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She sucks in a breath, eyes bloodshot as they openly devour me. I can see how close she is. It’s written all over her face. I narrow my gaze, curling my fingers and flicking them deep, coaxing that building release out of her. She’s become a whimpering mess, pleasure building so hard and fast that she’s unable to give me the words I’m demanding from her. It pisses me off, but not enough to make me stop.
I’ll give her this. It’s my fault for driving her this far. Should have waited, slowed down. Taken my time.
She reaches behind her and slaps at me before grabbing my arm and yanking. “Please.” It’s a muffled, desperate noise. “I’m yours!”
I never stood a chance.
With a harsh exhale, I roll my thumb over her clit again and then give it a light, testing pinch. She nods her head frantically, lips parting on a silent cry, so I do it again, harder this time. Silver eyes flash a warning, and then she’s gasping.
“I’m coming,” she cries, voice shaking.
I decide then that I want to hear those two words every day. Want to witness this experience over and over again. Want to be the one that makes it happen. It’s everything I thought it would be. More than.
When her knees begin to shake, I pull my fingers out and slide one arm around her middle to steady her. Her chest shakes with a soft laugh, and I stiffen, confused.
“Relax. I’m just . . . surprised and unexpectantly exhausted, I guess,” she murmurs, head tipping back to rest against my chest.
A flurry of uncertainty hits me. I need to provide aftercare . . . right? That’s what she needs. In a rush, I wipe my hand off on my jeans and then maneuver her in my arms so I can pull her pants up her legs. I don’t feel bad as her sore ass rubs against the roughness of her jeans. She deserved every one of those spanks, and she knows it.
I’ve always tried to be gentle with Tinsley. But I’m not a calming person. If that’s what she needs from me right now, I will fail. Will she regret this because of that?
“If I can hear you thinking, then so can the creep upstairs,” she says, teasing me.
“If he can hear me thinking, then he just heard you scream for me too,” I reply.
Her eyebrows waggle as she does up her pants and then reaches for my hand, intertwining our fingers. I stare at them, my chest tight.
“At least he’ll always have one hell of a show to remember me by.”
“He doesn’t need to remember you,” I grumble.
Her smile makes her look happy. Pride swells in my chest. I did that. Right?
“Come on, Mr. Protective. I’m starving. It’s too late to be thinking about what all of this means right now.”
I know it’s not the time to fight her on that. With a silent nod, I let her lead me through the house. She only stops once on the way out—to pick up the papers and that goddamn CD.
25
TINSLEY
I’ve been boxingsince I was a preteen. I watched my dad fight every Friday night for most of my life and had practically lived at our first family gym in the heart of Toronto growing up. There was never any doubt from myself or anybody else that I would follow in his footsteps when I got old enough.
It wasn’t always what my mother wanted me to do when I grew up, but there was no denying my passion or talent when it came down to it. She gave me her support like she always had, even if every time I stepped into the ring, she would worry herself half to death about what might happen to me.
My dad never chose to go pro. He told me he didn’t want to be away from our family travelling for fights and that the pressure would have taken the fun out of it. I’ve always believed that that was the reason. I would have hated it if he was gone all the time. While I’ll never tell him that I’m grateful he didn’t take that step in his career, I am. We wouldn’t have been as close as we are if he wasn’t around as much as he was. I know damn well that I wouldn’t be as skilled without his training.
The jump rope in my hands whips through the air as I bounce in place, staring forward at my name on the poster taped to the locker room door. My heart beats quickly but steadily as I focus on my breathing, keeping it as even as possible. It’s not the first time I’ve seen the fight poster, but seeing it here, in this locker room, just minutes before I face my first opponent as a professional boxer? It feels like the first time.
“How long have you been jumping?”
I grin at the sound of Dad’s voice and let the rope slap my heels as it comes to a stop. He’s leaning one shoulder against the wall, looking just as burly as usual, if not the teeniest bit harsher. But once I start in his direction, he’s flashing me that loose smile and holding his arms open.
His hug fills me with a comfort that I’ve missed so damn much on this tour. I squeeze him harder than usual before stepping back and pointing excitedly at the fight poster.
“Did you see the poster yet?”
“I did. I had Hunter send us one after the first print. Your mom already has it hung in a frame in the living room.”
