Zel: Markovic MMA (2 page)

Sitting on the tufted bench, Nena crossed and uncrossed her legs. Zel’s heart raced with each glimpse of her inner thighs. She kicked off her shoes and removed the silver clasp holding her low chignon. With a wild shake, waves of black hair tumbled down her back. She unsnapped her garters and pulled the black stocking from her right leg, bending her knee until her heel touched her thigh. She tossed the stocking into the crowd and the men fought over it.

Using the second stocking as a prop, she salsaed down to the crowd again, stretching her supple brown legs as she bobbed. She held the stocking tight against her chest and approached Pete Lazzo, the man who’d arranged tonight’s entertainment. For a man who worked with some of the most physically fit athletes in the world, Pete obviously hadn’t picked up any of their habits. He was a big bear of a man. His belly paunch sagged against his tailored shirt and overlapped the top of his pants. As always, he clamped a cigar between his teeth. As Nena approached, Pete snatched the unlit cigar from his mouth.

Quite the saucy minx, she looped her stocking around Pete’s neck and used it to pull him close. Pete’s expression was one of embarrassment as she shook her breasts in his face. Laughing, Nena planted a kiss on his shiny bald head and danced away, leaving her stocking draped around Pete’s shoulders and a bright red lip print on his head.

Back onstage, Nena dropped her garter belt and turned her back on the crowd. Hungrily, Zel and the spectators watched her unhook her bra. She faced the crowd again but kept the bra pressed to her breasts. He pulsed with a desperate craving to see more of her naked flesh but she refused to alleviate his need. She continued sassily twisting and bending. Other strippers would have been completely naked by now and writhing raunchily. That she lengthened the tease made him crave her all the more.

He fantasized about having her in his bed. God, what he would do with her! He imagined burying his face between those thick thighs or his cock sliding between her ample breasts. For the first time in so long, he ached for a woman.

The room erupted with wild whistling and hollering as Nena threw her bra into the crowd and exposed her black and hot pink nipple tassels. The music reached a crescendo as Nena jumped up and down on her toes. With every hop, her breasts jiggled wildly, the tassels whipping in fast circles.

Turning her back to the crowd, Nena slowed her body movements as the salsa music morphed into a sultry tune that conjured visions of a smoky cantina and frantic, sweaty table sex. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of her panties and dragged them down her lush, thick ass. Heat surged through his belly as inch by delicious inch of her silky skin was revealed. A glittering rhinestone thong clung to her body. Panties around her ankles, she slowly bent forward at the waist and shook the plump flesh to the delight of her fans.

With a loud smack on her bottom, Nena straightened and stepped out of her panties. Those too she flung into the audience. Yet another scuffle broke out among the men but Zel was oblivious. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gyrating goddess before him. Tongue against her teeth, she undulated like a belly dancer, one hand buried in her hair, the other brushing against her stomach. A tiny triangle of sequined fabric barely covered the vee at the top of her thighs. He desperately prayed it would soon be removed.

Zel’s eyes widened as she picked up a bottle of lotion from the short stand next to the tub. Across the pulsing throng of patrons, their eyes locked. Rather naughtily, she ran her fingers down the length of the pearly tube. With a salacious smile, she flicked her pointed tongue across the top. His cock throbbed as if she had just licked the head. Rubbing the tube between her luscious breasts, she popped the lid and squeezed the bottle so hard, white lotion shot all over her breasts. The symbolism wasn’t lost on clamoring crowd.

Wearing that dreamy, sexy expression, Nena looked like a woman thoroughly debauched. She carelessly dropped the bottle and rubbed the creamy lotion down her gently curved belly. Ever so cautiously, she climbed into the bathtub. Armed with a dripping sponge, she dribbled water down her front before lathering the lotion covering her skin. As it foamed, Zel realized it was body wash.

Quite indecently, Nena soaped her body. Zel imagined his hands roaming her slick skin, his fingers kneading those large breasts and slipping beneath that oh so tiny swatch of cloth covering her pussy.

All too soon, Nena lowered herself into the tub. Just as the music began to fade, she placed her toes against the rim of the tub and grasped the sides, arching her back as she lifted out of the bath, soapy water dripping from her glistening, gorgeous body. It was truly a sight to behold.

And then the lights were snuffed and the curtain fell. Pandemonium ensued. Zel couldn’t whistle or hoot or clap. Rendered breathless, he knew there was only one thing to be done.

He had to meet her.

Chapter Two

Safe inside her dressing room, Sara Contreras dropped the now damp robe her sister had thrust upon her as she left the stage. She unfurled one of the folded towels resting on her dressing table. As she pressed the towel to her neck, her legs trembled and belly quivered. Curious, she slipped a hand between her thighs, tucking the fingers under the rhinestone thong. Her clit throbbed beneath her fingertips, and she inhaled a shaky breath as she realized how aroused she was.

In all the years she had performed on stage as Nena Rubens, never once had she been aroused by a patron. As a general rule, she offered the body shot to whomever had paid for the performance, but the second she had clapped eyes on the blond Adonis in the front row, she’d decided to switch things up a bit. For the first time in a long time she’d been able to separate one face from the crowd. She had danced as if doing a private show. Judging by the crowd’s reaction, they had loved it.

Fanning her face, Sara grabbed a bottle of water and swallowed an icy sip.
You have to calm down!
She couldn’t walk into her autograph and schmoozing session all hot and bothered. It wouldn’t be professional.

Loud rapping at the door grabbed her attention. Expecting Lucy, her sister-slash-assistant, on the other side, she grabbed her robe and slipped into it before wrenching open the door. She recoiled in surprise. Instead of being eye to eye with a spunky brunette, Sara suddenly had an eyeful of one of the very last men on earth she ever wanted to see again. She reacted on instinct and slammed the door in Ramsay Ramirez’s face.

But Ramsay was too fast. He had
always
been too fast. He gripped the door and shoved it forward, causing Sara to stumble back toward the vanity. She quickly grabbed the slipper chair and held it up like a shield. Eyeing her abusive stepbrother, she warned, “I’ll scream if you take another step closer.”

He grinned evilly. “I’ll take my chances.”

Certain he meant that, she shakily insisted, “You’re not allowed to be here. The restraining order says—”

“That judge was in Texas. We’re standing in Nevada right now, Sarita.”

Feeling sick at the sound of her nickname coming from his mouth, she shook her head. “The restraining order follows me across state lines. You are not allowed to be here.”

“So scream,” Ramsay said with a tired shrug. “Ten bucks says I can haul your fat ass out of here before anyone comes running.”

Cold dread gripped her stomach. He would do it, too. He
had
done worse.

“Is there a problem here?”

Her panicked gaze jumped to the doorway where the handsome blond fighter now stood. His stance was one of practiced aggression, his feet spaced evenly apart, his weight shifted back and his hands relaxed but ready to strike. He towered over Ramsay by two or three inches and had a leaner, meaner build.

Relieved to have a champion so close at hand, she shot the fighter a desperate glance.
Please,
she begged silently,
make him leave me alone.

“Who the fuck are you?” Ramsay asked in that incredibly aggressive way of his.

The fighter didn’t even blink. He seemed wholly unfazed by Ramsay’s asshole routine or the Hermanos gang tattoos on her stepbrother’s neck and arms. “I’m her date,” the blond lied. “Who the fuck are
you
?”

“Her brother,” Ramsay ground out between clenched teeth.

“Stepbrother,” Sara quickly inserted. “He’s my
stepbrother
, and there is a permanent restraining order in place. He’s not allowed to be here.”

“Then it’s time for you to leave,” the fighter said. Stepping forward, he grabbed Ramsay by the back of the neck and grasped his wrist, wrenching it behind his back and forcing her ex into a painful bend that caused him to yowl. He marched Ramsay out of the dressing room and down the hall, disappearing from her view. There was quite a commotion a short time later. Sara held her breath as she listened to the men arguing. Something big and heavy slammed into a wall. Ramsay? The fighter?

Dropping the chair, she rushed to the door and hid behind it. She pushed it mostly closed, just in case Ramsay got free. He was going to be thoroughly pissed off after this, and if he managed to make his way backstage again, it probably wasn’t going to end well for her.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hall. She cowered behind the door and held her breath. The footsteps stopped outside the door. A wave of panic engulfed her.

“Ma’am?” Three swift knocks on the partially closed door followed. “He’s gone.”

She stepped to the side and peered out the crack between the door and the frame. At first, all she could see was a white poplin shirt and classic black blazer. She tilted her head back and breathed out a sigh of relief upon seeing the fighter again.

My rescuer.

“Thank you.” Sara opened the door to let him inside. A moment too late, she remembered she was almost naked and only wearing a robe, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t already seen everything already while she danced. Still, she felt vulnerable and exposed in a way that was almost too intimate.

His icy blue eyes raked down her body. She seized the opportunity to size him up as well. With those broad shoulders and that angular jaw, he possessed the fierce look of a warrior. Even now, completely relaxed, he stood like a fighter. Somehow he managed to look powerful and capable without the aggressiveness she had seen earlier. He made her feel secure and safe.

She imagined the rippled muscles hidden beneath his shirt and mustered tremendous control to keep her greedy fingers still. He was so close she could smell the subtle cedar notes of his cologne. She inhaled discreetly and buzzed on his manly scent.

“I’m sorry.” He stepped back from the doorway, obviously discomfited by her half-naked state. His accent—almost Russian but not quite—piqued her interest. “Should I come back later?”

“No!” Embarrassed by her hasty response, she added, “I mean, I’d like you to stay. I’d like to explain that mess you just witnessed.”

“You don’t owe me any explanations. I was happy to help.” His expression turned dark. “That guy is an asshole. If you have a restraining order, you need to talk to the club security, to your hotel security and to the local police. He needs to be trespassed and run out of this town.”

“He’s not so easily dissuaded,” she replied quietly. She didn’t think this stranger wanted to hear about the very estranged husband she had back in Houston or her ties to an Albanian loan shark who had given her a start dancing in his first club. “There is a lot of ugly history there.”

The knight who had just saved her raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

“Yeah,” she laughed nervously. Drawing together the lapels of her robe, she pulled them tight and tied the sash at her waist. “Please come inside.”

With a nod, he accepted her invitation and entered the dressing room. She closed the door behind him. Thinking of the little white lie he had told, she teased, “So…what’s your name? I should know your name if you’re my date, right?”

“I shouldn’t have lied like that, but I wasn’t sure what else to do.” He smiled and extended his hand. “Zel Tesla.”

“Sara Contreras.” She clasped his warm, rough hand. Noticing the confusion wrinkling his forehead, she quickly explained, “Nena is just a stage name.” Certain he was one of the fighters in town for the big match, she asked, “Is Zel your real name or just a fighting name?”

“I fight under my real name. Most of us do.” He hesitated. “Do you watch MMA fights?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “I’m not a big fan of violence.”

“Oh. Right.” Was he thinking of Ramsay? Putting the pieces together?

Hoping she hadn’t hurt his feelings, she hastily added, “But, um, I’m interested in these fights because you’re my hometown boys.”

“You’re from Houston?”

She nodded. “Born and raised. I couldn’t pass up the chance to book a gig the same weekend when the men from Ivan’s warehouse are fighting.”

“You know Ivan Markovic?” He seemed surprised by the connection.

“We aren’t close or anything, but we have a few friends in common. I actually saw him fight way back in the day when he used to brawl in those cages at the old meatpacking plant,” she admitted.

“But you said you don’t like fights,” he pointed out.

“I don’t. I didn’t.” She swallowed anxiously as memories she had long since buried tried to resurface. “I was involved with a man who liked them. He was trying to climb the underworld ladder and those fights were the place to be seen.” Allowing herself a moment to reminisce, she said, “I still remember the day the Red Army landed in Houston and started their invasion. It was chaos. The old players—the motorcycle gangs and the Mexican street gangs and the Vietnamese crews—weren’t ready for the kind of war that Nikolai brought.”

Zel seemed taken aback. He fidgeted with his left hand as he said, “You seem to know a lot about the underworld.”

Her gaze settled on the barely visible peek of a familiar tattoo marking the spot between Zel’s left thumb and forefinger. Realizing they had more in common than just Ivan, she swiped her right thumb over the same spot on her left hand and cleaned away the makeup covering her mark. Lifting her hand, she said, “So do you.”