Sin and Ink, page 7
“Fuck,” he swears, the guttural curse a hot puff of breath across my skin as he drives into my spasming flesh over and over, not gentle or merciful, but dragging the orgasm out until all I can do is whimper and wilt against the wall. My knees are a useless waste of joints, and only his solid, big body holds me up. Ripples of pleasure ebb through me as I return to myself. The short, heavy rasps escaping me eventually ease to soft pants.
But with the return of sanity comes…more sanity. I shiver, the sweat dotting my chest, throat, and face turning slightly clammy on my skin. The last of the lust-thick haze evaporates, and like mist parting on the dawn of a cold, stark morning, reality greets me. Reality and an overwhelming sense of grief and guilt that almost crushes me to the floor.
No longer can I say that the last man I was intimate with was my husband. I was a virgin when I met Connor. And before that, growing up in a house with an alcoholic who loved to party? When the drinks flowed, so did the unsound decisions. My introduction to sex had been at ten, walking in on my father fucking my mother’s “best friend” on the living room couch, empty bottles of alcohol littering the floor. In contrast, Connor taught me sex could be beautiful between two people who loved each other. He’d been the only man I’d trusted with my body…until now.
Dark, twisted sorrow wraps around my chest like barbed wire, tightening, drawing emotional blood. It feels like I’m snipping another string, another tie that binds Connor to me. And a small part of me screams and rages for picking up the scissors and willingly slicing it.
I hadn’t experienced this sadness when Knox had touched me in the shop the first time. Maybe because it hadn’t gone as far. Maybe because he hadn’t been inside me. Turning me into this sexual, moaning creature I didn’t recognize.
Giving me a cataclysmic, mind-bending orgasm when release had only occurred a handful of times with Connor.
That’s the betrayal.
How dare my body, my mind explode for him—a man I care for, but don’t love—the very first time he’d penetrated my body, when it’d taken over a year of being together before I reached it with the man I adored. And even then, not very often. But there’d been intimacy, affection, commitment, and love between us. Here, with Knox, it’d been purely physical except for a familial love that had just now been conspicuously absent.
A part of me reverts to the devastated, raging widow I’d been right after Connor’s death. And that part resents my body—resents the need that even now stirs as Knox slides his finger free, and my sex clenches around it, already feeling empty and aching to be filled again.
Tears scald my eyes, my head a noisy, confused blender of grief, anger, guilt…and desire.
Gentle hands zip and button my jeans, then rearrange my bra and shirt. I stand there, motionless like a doll, unable to meet his gaze. How can I explain to him what I can’t grasp myself? I wanted, hungered for the pleasure he gave me, never expecting this barrage of emotion to flood me. Never even suspecting it was there. How can he even look at me now?
How can I look at myself?
“Knox,” I say through a dry, constricted throat.
“You should be leaving for home before they start wondering where you are,” he interrupts me, his tone flat, detached, as if we’d never touched. As if he’d never made me come so hard, I shook and screamed for him. His hand, though… It’s tender as he strokes my hair down my back. Brushes rough, calloused fingers across my jaw. “Let me pull a shirt and my shoes on, and I’ll walk you downstairs to your car.”
He stalks away, and only then do I lift my head, stare at him when he can’t return the favor. The sleek muscles in his wide back flex, tapering down to a lean waist and firm, tight ass I didn’t have the chance to grab or dent with my fingernails. Some midnight, silken instinct whispers Knox would like that. To be marked.
I whirl around, squeezing my eyes shut.
Resignation creeps into the maelstrom of emotion. Because even though guilt has a stranglehold on me, a flicker of heat still kindles low in my belly. Just one look at Knox stirred and poked the embers.
Knox’s heavy footfalls echo on the hardwood floors, but I don’t turn to face him. He pulls the door open, and I follow him out to the landing, down the stairs, and out into the dark Sunday night. The muffled chords of a guitar and the thump of drums pour from the live music venue across the street. The laughter of patrons echoes in the cool air as they enter and leave the building as well as the café next to it. But on our side of the street, it’s quiet, nothing or no one occupying the shadows but us.
It’s the safest—and most dangerous—place for me to be at this moment.
Bending my head, I approach my twelve-year-old Nissan, the same car I drove from my childhood home in Tampa, Florida, to Chicago all those years ago. The key fob has long been lost, so I slip the key into the door and open it. An urgency is riding me hard. An urgency to drive away and return home so I can lock myself in the room that became my sanctuary after Connor died, and sob until my throat and eyes feel like sandpaper.
“Knox,” I say, gathering my courage and lifting my head. His hair, still tousled from my fingers tangling and clutching the dark strands, falls around his face, mingling with the coarser hair of his beard. Those green eyes seem to absorb the shadows surrounding us, and they suck the moisture from my mouth. A pit yawns wide in the bottom of my stomach because I know I contributed to that darkness. My lips part, but all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He steps back, farther into the shadows. “Drive safe.”
He’s wrong. I initiated what happened upstairs between us; I wanted it. And staring at him, the very recent memories of how he’d stroked me, sucked me, finger-fucked me, gave me such unbelievable pleasure…I still want it. In spite of the emotional storm battering me, I can still feel the heavy, heated brand of his length between my legs. And I crave more of it.
I’m conflicted, one of those old-fashioned spinning tops that wobbles back and forth, teetering between sorrow and guilt and lust. Even as I drop into the car and pull away, a sibilant, murky thought slides through my mind.
I’ll come back here.
I don’t know if I can stay away.
Chapter Five
Knox
Don’t stop.
I’m sorry.
Don’t stop.
I’m sorry.
Eden’s plea and apology from the night before loop through my brain like a scratched vinyl record. This album has been playing all night, and even now, as I bully this workout into submission, it’s still going. And going. And going.
Clenching my jaw, I cross the floor of Jake’s, the Bridgeport gym where I first started boxing and later trained from when I was fifteen years old. There are many gyms between this old building on Halstead Street and my place in Ukrainian Village. More stylish, modern ones that don’t smell of stale sweat and bleach, have updated the decor since 1990, and sit in better neighborhoods. But the forty-minute drive doesn’t matter. Other than the shop, this is home. It was once my refuge, my salvation. Hell, who am I shittin’? It still is.
At six a.m., only a couple of other guys occupy the place. Jake’s isn’t your sleek, watch-the-news-and-listen-to-your-self-help-audiobooks-while-you-exercise kind of place. No desk jockeys or nine-to-fivers here. Yeah, there are treadmills and stationary bikes, but also punching bags patched up with gray electrical tape, assorted exercise equipment, including free weights, huge, scuffed-to-hell-and-back tires, a ring set up in the middle of the cavernous area… It’s a place for fighters. Which is probably what drew me to it as a raging teen on the verge of spinning out of control in the first place.
Stopping in front of a punching bag, I settle into a stance that’s as familiar and natural as breathing. Fists up and aligned, I inhale. Exhale. And begin assaulting the bag with varying punch and kick combos. Usually, all my focus is centered on the burning in my muscles, the control of my body. But there’s nothing usual about today.
I made Eden come. Made her scream. I deliver a vicious blow to the bag, sending it swinging, as if punishing my fingers for still feeling the tight, hot grip of her pussy. Fuck. Dropping my arms to my side, I bend my head, staring at the scratched floor, chest heaving.
I’d seen it, the moment Connor first invaded her thoughts. But instead of backing off, I’d pushed her, soaking my hand in the cream damn near coating her sex. Stroking that perfect little clit that quivered and pulsed against my fingertips. Circling the small, fluttering entrance to her body. Yeah, selfish bastard that I am, I’d made her focus on the pleasure I was giving her. Made her focus on me. And she did. I watched those gorgeous eyes darken, glaze as the orgasm took her hard. Obsessively studied every taut line of her face, every tremble of her soft lips, memorizing what lust looked like stamped on her delicate, beautiful features.
And then the past intruded again.
No, not the past. Her husband.
As I slid my finger from her, reality kneed me in the balls, wearing a Joker’s smile and baring razor-sharp teeth. Reminding me, it’s not me she wants…loves.
That man will always be my brother.
I’ve had a rib busted, my nose broken, my body bruised and battered, and countless jammed fingers over the years. Climbing your way up the BFC ranks to become a mixed martial arts heavyweight champion wasn’t for wimps.
Yet, those injuries felt like love taps compared to how I felt standing there as she went rigid, the color leaching from her skin. Her anguish—her regret—reached out like ghostly, bony hands, dragging their ragged nails down my chest.
I’d done that to her. If I’d called a stop earlier instead of pushing, she wouldn’t have been there, drowning in remorse. I’d walked away, but not before touching her one more time…the last time. Because even then, I couldn’t help myself.
Mom was right. I had no business with her.
I would break her as surely as I’m breaking my promise.
Sucking in a breath, I throw a hook punch, the impact of the bag singing up my arm into my shoulder. I welcome it. Shoving down everything but the sweet relief of working my body, I move onto plank jacks and fat-bar pullups, losing myself in the routine.
“Knox.” The hoarse, rode-hard-and-put-up-wet voice that was the result of a jab to the larynx years ago comes from behind me. I rise from my bench dip, turning to face Jake Reece, gym owner and my first and former trainer. My best friend and father figure. “You’re here early. Can’t sleep again?”
That’s Jake. No fucking around. Other people who were close to me either tried to subtly prod about my insomnia and the nightmares and ask if I was okay, or they said nothing at all. But not him. Blunt. To the point. His favorite saying? “Do I look like a fucking gardener? I don’t cover shit with flowers.”
I shrug, but unlike Simon, who asked me about it last night but let it go, Jake doesn’t. “How many nights is it now?”
“Two,” I grunt. I might as well answer; like a stubborn, mean pit bull with lockjaw, he’s not going to relent.
“Shit, Knox,” he growls, glaring at me. With his crossed arms, dark eyebrows and eyes, and gleaming shaved head, he resembles Mr. Clean. But not the mop-wielding, smiling domestic god of the porcelain. No, he looks like the Mr. Clean who will toss your ass out in a back alley and skull-drag you for missing a spot on the toilet. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You know better than to be here if you’ve gone so long without sleep. That’s a dumb-shit foolish move.”
“I’m fine.” I strip my shirt off over my head and toss it to the floor, then grab the bottle of water next to the weight bench. Tipping it, I down almost the entire contents.
Yeah, I’m tired as hell, but I’ve gone longer than forty-eight hours without sleep before and functioned. Since Jake would probably turn this gym blue with curses if I admitted as much, I keep that info to myself. Sooner or later, my body and brain will crash, and I’ll grab a few hours. The best thing about that coma-like sleep is there are no nightmares of my younger brother lying unconscious on a mat inside an eight-sided metal structure.
“Peddle that bullshit somewhere else, I’m not buying it. And you’re no good to me if you’re exhausted and sick.”
“Good to you?” I ask, bending and swiping up my discarded T-shirt. “What’re you talking about? You want me to help with the Grayson kid again?” Every now and again, Jake taps me to help with a couple of the younger fighters. But Jake, one of the first professional fighters when MMA was young and just being recognized as a sport, is more than capable. After all, he gave me my start.
“No,” he says, then stares at me, his gunmetal gray eyes narrowed. He silently studies me for several quiet moments, and I meet his piercing gaze. Jake is the only person who I don’t have to hide parts of myself from. He’s seen me as an angry, hurting teen, raw and unfiltered. He knew me as the fiercely focused, win-or-die-trying champion. He sat with me, a silent, strong presence, when I sobbed out my grief and rage over Connor’s death.
The only thing I’ve kept from him—from everyone—is my dark, fucked-up obsession with my brother’s wife. Some secrets are too deep, too sinful to share.
“I just got a call from Mitchell Reyes,” he continues, a glint entering his stare. Mitchell Reyes, the CEO of Bellum Fighter Championship. I go still. “He knows we’re close. Wanted me to talk to you about the next BFC event in Reno. They want you in an exhibition rematch against Clarkson.”
Shock rolls through me, encasing me in ice. Bellum Fighter Championship… They want you… Rematch against Clarkson… In Reno. The city where I won my last fight and Connor lost his against death. Still, Jake’s words ricochet off my skull in a rapid-fire report. Israel Clarkson was the last person I fought. My last win. I briefly close my eyes. Beneath the ice… No, I can’t touch what’s stirring beneath it. It’s too sore. Too…starved.
“No,” I state, shaking my head for added emphasis because Jake is already scowling. “I have my shop. The people who work for me.” I shake my head again. “I’m not trying to give that up for a few more years, at most, of fighting. That’s in my past.”
And it’s true. If fighting was a dark, deep ocean, letting me drown in my fifteen- and sixteen-year-old anger and sadness without destroying myself, then my art was the lifeboat, dragging me back to the surface for air.
Yet…
“Do I look like they just popped me off my mama’s titty this morning?” He snorts. “If that was true, you wouldn’t still come in here training like you were preparing for an upcoming fight. Tell yourself what you want, but you haven’t dug that fire out of you. Look me in the eye and tell me a part of you still doesn’t crave it.”
I don’t say anything. I haven’t been training for the grueling five-minute rounds in a metal octagon.
At least, not consciously.
Suddenly, all the weariness and exhaustion that I’ve been fighting death-drops on my chest like a three-hundred-pound free weight. Because I can’t deny what Jake said. The way I retired—walking away—has always left me feeling…unfinished. Incomplete. But there’s no going back. Can’t change that.
“Jake,” I murmur. “I…”
“You think I don’t know why you quit?” he demands. It’s on the tip of my tongue to correct him. Retired. I’d retired. But I don’t say a word. We both know the truth. I did quit. “Martyring yourself didn’t bring Connor back, and he wouldn’t have wanted you to abandon the sport for him like some sort of sacrifice to the forgiveness gods.” He swipes a hand over his head, anger and sympathy an odd, warring combination on his tough face. “Just…don’t say no, okay? Think about it. Give it a few days—hell, a week. You don’t have to give Reyes an immediate answer. Think on it and let me know.”
Before I can reply, he pivots and strides across the gym toward the locker room and his office.
I stare after him, my heart a less-than-steady hammer in my chest, his words ringing in my head. Martyring yourself didn’t bring Connor back… He wouldn’t have wanted you to abandon the sport for him… Think about it…
That flame deep inside me that I snuffed out two years ago flickers to life, demanding to be fed. But I extinguish it before it can burn too bright.
No, I can’t. Fighting took one of Mom’s sons. I don’t know if I could face the hurt or accusation in her eyes if I returned to the sport she blames for his death.
But, fuck.
I want to.
Chapter Six
Eden
Okay, yeah, so I’m standing in the middle of my new apartment on a Sunday afternoon, hands on my hips, and grinning like an idiot.
But I can be excused, because, y’know, my apartment. Just thinking the words has me smiling harder, wider.
The small, ground-level, one-bedroom, one-bath unit in Roscoe Village might not be much by other people’s standards. Truth, it’s not a palatial condo on the Gold Coast. But damn, it’s mine. Spinning in a slow circle, I survey the place as if I haven’t walked every inch, peeked into every corner and pine cabinet, mentally filled every spot with real and imagined furniture. A living room takes up most of the space and opens up to a tiny kitchen to the right. A short hallway leads to a surprisingly large bedroom, walk-in closet, and cubbyhole of a bathroom. The true selling points of the place—besides all the utilities being included in the incredibly affordable rent and being just a twenty-minute drive to work—are the fenced-in backyard and small, screened-in porch off the kitchen.
I adore it.
Inhaling, I capture the smell of fresh paint and cleaning products in my lungs. Yesterday, I came over and scrubbed the apartment from top-to-bottom. Not that the previous tenants had left it a pig-sty. I just…I don’t know, wanted to put my stamp on it.
These last three weeks since signing the lease have passed by like an ice age. And every day has been a leaden weight. I still feel like a Judas for leaving Katherine, for hurting her. An image of her this morning as I packed the last of my belongings in my car wavers in front of my eyes. Her blue eyes glistening with tears she didn’t bother to hide. Her slumped shoulders. The thick sadness in her voice as she wished me good luck.
