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His eyebrows rise. ‘What?’
I turn my book to the appropriate page and hand it over to him. ‘I want to try that.’
He takes the book from me and reads. I watch him, the way the light caresses his cheekbones, the shadows his long eyelashes make, the straight mouth. A beautiful man, a truly beautiful man. When he looks up his eyes are dark and amused. ‘I’ve got whiskey.’
‘I know where I can get some ice,’ I say with a grin.
By the time I come back with a bucket of ice, he has stripped naked. His big thighs are bunched and ready and his decorated, satiny soft cock is erect and magnificent in the soft glow of the lights. He is so hot and so perfect my thighs quiver. In one hand he is holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
I lean weakly against a pillar. ‘Already so hard?’
He doesn’t answer. Instead he opens me with his practiced fingers and does to me what the billionaire banker did to his woman.
FOURTEEN
The first thing I do at work when I return from our little holiday is go on the Internet and find out about bare knuckle fighting, a sport where the opponents ram their unprotected fists into each other to decide who is the hardest of them. What I discover scares the shit out of me.
The activity is considered to be the ultimate tear-up, no fucking around, no holds barred and with plenty of blood. It could be pouring from a fighter’s ears or even from his groin, bitten by his opponent.
I also learn that the impact of one man’s bare fist on another is equivalent to the force of a four pound lump hammer traveling at twenty miles an hour. The effect could be devastating, even after a bout lasting just a few minutes. There are no official rounds to this blood sport; instead it just goes on until one of them cannot take it anymore, or has sustained so many injuries that he can no longer stand.
It reminds me of the Chinese proverb my grandmother used to tell us grandchildren: When two tigers fight, one limps away horribly wounded, the other is dead.
That evening, profoundly disturbed and unable to wait, I run to the front door as soon as I hear Jake enter and confront him. ‘Is it true that in bare knuckle fighting you could be bitten so hard in the groin that you start bleeding?’ I demand.
He closes the door with a deliberate click. ‘It won’t be like that, Lil. Both Pilkington and I are too proud to bite like wild animals.’
I clasp my hands together nervously. ‘But you could end up with a broken eye socket or a smashed fist?’ The thought makes me tremble.
‘Unlikely. The fight will be marshaled by a referee.’
‘But the possibility exists that you could get hurt?’ I insist.
‘Yes, I could,’ he admits.
I take a deep breath. ‘And what happens when you do?’
‘There will be a paramedic on standby.’
‘It says on the Internet that you could be brain damaged. What could a paramedic do then?’ I cry.
‘I could die tomorrow crossing the street.’
‘I don’t want you to fight,’ I blurt out unhappily.
He takes my trembling hands in his, but looks at me with an unyielding face. ‘It is tragic, but we both have to go through this fight simply to sustain our identities. I have to fight him, Lil. It is all arranged. The date has been set. Saturday coming. And there is no backing out.’
I gasp. ‘And when were you going to tell me that?’
‘Saturday.’
Angrily I pull my hands out of his grasp. ‘Before or after the fight?’
He runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Before. I was trying to avoid a scene like this.’
‘Where will it be held?’ I ask coldly.
‘In a barn somewhere.’
