The Love Series Complete Box Set (183 page)

I won’t lie; watching the fabric of his slacks hug his ass as he walks up the stairs in front of me is a thing of genius. The innuendo-laden dinnertime conversation bounces around in my head. Only the click of the lock opening breaks my stare. Dylan struts in front of me, holding the door open as I walk through.

“I’m more of a beer drinker than coffee, but I’m sure I could manage something,” Dylan explains as he walks into the kitchen. Opening and closing some cabinet doors, he looks a bit bewildered at what he finds—or doesn’t find, is more like it. “Actually,” he closes the final cabinet in the row, “I only have this old jar of instant coffee.”

I lean against the counter, crossing my ankles. “Sanka? What are you, sixty-five?” I laugh as he puts the jar back in the cabinet.

“No.” He closes the door and moves to the fridge where he pulls out two beers. He twists the top off one and hands it to me. “My parents stayed here for a week or so before they moved away. There was a screw-up with the closing dates and they needed some place to stay. And I’m twenty-six, not sixty-five.” He opens his beer, and then tips the long neck to me. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-nine. My birthday is August second, in case you were wondering.”

“Oh,” he drags out the word. “The big three-oh. How do you feel about that?” Dylan’s question precedes his outstretched arm, indicating we should move to the living room. I drop my jacket on the back of a chair on the way inside.

The room is cozy, but not small or crowded. It feels like home, much more so than my place, which sits mostly in boxes. “Eh, it’s not a big deal, I guess,” I deflect as we sit down on the couch, turning to face one another.

“It doesn’t sound like it’s not a big deal.” Dylan kicks his legs up and rests his crossed ankles on the coffee table set in front of us.

Though the desire to avoid this whole conversation is present, I push it away in favor of wanting to be honest. Lies and deceit will get you nowhere in the end, anyway. There’s something about Dylan that makes me think he feels the same way. “You want the truth?” I ask just to be sure, but it’s also more of a warning. Dylan nods as he takes another swig of his beer. “It’s not like a mid-life crisis or anything like that, but I guess you can say that I’m not really where I’d like to be right now.”

“How’s that?”

“You said it yourself earlier. I was supposed to be a world champion MMA fighter. And now,” I pause, swallowing back my beer, letting the difference between reality and what was supposed to be reality settle in. “I’m just a small business owner.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘just.’ Owning your own gym is a huge thing. Was it a lifelong goal?” Dylan leans back comfortably against the arm of the chair, tucking one leg under his body. Everything about his body language is relaxed and calm. Where I initially thought there was anger and angst, I’m now seeing interest and concern. It’s enough not only to put me at ease around him, but to trust him as well. That’s something I haven’t been able to do since before Austin.

“Not really. It was more of a what’s-the-best-option-now kind of thing.” Okay, fine. It’s an honest response, but not necessarily the whole story. The crooked look Dylan shoots me from across the sofa lets me know he’s thinking the same thing. “You really don’t know why I don’t fight anymore?”

Dylan shakes his head. He stretches his arm across the back of the sofa where my arm is resting. Gently, but surely, he squeezes my forearm. Our eyes meet and the soft golden flecks in his sapphire eyes let me know that I can tell him. “Even if you would have looked on Google, you wouldn’t have found anything.” My admission makes his hand freeze on my arm. The tender strokes stop as he keeps his eyes locked on mine.

Not giving him any time to ask for any clarification, I continue when his face softens and his hand returns to its movements. “My agent, who I paid a good deal of money, covered everything up.”

“What exactly did he cover up?” Dylan asks skeptically, but not fearfully.

“It was after a late night training session. My bike was parked in the back of the gym, but you had to walk down a short alley in order to get there. I still had my headphones in, so I was slow in reacting.” Having kicked myself so many times for that stupid error on my part, I’d like to say that I’m finally okay with it, but then I’d be lying. Mimicking his position, I fold a leg under my body and lean back on the arm of the sofa. After one last chug of my beer, I set the empty bottle down on a magazine on the coffee table.

“Reacting to what?” Dylan’s voice is different from a moment ago. There’s more tension there.

“Rachel’s asshole boyfriend. He’d gotten a little rough with her a few times. She kept telling me that everything was okay—you know, the standard excuses, but after she showed up at my apartment with a red welt on her face, I’d had enough. He wasn’t all that pleased when I showed up to his office to pay him a visit. Since he was some high powered sales exec he thought it made him look bad.” A flippant laugh slides out of my tightly clenched jaw. “As far as I’m concerned, he would have looked a lot worse if I was less restrained.”

“You lost your contract, didn’t you? After you beat him up?”

“I didn’t lay a finger on him. I’ve never used my strength anywhere outside of the gym or the octagon,” I clarify, giving him a pointed look. “Let’s just say I had a few choice words about what I
would
do if he ever came near Rachel again. I must’ve scared him enough, because for a few weeks he left her alone, lulled us both into a false sense of everything being over and done with. And when I wasn’t looking, he and a few of his friends took me out in that back alley behind the gym. All because I had my stupid headphones on and didn’t hear them.” Dylan squeezes my arm and silently prompts me to continue. This is heavy shit for a first date, but part of me is relieved to have it off my chest. “His friends pinned me down. Took three of them to do the job. Caleb, Rachel’s ex, got in one-too-many punches to my head. The final straw was when he slammed my skull against the concrete.”

Tracing my finger over the scar that starts at my temple and travels around the curve of my head, I turn slightly allowing him to see where it ends at the base of my neck. “They told me I wouldn’t be able to walk again, let alone fight. I didn’t want Rachel to have to deal with the fallout or to feel guilty over what had happened, so I covered it up.”

Dylan sits up straighter, runs a hand over his hard, scruff-covered jawline and shoots me a disbelieving look. “But what about the cops and all the legal stuff? You’re gonna tell me that everything just ‘went away’ simply because your agent waved his magic wand over it all.” Disbelief hangs all around us.

The last part rouses a laugh out of me. “I know it all sounds kind of crazy, and this next part is going to make it sound worse, but I was beaten so badly that I didn’t wake up for a few days and when I did, I couldn’t remember exactly what had happened. There was only one barely operational camera focused on that alley, so all we could surmise was that I had been jumped. By the time my memory came back, I worked it out with my publicist and my agent to leave it as was—MMA fighter jumped, left too injured to fight any more.”

“But what about Rachel? Did you at least tell her?” His tone is angry for her, for the lies he thinks I told.

“Of course I did. She helped me through rehab, cut my food for me when I couldn’t. She told me about my parents being dead and buried when I asked for them, my turned-to-mush brain having forgotten the memory of their joint funeral.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I stare up at the textured ceiling. Focusing on the light brown water spot in the corner helps me remain in control of my rising emotions. Only the shifting on the couch next to me brings my attention away from its upward gaze.

He’s close, his leg less than an inch away from mine. The heat of his body radiates in pulses against mine, like the distorted waves of heat that rise from the asphalt on a hot summer day. It’s a physical thing, but ethereal and intangible. If I reach for it, for him, I’m certain my hand will simply slice through the mirage.

Dylan moves his arm from mine, placing a hand on each of my thighs, drawing my attention back to his face. “So, in the last two years, you buried your parents, defended your sister’s honor, and got beaten so badly you almost didn’t survive, had to be reminded of your tragic loss, moved away from your only home, started all over again,
and
opened what’s already a rather successful gym?” One side of his mouth pulls into a playfully lopsided grin. I’m thankful for it as the tension eases.

“Well, when you put it like that,” I laugh

“Put it like what? That’s exactly what happened.” His palms feel like melted silk against my legs; the texture of my jeans feels heavy and gritty against my own skin as he brushes his hand against them. “Don’t give me that look. It is. And to say you’re not where you want to be, well, that’s just, I don’t even know what to say about that. I’d be damn proud of where you’re at if I were you.”

I drop my hand on top of his. “I didn’t think I’d be alone.” A pregnant silence blooms between us before I add, “Since we’re into all the heavy stuff, which is real fun for a first date,” I slide that sarcastic remark in there smoothly, eliciting a laugh from both of us as I do. “I’m not a one-night stand kind of guy. Part of my plan was being married or at least settled down with someone by the time I was thirty. I want what my parents had—house, kids, maybe even a mini-van. People always saw Conner Michelson the MMA fighter. Rough and tough, big talker and all that shit. But at the end of the day, what good is it all if I had no one to share it with?”

Another bubble of silence threatens to consume us before a deep breath puffs out of my lungs. “That’s a lot to take in, huh?”

Dylan laughs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, I’ll say.” He stands from the couch and walks into the kitchen. Without even asking if I want another one, he grabs two beers from the fridge, twisting the caps off as he returns to his seat on the couch. As he hands me mine, our fingers brush together, the cold sweat on the outside of the bottle serves as the perfect contrast to the heat of our skin. “Thank you for telling me, for trusting me enough, I mean.”

“Guess it must be the whole starting over thing. Moving out here has made me a little more open about it all. Plus, in the few months Rachel and I have been in Elmira, I haven’t been out of the gym or my apartment all that much. You’re the first person I’ve really spent time with outside of Rachel and the construction workers.”

He serves me my words from earlier. “Oh, so I’m just the best of what’s around then?” Dylan jokes, shoving away from me, pretending as if I’ve just insulted him.

I tip back my beer, chugging down a mouthful. Shrugging casually as I scan over his body, I say, “You’ll have to prove it to me that you’re the best. You could just be the eh-okay of what’s around.” The air shifts, crackling under the attempt of my lame joke.

Dylan’s body language morphs. He becomes smoother and more angular all at the same time. His eyes widen and I swear I can see his pulse beating in his neck. The thick bulge of his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. My eyes travel up his neck, and stop on his lips. I’m jealous of them as his tongue slips out of his mouth and licks the full and plump lower lip.

My mouth goes dry and my pants get suddenly tight. My blood pounds so hard in my ears I can hear it, feel it flowing through my veins like the tsunami of desire I feel everywhere else in my body.

His words, like a steamy exhale into the cold winter air, swirl over and wrap around me. “No, I’m most certainly the ‘best’—not only of what’s around, but of what you’ve ever had.” His fingers pull at the fabric of my jeans, forcing me to untuck my leg from underneath me. Scooting forward, he fills the space between my legs, letting his body hover over mine as he pushes me further back against the armrest. With his mouth millimeters from my ear, he whispers, “So the real question is do you think you can tear up that ‘no one-night stand’ mentality for a night so I can show you how far from ‘eh okay’ I really am?”

Before they can form words, my lips are pressing softly against Dylan’s. When I lean forward for more of his heat and his sweet taste, he pulls back, taking away what I want most. The mischievous glint in his eyes is accentuated with a tsk falling from his mouth. Attempting to move forward again proves to be just as fruitless as he pushes me back once more. I could overtake him in a heartbeat; have him bent over this couch in an instant, screaming my name for the entire world, or at least his neighbors, to hear. But apparently, Dylan wants to play, to tease, so I’ll let him.

For a minute, anyway.

The slow, erotic teasing of his tongue over my lips eventually becomes too much even for Dylan. All restraint vanishes as he loses control. His body falls into mine as his mouth finally takes what we’ve both wanted. With one arm banded around his waist, I grip his just-a-little-too-long hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him even closer still. Tugging his lower lip between my lips, I let the hand that was at his waist drift lower, grabbing his tight ass.

He’s beneath me in an instant, completely caught off-guard by my quick movements. “You don’t know what you’re asking for?” My words vibrate against his neck. The scratch of his day-old growth is a welcomed one.

“Try me,” Dylan groans almost painfully, his chest rumbling against mine.

My tongue sweeps across his neck, biting at his collarbone. “Oh, I intend to.” I undo the first button on his shirt. “I just don’t think you’re ready.” I undo the next. “Are you?” My fingers fumble with the next one. Impatience wins over, and I tear the front of his shirt open. A button flies somewhere across the room. The sound of it skittering across the floor barely registers above the loud emptiness of our breathing, heavy with needy demand.

My hand roughly skims down his chest and flat stomach, following the line of hair that disappears below his belt. My mouth follows the same trail. A wicked smile pulls at my lips when Dylan’s breathing becomes uneven and ragged. “Just do it already.” His voice is gruff and lust-laden.