A Night With Knox (7 page)

Her
fingers wrap around my dick and she tries to position me at her
entrance.

“Come
on,” she says, panting. “Let’s
go.”

“Greedy
this morning,” I tease.

“I’ll
make it worth your while,” she purrs.

One
hand still on her breasts, I let the other fall between her legs.
Slipping into her, she’s
wet and more than ready.

She
hooks one leg over my hip and I shift my hold of her. Gripping her
ass, she wraps her other leg around me. Using the wall for support,
she guides me into her and lets out a low hiss as she sinks down.
Unable to help myself, I thrust up into her.

A
moan escapes her throat and it only serves to drive me crazier. Being
with Shelby is like stealing home. It’s
a nail-biting experience of adrenaline and hope. A no-holds-barred
play that will either be everything or nothing. There is nothing I
want more in the world than to keep plunging my cock into Shelby’s
tight pussy.

Her
kisses are as intoxicating as the small whimpers that lodge in the
back of her throat.

I
keep one hand on her hip and one on the wall next her head. I clench
my hands, knuckles going white as the pleasure builds in me, ready
for a release. Her arms wrap around my neck.

There
are a million things I want to try with her. This could just be the
start of something great.

She
cups my face with one hand and looks me in the eye as I drive into
her over and over again. I revel in the feel of her skin against mine
and drink in the tiny whimpers she makes as she tries to hold out as
long as possible.

Her
hips meet me thrust for thrust.

I
peel her hand from my face and hold it tight against the wall. Her
fingers dig into mine. Nothing about her body wants to let me go. Her
pussy’s
tight and grips me like a vice. A burn settles in right at the base
of my spine.

With
my free hand, I reach down and finger her clit, eliciting another low
hiss of pleasure from her. She only lasts a few strokes before I feel
her pussy clench around me. With a strangled cry, she comes, arching
her back off the tiled walls; her free hand rakes down my back and
the other crushes mine.

I
don’t last much longer. My balls
tighten and I know I am about to explode in her

“Come
for me, Knox,” she whispers.

It’s
all it takes to push me over the edge. All that control, gone with
just one request from this woman. I come inside her, her pussy
milking me for all its worth.

I
stay there in that moment with her. The water’s
run cold by this time. I lean my forehead against hers. Her breasts
press against my chest as she tries to catch her breath.

“Fuck,
this isn’t fair,” she
breathes. Not usually what I am used to hearing after another round
of great sex.

“Something
you wanna share with the group?” I ask.

She
wiggles in my arms, trying to get down. Slowly I let her down,
slipping out of her. She reaches blindly for the faucet and flicks
off the water. She’s
still shaky on her feet but holds onto the wall for support.

“You’re
really trying to change my mind about baseball players aren’t
you?” she says.

“Judging
by the way you just screamed, I have already.”

Shelby
walks out of the shower and grabs a towel, wrapping it around herself
before she grabs a rubber band from a jar by the sink. Pulling her
dark hair up, she snaps it into a ponytail. “When’s
your flight?”

I
wince and wipe water out of my face, grabbing a towel, and dispose of
the condom. “Noon,” I
say, my head still caught up in what happened in the shower.

“Then
you better get going.” She gives me a
flirty smile. “Who knows if that car
of yours will last?”

I
laugh, my tension easing. She’s
right, this was fun while it lasted, but we’ve
both got our real lives waiting. Still, that doesn’t
mean we can’t
go out with a bang.

“I’ve
got another ten minutes before I need to leave,” I
tell her, advancing. “That’s
more than enough time to make you come again. Twice.”

*

I
walk into Atlanta Hartsfield Airport to catch my flight and am confronted
with an ad for the Falcons. The copy has Shelby’s
sass and tough as nails exterior written in every word. The women of
New York can’t
hold a candle to Shelby’s
wit and certainly not to the way she feels under my hands—all
that energy and passion, just looking for an outlet. Shelby was right
and I know it, but there’s
a part of me that wishes I’d
still grabbed her number.

My
phone goes off and for a split second I think it might be Shelby,
that somehow she got my number. But I’m
wrong—it’s my manager.

“Hey,
Joe,” I say, passing through the
terminal.

“Cooper,
my man, how’s
it going?”

“Just
heading back to New York.”

“Well,
let me ask you something.” There’s
something strange in his voice. I can’t
quite figure out what he’s
about to say, but I know this won’t
be a casual question. “How well do
you like Atlanta?”

“Well,
it’s my
hometown,” I answer. “Joe,
not that I don’t
love hearing from you, but what are you getting at?”

There’s
a pause on the other end of the line

After
a moment he says, “You’ve
been traded, kid.”

His
words crash through me.

“Are
you fucking kidding me?”

Joe
sounds apologetic. “The Yankees traded you
to the Braves for one of their sluggers and three minor leaguers.
Look, we’ll
talk about it more when you get here. The Braves want to bring you
home—”

I
can’t believe
this. They can’t
do this to me. I’ve
been a loyal Yankee my whole career. I wear the pinstripes with
pride. I had twenty wins last year for God’s
sake.

“Knox,
it’s a done
deal.” Joe sighs. “It’s
the Atlanta fucking Braves. You’re
going to be a star for them. Hell, you will probably be their number
one starter. Look, we’ll
talk when you get back.”

The
line goes dead. I stare at my phone, frozen.

Traded.

I
know it happens to almost every player, but I didn’t
see it coming. It feels like a betrayal, like I just got thrown under
the fucking bus.

But
even as the disappointment and anxiety start crushing down on me, I
can’t help
but see a glimmer of a silver lining.

Atlanta.

I’ll
be back and for longer than a layover. With my friends, a new team,
and the red-hot woman I met last night.

I
don’t have Shelby’s
number, but I damn sure know where she lives.

Maybe
this isn’t
the end of the world, after all.

I’m
coming home.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Knox and Shelby’s sexy story is just getting
started.
Look
out for KNOX, coming 2016

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RYDER

There are two smells in the world I love more than any others: a
woman right before sex and this warehouse right before a fight.
They’re different, of course. There’s nothing like a
naked, wet, waiting woman, the scent of her skin salty with sweat but
sweet at the same time, like swimming through an ocean of roses. The
warehouse’s odor is far less pleasurable, phantoms of last
round’s knocked-out teeth, bruised faces, and aching bones
making the air heavy, grimy, stifling, like the smell of fresh dirt.
But both are thrilling and unpredictable and make me want to explode.

Even
when it was me in the ring a few years ago, my ribs about to get
punched, my knuckles about to crash into someone’s cheekbone,
the smell of this place would intoxicate me. Facing off with a guy
whose sole intention for the next several minutes is to pummel you
into submission is as terrifying as it sounds. And as exhilarating.
The policy of bare-knuckles brawls is no shirt, no shoes, big problem
standing right across from you. But all I had to do to calm myself
was take a big inhale of this warehouse air, let the molecules seep
into my lungs, into my bloodstream, and I won every match.

I
always win.

So
tonight, after Crutcher beats Miller in an upset, a big win for me
for sure, when Tyler tells me that some kid is in for $10,000 and has
disappeared, I tell him he’s got to have it wrong. “I
would never have let Jamie McEntire run up that kind of tab,” I
say. “I’ve seen him around. I wouldn’t give him ten
dollars, let alone ten thousand.” When I took over running
fight night two years ago, I did a little cleanup from the mess my
predecessor left. No five- or six- figure debts to people we don’t
know, no credit to anyone who’s welched more than once. We may
be an underground operation, but there are standards. There’s
also a dress code: women in heels, men in collared shirts, and our
crowd is the type who likes to drop a lot of money on both. We have
security guards. The bartender will call you a cab if you get too
drunk. I run a tight ship. Even the police think so. That’s why
they don’t hassle me. Sometimes they even take a try in the
ring.

Tyler shrugs. “It’s been gradual. Losses on a couple
fights, loans to cover him,” he says. “I hate to be the
bearer of bad news. But I double checked the ledger, and it adds up.”

“Fuck me,” I say, and a blond woman in high heels and a
dress so tight she must not have exhaled all night turns toward us.
She raises an eyebrow at me, smiles like she might take me up on the
offer.

And with the way she wraps her mouth around the neck of that beer
bottle, keeping her eyes locked on mine as she takes a drink, I might
just let her.

Tyler’s voice yanks me back to the problem at hand. “So
what do you want to do?” he says. “He’s offered his
house as collateral.”

I
shake my head. “This isn’t a swap meet.” Sometimes
people think that just because I run an illegal fighting circuit and
betting ring, I must be dishonest or inattentive to keeping the
books, or maybe just dumb. So they try to take advantage of me
occasionally. They think I won’t notice or care if they siphon
a little cash or don’t pay in full or don’t pay at all,
that I’m just a guy who made his money beating the shit out of
strangers while debutantes and their dates made their bets. All brawn
and no brains. But they’re wrong.

In
the ring, I didn’t mind being underestimated. It helped me win.
Some spectators think when you look like me, tall, muscular,
broad-shouldered, you won’t be agile enough to dodge a right
hook. So they bet against you. They don’t realize those muscles
aren’t just for showing off to the female members of the
crowd—not that I minded when they noticed. Those hard biceps
mean you’re strong, and those washboard abs make you quick, and
it all adds up to making my bank account big.

But as the boss outside the ring, I can’t have people not take
me seriously. The Armani suits I wear on fight nights look damn good
on me but they don’t come cheap, so when I loan money I expect
to get it back when the handshake said I would. It’s only fair.
I’ve got a reputation to protect, not to mention a legitimate
business career to support, owning two of Atlanta’s most
popular nightclubs, a cocktail lounge, and Altitude, a bar some
buddies and I run together. I got to the top flying like a butterfly
in the ring, but I stay there because I sting like a bee outside it.

And Jamie McEntire’s about to feel what I mean.

“You know where this kid’s house is?” I say,
clapping Tyler on the shoulder. He nods. “Good,” I say.
“You’re driving then. Grab Valero and let him know that
as soon as this crowd clears, we’re making a visit.”

Tyler leaves, and the woman in the tight dress with the lucky beer
bottle approaches. The dip of her neckline is as low as her skirt is
short. “Someone should wash your mouth out,” she says.

“Sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities,” I say,
smiling. We’re at an underground bare-knuckles fight.
Fuck
is hardly the most offensive thing she’s been exposed to
tonight.

“Not at all,” she says. “I like a man who talks
dirty.” She takes a sip from the bottle, tipping it toward me.
“Want some?”

I don’t think she just means the beer.

Over her shoulder, behind her in the crowd, I see a guy in a
decent-looking grey suit. He’s standing with a few other
people but his attention is clearly fixed on her, watching. I tilt
the bottle back toward her with my index finger. “Who are you
here with?”

“No one special,” she says, taking a step toward me.
“Unless you want some company.”

Women. They smell good, they look good, they taste good, but they can
be so bad for you.

I’ve been Grey Suit back there. Even in the shadows of the
warehouse I can read the look on his face, the narrowed eyes,
slightly turned down mouth. He’s a guy who knows that just
because he’s the one who’s taking this girl out tonight
it doesn’t mean he’s going home with her. Back when I was
fighting, my girlfriend at the time used the hours I was knocking
guys’ blocks off to get her rocks off. She even slept with some
of my opponents, who I beat anyway, but still—I don’t
know if she was just bored or mean, didn’t love me or herself
or both, but when we broke up two years ago, I swore off
relationships. My motto is get in and get out, in all ways possible.

So Tight Dress standing in front of me, just the right size to
straddle my lap in the front seat of my Audi, would usually be the
perfect ending to a night.