds escaping him, the way he lost control of his body, lying heavy on top of me…
Loved it all. Loved how he held me afterward. Cuddling. On my sofa.
God, love everything about him, and it’s…
Not good. Not at all.
At least Christmas is approaching fast, and Christmas break. I need time at home to catch up on my studies. Hard to sit still and read when my thoughts keep returning to Riot.
Or to why I can’t seem to be able to make another appointment with him. I glance at my cell phone that’s sitting on my bedside table as I struggle to focus on my history of psychology. Suddenly Riot’s one busy escort. I must have called the agency twenty times since I last saw him, but it seems he’s booked every day solid. Sold out.
Holy crap. Shaking my head, trying to dislodge images of him with other women, I return to my reading. Or try to.
What wasn’t he telling me about the fight club? Did he work there? Somehow I feel the answer under his words, that little, passionate speech about the sort of people working at the club, about their background and their fears and hopes.
As if he was one of them, once.
I want—no, I need to know more about him.
Yes, I know it’s a bad idea. All this is stupid, thinking about him, wondering. Missing him.
