I already know the answer to that.
The two words reverberate in the room, and his impossibly long, dense lashes lower. A harsh, serrated breath shudders from between his parted lips. Even before his big body goes rigid, a sickening tightness in the pit of my stomach alerts me that something is wrong. Has changed. Like a ghost suddenly appeared in the room, the temperature seems to drop. But that cold isn’t emanating from an apparition; it’s from Knox.
His lashes lift, and this time when I shiver, it’s not the reaction to lust, but to the ice coating his gaze, chilling the flames there until they’re extinguished. Not even embers remain. This look is all too familiar. And I shrink from it now, just as much as I did then.
“Fuck.” Knox shoves away from me as if I’m the pox gift-wrapped in the clap. I flinch, even though the vicious lash of anger is clearly self-directed. He stalks across the room, thrusting his hands through his hair, completely dislodging the bun I’d loosened. The dark brown and gold strands tumble down, covering his closely shaven sides and falling just below his jaw.
He tips his head back, and if I didn’t know he’d cursed God years ago—two, to be exact—I’d assume he’s praying. But no. From the tortured frown that creases his forehead, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and the clenched fists next to his thighs, he’s most likely condemning himself to a place the far opposite of heaven.
His obvious shame sends the grit of guilt scraping my skin, leaving nasty scratches behind.
Swallowing back the acidic burn of humiliation scorching my throat, I quickly fix my bra and jerk down my shirt, covering myself. But I still feel naked, exposed. Vulnerable.
This is my fault. I’m so fuckingstupid. What was Ithinking? Mimicking his gesture, I bury my hands in my hair, tugging on the strands and enjoying the bite of pain. It gives me something to focus on other than how I damn nearbeggedKnox to touch me. Yeah, he might’ve been a complete guy and responded in that moment, but just looking at him now…
I duck my head, unable to continue staring at him. It hurts too much. The ache and mortification of rejection. The horror that he would now see me as a pathetic, needy woman who he almost pity-fucked in his tattoo chair. The sadness that our friendship might be scarred by this. Because he couldn’t have made his regret at putting his mouth on me plainer if he’d branded it on his forehead.
And worse? Worse is my body still hums with unfulfilled need. My nipples are so tight, one touch would buckle my knees. I’m so wet, my panties are probably beyond saving.
Iache.
And I need to get out of here before I do something even crazier. Such as climb him like a jungle gym and plead with him to get me off. To finish what he started the night I watched him come in another woman’s mouth.
Oh, hell yeah, I need to escape this room.
My feet are moving before the message hits my brain. Survival instincts at their finest.
“Eden.”
That gravel-and-sin voice only adds wings to my feet.Please, don’t try to talk to me. Not when I can still feel your tongue curling around my nipple. Please save your apology and “This was a mistake” speech for later. As in, Junevember 56thlater.
“Don’t worry, Knox,” I say, forcing a nonchalance that is as false as the wig collection on RuPaul’sDrag Race. I even manage a glance over my shoulder, though it nearly guts me. He hasn’t moved. But the anger and shame are entrenched in every line in his forehead. In the grim set of his mouth. In the darkness of his eyes.
Whipping around, I concentrate on the closed door. On grabbing the knob. Twisting it.
“Don’t worry,” I repeat, unable to block the hurt from leaking into my tone. Even though my mind acknowledges he did us both a favor by pulling away—that going any further with him would’ve been a monumental mistake—my confidence is kicked to hell and back. “This was a mistake, and it’ll never happen again,” I utter the words before he can, trying to salvage some of my pride.
Wrenching the door open, I slip through and close it behind me.
Too bad I can’t shut it on the last half hour.
Fuck.
Where’s that DeLorean when you need it?
Chapter Three
Knox
It’s goddamn Sunday dinner. Not a heavyweight match on a BFC fight card.
Yeah. Then why the hell is my heart pounding like I’m about to enter the ring against a bastard who outweighs me by sixty pounds, has me out-trained, out-matched, out-witted, and totally mind-fucked?
Maybe because that’s a pretty accurate description of any time spent with my mother and Dan, my stepfather.
Heaving a sigh, I push open the door to my black Escalade and step out into the driveway of the Edison Park two-story, single-family home I bought my mom with the check from my first championship fight. Yeah, I was a complete cliché, but getting my mother out of that cramped Bridgeport house that we all grew up in had been my dream when I was a kid. And I’d had the sense Dad would’ve somehow found a way to leave his celestial card game and whatever passed for Guinness up there to come down and slap me upside the head if I hadn’t. I close my eyes at just the thought of the big, boisterous, and tough Irishman who’d raised, disciplined, and loved me until I was fourteen and a fatal heart attack stole John Gordon from us. When Mom met and married Dan Keller three years later, I didn’t hate or resent him. He was—is—an okay guy. He just isn’t my father. Never could be.
Turning around, I stare at my reflection in the window of the truck, going over a mental checklist. Hair pulled back in a short ponytail, beard neat. Mom hates it, but no way in hell am I cutting it. So making it as trim as possible will have to do. A white dress shirt and black pants. Most of my tattoos hidden, except for the one crawling up my neck and the letters on my fingers. I try to conceal everything that might remind Mom of the fighter I was. Remind her of the sport that took her son.
