Like he’d done it a million times, like he belonged in a boxing ring.
I sighed, trying to push away the images of him as a teen, of his father being his opponent. But it was impossible to block from my mind. There was a reason he knew how to fight. A reason he’d had too much practice, that his knuckles landed exactly where he wanted them to, over and over and over. That he never seemed to even feel the pain inflicted on him, perhaps because he was so used to it after so many years.
The same reason those men had left with bleeding lips and noses and black eyes.
I went to his kitchen, found a bottle of beer in the fridge, and popped the top. Then I stepped out onto the deck, dropped into a chair, and put my feet up.
I would give him time to cool off. And then we would talk.
An hour later I found him in the den, just as he’d promised. He was sitting in a leather easy chair, his feet up on a footstool, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand. I studied him from across the room, taking in his bloodied knuckles and the angry welt on his face.
I walked to the wet bar along one wall, opening the top door on the small fridge/freezer. I could sense his eyes on me, but I said nothing as I twisted the ice tray, then bundled a half-dozen ice cubes into a wash cloth.
I walked to him, sitting on the edge of the chair arm, holding the ice to his cheek.
He winced, but didn’t speak.
“I think you escaped a full-blown black eye,” I said. “But your knuckles look a little worse for the wear.”
He said nothing, just raised the glass to his slips and took a big swallow.
“What would you have done to him?” I asked.
“Done to whom?”
“To that guy. If you’d fought him one on one?”
“Let’s just say he’s very lucky he had backup,” he said, gripping the glass harder as I shifted the ice lower, to where an angry red welt had swelled along his jaw.
I held the ice to his skin, studying him. Waiting. The raw anger had given away to a quiet fury, dwelling beneath the surface. “I thought so,” I said quietly.
“I haven’t been in a fight in almost three years,” he finally said. “I couldn’t stop myself.”
“I know.”
“That’s not supposed to be me anymore,” he said. “I have more restraint. At least I thought I did.”
“Everyone’s human.” I shifted the ice, pressing it into the puffiest spot on his jaw.
“I wanted to kill him,” he said, the quietness of his voice doing nothing to mask the vehemence in his tone. “Everything I’d ever pictured doing to my Dad, I wanted to do to him.” He took another swig of alcohol, draining the glass. “You should probably go. I’m not good company today.”
I took the empty glass from his hand, setting it on the table beside his chair.
Then I twisted, sliding down, so that I was straddling his lap. “There are other ways to forget your troubles, you know.”
He met my gaze, his eyes darkly intense. I watched the moment his thoughts shifted from those men in the bar to other pursuits, watched the lust grow heavy in his gaze.
“Taryn..” he shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“I can make you forget,” I insisted. I curled an arm around his shoulder. “Where do you want me?” I whispered into this ear.
“Everywhere,” he said, his voice husky and dark.
I grinned, sitting back to take in his expression. I played with the hair at the back of his head. “You can’t fuck me everywhere at once,” I said, desire spiraling through me as I stood, tugging him to his feet. I walked to the sink, dropping the ice in, leaving my back to him as I raked in a deep breath. My mouth was dry already, my heart pounding at the idea of him fucking me while in such a dark, angry mood.
“Not at once,” he replied. “One after another. Against the wall, on the floor, on my desk, in my bed,” he advanced on me, promise in his words. “From behind, from on top, from below you, watching your tits bounce up and down while you ride me.”
I twisted round, leaning back against the counter as he stood close to me, towering over me as he looked down at me, lust burning in his eyes. “The question, Taryn, is where you want me to take you first.”
I was painfully aroused, liquid heat rushing between my thighs. Moments stretched between us, until I thought his restraint would snap like a rubber band. Yet he didn’t reach out and grab me, didn’t press his mouth to mine, he just waited for an answer.
“On the floor,” I found myself saying, “From behind.”
I could hardly believe I said the words with such confidence, but he didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, his lips finding mind. There was little tenderness to the kiss—this was a claim, a rough taking of what he wanted. His tongue plunged into my mouth, his hands finding my lower back, slipping beneath my clothes and yanking me up against him.