He bends down to pick up my clothes. “You are quite the package,
Makayla. I’m surprised your doctor friend didn’t snap you up sooner.”
My mouth drops open. Maybe tonight won’t be a write-off after all.
“How do you run your business without social media? How do you
advertise? How do you let people know when there’s an event?”
“We’re already at capacity in the gym and training center. As for
the events, Jake’s the promoter. He handles that side of things. And we
don’t advertise. The invitations are sent by text a few hours before the
match starts so it’s almost impossible for CSAC to regulate us or shut
us down.”
He hands me my jeans, but when I reach for my shirt he frowns.
“Is this the shirt you wore last week?” He holds the shirt up, and I
grimace when the bright, white “FCUK Me” lettering shines under the
overhead light.
“You aren’t wearing this.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want the men at the club thinking what they think when
they see you in this shirt.”
“What do they think?” My hand finds my hip and my eyebrow
finds the ceiling.
“Makayla.” He purrs out my name in a warning tone. “Not at the
club. The men there—do you have anything less provocative?”
My face heats up. “My shirt is provocative?”
“The words are provocative. The shirt is flattering.”
A grin spreads across my face. Provocative and flattering. Quite the
package. I have died and gone to heaven.
Torment balls the shirt in his fist. “Find something else.”
I laugh and hold out my hand. “You do realize I have to wear the
shirt now. Hand it over.”
Torment gives me a slow, sexy smile as he tucks my shirt into his
leather jacket. “No.”
“Give me my shirt…please.” I’m not sure what kind of game he is
playing, if it is a game, but damned if I am leaving here without that
shirt on.
“Come and get it,” he rasps.
Something shifts in the air between us. As I walk over to him, no
more able to resist his challenge than I can stop from breathing, his
face wavers, changes, reveals the predator behind the sculpted cheek-
bones and the warm, sparkling eyes. I glimpse power, barely restrained
and a force of will that takes my breath away. He draws me to him
with the intensity of his gaze and the dangerous rumble of his deep,
dark voice.
God, he’s hot.
By the time I am close enough to feel the heat from his body, my
heart is racing at double speed. His eyes lock on mine, and I grasp the
edge of my shirt. He smells of leather, and a citrus scent that is at once
sharp and sensual.
I draw my shirt away from his chest, inch by slow, thick inch. His
dark eyes smolder, and his gaze drops to my mouth. I lick my lips and
the tangy taste of Bubblegum Blast lip gloss bursts over my tongue.
Need unfurls in my belly.
And then the shirt is in my hand, drooping with disappointment
toward the floor. My breath leaves me in a rush of unfulfilled desire.
“It actually needs a wash.” I toss it into the laundry bin. “I’ll wear
something else.”
His approving smile melts me inside. I want to see that smile again.
But more than that, I want to hear him laugh.
Pulling an identical shirt from the drawer, I saunter into the bath-
room and slam the door, mentally thanking my big sister for her habit
of never buying one of anything when she can buy two.
After I’ve dressed, brushed my hair, and applied my makeup, I take
a deep breath and fling open the door to the bathroom. Torment is
staring out the window, lost in thought.
“Ahem.”
He spins around and his eyes widen. A grin spreads across his face
and his deep, soft chuckle warms me to my toes.
Two hours, two pieces of pizza, and one exhilarating motorcycle ride
around San Francisco later, we arrive outside the club. Torment glides
his motorcycle to a stop and turns off the ignition.
For a moment we just sit. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to memo-
rize the heady, erotic sensation of having my arms around his waist, my
breasts against his back, and his ass tucked tight against the juncture of
my thighs.
Finally, he pulls off his helmet and twists in his seat to help me. “Was
that too fast?” He slides the helmet off my head, and clips it under the seat.
“Are you kidding?” I squeal, bouncing on the seat like a little kid.
“I think I might forget about buying a car and get one of these. What
did you call it?”
His lips curve into a smile. “It’s a custom MV-Agusta F4CC, but
you might want to feign a little concern for the fact we were going
almost 150 miles an hour down the freeway. I might start to think you
want to live dangerously.”
My smile broadens. Maybe I do. Maybe that is what has been
missing from my life—a little excitement and a whole lot of danger.
“What should I do with this?” I pat the stiff, leather jacket Torment
gave me when he picked me up. Just my size.
“Keep it. You’ll need it for the ride home.” He helps me off the
motorcycle and props it up on its kickstand. Although I don’t know
much about motorcycles, I appreciate the sleek lines, shiny chrome,
and death defying speed of his Agusta. My hand rests on the seat, still
warm from our ride. When I look up, Torment is watching me and the
intensity of his gaze makes my heart pound.
“Come.” He holds out his hand. “I have a surprise for you inside.”
As if he hasn’t given me enough surprises today. The only thing
missing is the tiniest personal detail about him. I’ve never met anyone
who didn’t like to talk about themselves—even a little bit.
We walk through the brightly lit parking lot, and Torment gives
me a warning lecture about the dangers of Ghost Town and being alone
outside the club at night—as if I haven’t lived in Oaktown all my life
and been immersed in the daily reports of muggings and shootings in
the Foster Hoover Historic District.
Once we are inside the club, he sends me to inventory the first aid
room while he unlocks the doors and turns on the lights.
The room is cool and quiet and smells faintly of antiseptic. I rifle
through the drawers and cupboards. Someone has taken the time to
think about the types of injuries that might occur in a fight club. Since
my last visit, the room has been re-stocked, and everything is organized
and labeled.
“You’ll need this.” Torment appears in the doorway with a cooler
in his hand.
“Another picnic?”
He places the cooler on the counter and waggles his crooked finger,
motioning for me to open it. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips and
his eyes sparkle with an almost palpable excitement. I can’t resist happy
Torment. I open the lid.
“Ice cream? You bought me five pints of ice cream?” I pull out a
container of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, and lick my lips.
“Is that the right one?”
An idiotic grin splits my face. “Yes. This is the right one. The only
one. But why did you buy it? And why so many?”
“Welcome present for new staff.” His brow wrinkles, and then he
spins around and walks out the door.
First pizza, then a motorcycle ride, and now my favorite ice cream.
The night is just getting better and better.
My mouth waters and I pull the lid off the carton. The ice cream is
at its optimal state—partially melted. Unable to resist, I dip in a finger
and pop it in my mouth, closing my eyes at the first, creamy, rich,
chocolaty banana burst of flavor. Ahhh. Heaven.
“I brought you a—”
My eyes fly open. Torment is standing in front of me with a bowl
and a spoon and eyes as wide as the ice cream lid.
“Spoon.” He chokes out the last word, and his eyes lock on the
finger in my mouth. I pull it out with a loud, elegant pop.
“Looks like you don’t need it,” he chuckles.
“I…it’s so good…I couldn’t wait.” My face heats. “Usually I use
a spoon. Always, actually. I always use a spoon.” I hold my breath and
pray for a natural disaster—earthquake, flood, hurricane, even a plague
of locusts. Anything to save me from death by mortification.
husky growl sends a shiver down my spine.
“Spoon…please,” I whisper. Why can’t I be like normal people and
lose my appetite in times of stress or profound embarrassment?
He hands me the spoon and leans against the bed, thick arms
folded. Although I don’t look up, I can feel his eyes on me. Maybe
he’s hungry.
“Would you like some?”
“I don’t eat ice cream. It’s full of chemicals and unnecessary fats.”
The soft, velvety texture of his voice is almost a match for the smooth,
creamy ice cream on my tongue. What a combination: Torment, ice
cream, unnecessary fats, and me.
“It’s very unhealthy,” he continues. “Any nutritional value is can-
celed out by the high sugar content.”
“Have you actually ever tried it?” I scoop out some ice cream and
lick it off the cold metal spoon with slow, careful, little flicks of my
tongue. When I lift my eyes, Torment’s lips have parted and his eyes
burn with sensual fire.
“No.”
“Here, try it.”
Torment looks from the spoon to me and back to the spoon. “I’ll
try it if you’ll watch us sparring tonight. I think it would help you get
a feel for the potential injuries you might face in the ring if you saw
the different strikes, grapples, and submissions the fighters use. It’s just
training. No serious injuries. Rarely any blood or broken bones.”
Anything to gain a convert to the cult of Chunky Monkey.
“Okay.” I waggle the spoon in front of his lips. “I’ll come, but you
have to hold up your end of the bargain.”
“Your way.” He pushes the spoon to the side.
Everything below my waist tightens. “My finger?”
His sinful smile makes my pulse throb in unexpected parts of
my anatomy.
“This one.” Lifting my hand, he strokes along the finger I just
pulled out my mouth.
How damn erotic is that? I dip my finger into the soft ice cream
and hold it out. Torment leans forward and takes it in his mouth,
sucking gently. His lips are soft and warm. His mouth is wet and oh,
so hot.
A soft sigh escapes my parted lips and the endorphin rush almost
knocks me off my feet. Desire sings its way through my veins straight to
my core. My eyes lock on his lips as they glide gently over my skin and
then pull away, leaving me bereft.
Torment gives me a heart-stopping, sensual, self-satisfied smile.
“You like?” I lean in toward him as if I might miss his answer.
“I like.”
Is he still talking about the ice cream, or is he talking about me?
Please be talking about me. Please be talking about me.
“More?”
“Later.” He cups my cheek and his thumb presses my chin up,
forcing me to meet his eyes. “I’ll be looking for you in the training ring.”
My legs melt, and I am swept up in the warmth of his gaze. “I’ll be
the one staring at the floor.”
“And I’ll be the one thinking about dessert.” His mouth curves
up in a wicked smile, and he presses my forefinger, still sticky with ice
cream, to his lips. “Your way.”
Chapter 5
It Has Nothing To Do With Sex
Wedged between Rampage and a thick, heavyset Mexican named
Jimmy “Blade Saw” Ramirez, I turn my attention to the ground level
practice ring in the training area. A few fighters join us on the bench to
watch and learn as Torment spars with Homicide Hank.
Torment warms up in the corner, and Homicide Hank beats on the
punching bag, stopping every few strikes to scream at the ceiling for no
apparent reason.
“They don’t seem to be a good match,” I say to Jimmy. Unable to
refer to him as “Blade Saw”—either in my head or out loud—without
convulsing into fits of laughter, I don’t use his name at all. Rampage
has still not apologized for his ill-conceived practical joke, and relations
between us remain cool.
height will give him a better reach and his long legs will let him cover
more ground. He is also broader, heavier, and more muscular. By con-
trast, Homicide is small, wiry, and highly strung. He jumps up and
down in the corner, punctuating every bounce with a scream.
“Homicide is tougher than he looks,” Jimmy says. “He’s quick
and an expert on submission. He won’t win, but he’ll get a chance to
practice a few new moves.”
Torment’s abs flex as he twists and stretches. He has changed into
a pair of red fight shorts with stylized dragons down each leg, and the
deep cuts of his hip bones are clearly visible above his waistband. The
fabric clings to every curve of his tight, muscular ass. At least I know
where to look if I can’t watch them spar.
Torment turns to talk to Jake, and the light reflects off the tattoos
covering his back. Larger and more intricate than the designs on his front,
the tattoos cover every inch of his right side down to his waist, including
his arm. I remember the feel of soft skin over hard muscle when I traced my
finger along the dragon’s tail. My cheeks heat. I should have kept going.
Jake calls the start of the fight. For the first few seconds, Torment
and Homicide dance around, feeling each other out, throwing occasion-
al kicks and punches. Finally, Homicide breaks the pattern and lunges
at Torment. Reacting quickly, Torment hits him in the jaw. Homicide’s
head snaps to the side. My stomach clenches and I bend over and take a
few deep breaths. So much for no one getting hurt.
“Did you see that, Makayla?” Jimmy asks. “Torment pulled his
punch. He could have really done some damage, but he held back.”
“Yeah. Lucky Homicide.”
Torment calls a tim
e-out. He explains to the crowd what Homicide
did wrong. His explanations are clear enough even I understand. He
is a good teacher. Authoritative. Patient. Encouraging. Attentive. And
damn sexy.
They return to the center of the ring. Torment doesn’t waste any
time. He rushes forward and knees Homicide in the stomach. Homicide
staggers back into the ropes. He springs forward and into Torment’s
chest. I wince, expecting Torment to fall over backward, but his massive
body absorbs the blow and he doesn’t move.
Rampage wasn’t the only one who set me up last week. At least now
I know I won’t have to go on a liquid diet.
Homicide feints to one side and then dodges around Torment. He
grabs him around the waist from the back and crouches down low. I tug
on Jimmy’s sleeve.
“He’s going for a double leg takedown,” I say, my voice filled with
pride as I reference the only move I know.
“Won’t happen.”
Torment grabs Homicide’s arm, pivots and spins. He drops to his
seat on the mat, and sweeps Homicide’s legs out from under him in a
move worthy of any professional dancer. Homicide goes down hard and
lands on his back. Torment throws himself across Homicide’s throat.
Homicide taps the mat, and Torment releases him.
“Nice rolling kimura,” Jimmy mutters.
Torment explains the kimura hold to the assembled group and then
he and Homicide show a few variations. I tune out and look around the
gym. Despite the crowd gathered around the training ring, almost all the
equipment is in use—treadmills, cross trainers, steppers, free weights,
punch bags, a second training ring, and black human-shaped grapple
dummies. Kinda like blow-up sex toys without the naughty parts.
“Most of serious fighters train every day,” Jimmy says, following
my gaze. “In addition to learning all the submissions, strikes, kicks,
grapple techniques, and defenses they also need to build strength, speed,
and endurance if they want to have a chance in the ring. Most of them
also take classes in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, Muay Thai, boxing, and wrestling,
which are the dominant fighting arts in MMA right now.”
“I didn’t realize it was so involved,” I say. “The fighters must be
super fit.”
Like Torment.
I turn my attention back to the ring. Torment is still talking.