He tugged me toward his chest, close enough for me to imagine touching the hardness of his pecs under the softness of his button-up shirt, like feeling a phantom pain. Or pleasure. “What do you do if the zipper gets stuck?” he said.
I tilted my chin toward him. Even in the heels, I’m still a good half a foot shorter than he is. “Just pull it over my head, I guess,” I said. “Or ask whoever I’m with to do it.” I slid my hand from his grip and walked away to join Savannah by the ring, feeling like I’d just played with fire but it was the flame that got burned.
The flow of the evening’s activities are seamless and endless. Ryder, no surprise, seems to have managing this affair down to a science. He’s clearly in his element here, his quiet command of the environment a contrast to the live wire activity all around us. Despite the relaxed look of his five-o’clock shadow, his tie-less shirt, he’s all business in his dark suit, his swagger even more sexy than usual as he weaves through the sea of people while he watches the fights, the bets being made, the drinks being bought.
While he watches me.
The hunter thinks he’s in charge because he has the big gun, but a truth of the wild is this: the hunted wields power, too. It’s her willingness to be caught, after all, that makes him a hunter in the first place.
In the ring, the two fighters circle each other, fists up, their torso muscles constricted, their eyes only on each other. I think about how upset I was to imagine Jamie as one of these guys, taking hits for the amusement of a crowd and some cash, but being here now, in the moment, it’s hard not to get swept up in the spectacle, the heat of two bodies battling for dominance. It’s controlled danger, and from the sounds of the cheers as the fighters throw their punches, I’m not the only one who feels more alive in its presence.
“Did you make a wager?” the guy standing next to me says. Like everyone else in here, he’s dressed for a nightclub more than what you’d expect for a fight club, his button-up shirt pressed, his pricey jeans ripped in all the right places.
I shake my head. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
“What kind of girl are you?” he says, stepping closer.
I rub my lips together and smile. “The thirsty kind,” I say.
“I can take care of that.” He nods at Savannah who stands on the other side of me. “Two beers?”
“I’m definitely not the kind of girl who takes drinks from strangers,” I say, heading toward the bar in a front corner of the warehouse by the entrance. “But I’m happy to buy a stranger one.”
“A beer for me and body shots for you two?”
Savannah raises an eyebrow. “It’s late, but it’s not that late yet,” she says.
The bar is two portable one-pieces pushed together with a black curtain draped in front of each. Someone way down on Ryder’s totem pole of fight night workers probably packs and unpacks it every weekend, but I guess that’s the thing with fight night: while it’s happening, the action and excitement seem never-ending, but there can be no trace left when it’s over, the warehouse left empty, like everything that happens here tonight is just a dream.
I squeeze my way through the small pack of waiting patrons to the plastic counter top, leaning across to try to get the bartender’s attention at the other end with no success. “If a pretty girl can’t get a drink, what hope do the rest of us have?” a man behind me says.
I look over my shoulder at him. He’s tall, handsome, his blond hair long, almost to his shoulders, framing his square jaw. “I think that guy has decided to forget about this side of the bar entirely,” I say. “Do you know how to whistle?”
“Put your lips together and blow?” he says.
I smile at the old movie line. “That’s how I usually do it.”
He tucks his golden hair behind his ear. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that sometime.”
I purse my lips and bend over the bar, holding onto the blond hunk’s hard bicep as I balance in my high, high heels, whistling in the direction of the bartender, who continues to ignore anyone not right in front of him. Not that I expected him to hear me really. I mean, I’m aware that a little bird whistle isn’t going to get anyone’s attention.
But I’m also aware that I have Ryder’s attention. Fully.
I can see him over the blond guy’s shoulder, his arms folded across his chest, jaw jutted out, his legs spread to make his stance strong and imposing. He knows that I’m aware he’s watching me. Wanting me.
From the way Ryder’s eyes are locked on us, he clearly doesn’t approve of my flirting with this guy, touching his arm, letting him hold my waist. But the expression on his face isn’t jealousy. Not possession. I know all too well the look of those desires and how stifling they can be. Sebastian wanted to own me. Ryder wants to claim me.
So come and get me then.
RYDER
CH. 16