Against the Ropes
Page 16
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“Ahem.”
He spins around and his eyes widen. A grin spreads across his face and his deep, soft chuckle warms me to my toes.
***
Two hours, two pieces of pizza, and one exhilarating motorcycle ride around San Francisco later, we arrive outside the club. Torment glides his motorcycle to a stop and turns off the ignition.
For a moment we just sit. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to memorize the heady, erotic sensation of having my arms around his waist, my br**sts against his back, and his ass tucked tight against the juncture of my thighs.
Finally, he pulls off his helmet and twists in his seat to help me. “Was that too fast?” He slides the helmet off my head and clips it under the seat.
“Are you kidding?” I squeal, bouncing on the seat like a little kid. “I think I might forget about buying a car and get one of these. What did you call it?”
His lips curve into a smile. “It’s a custom MV-Agusta F4CC, but you might want to feign a little concern for the fact we were going almost one hundred and fifty miles an hour down the freeway. I might start to think you want to live dangerously.”
My smile broadens. Maybe I do. Maybe that is what has been missing from my life—a little excitement and a whole lot of danger.
“What should I do with this?” I pat the stiff, leather jacket Torment gave me when he picked me up. Just my size.
“Keep it. You’ll need it for the ride home.” He helps me off the motorcycle and props it up on its kickstand. Although I don’t know much about motorcycles, I can appreciate the sleek lines, shiny chrome, and death-defying speed of his Agusta. My hand rests on the seat, still warm from our ride. When I look up, Torment is watching me and the intensity of his gaze makes my heart pound.
“Come.” He holds out his hand. “I have a surprise for you inside.”
As if he hasn’t given me enough surprises today. The only thing missing is the tiniest personal detail about him. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like to talk about themselves—even a little bit.
We walk through the brightly lit parking lot, and Torment gives me a warning lecture about the dangers of Ghost Town and being alone outside the club at night—as if I haven’t lived in Oaktown all my life and been immersed in the daily reports of muggings and shootings in the Foster Hoover Historic District.
Once we are inside the club, he sends me to inventory the first aid room while he unlocks the doors and turns on the lights.
The room is cool and quiet and smells faintly of antiseptic. I rifle through the drawers and cupboards. Someone has taken the time to think about the types of injuries that might occur in a fight club. Since my last visit, the room has been restocked, and everything is organized and labeled.
“You’ll need this.” Torment appears in the doorway with a cooler in his hand.
“Another picnic?”
He places the cooler on the counter and waggles his crooked finger, motioning for me to open it. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips and his eyes sparkle with an almost palpable excitement. I can’t resist happy Torment. I open the lid.
“Ice cream? You bought me five pints of ice cream?” I pull out a container of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and lick my lips.
“Is that the right one?”
An idiotic grin splits my face. “Yes. This is the right one. The only one. But why did you buy it? And why so many?”
“Welcome present for new staff.” His brow wrinkles and then he spins around and walks out the door.
First pizza, then a motorcycle ride, and now my favorite ice cream. The night is just getting better and better.
My mouth waters and I pull the lid off the carton. The ice cream is at its optimal state—partially melted. Unable to resist, I dip in a finger and pop it in my mouth, closing my eyes at the first, creamy, rich, chocolaty banana burst of flavor. Ahhh. Heaven.
“I brought you a—”
My eyes fly open. Torment is standing in front of me with a bowl and a spoon and eyes as wide as the ice cream lid.
“Spoon.” He chokes out the last word, and his eyes lock on the finger in my mouth. I pull it out with a loud, elegant pop.
“Looks like you don’t need it,” he chuckles.
“I…it’s so good…I couldn’t wait.” My face heats. “Usually I use a spoon. Always, actually. I always use a spoon.” I hold my breath and pray for a natural disaster—earthquake, flood, hurricane, even a plague of locusts. Anything to save me from death by mortification.
“I think I would prefer to watch you eat it the other way.” His low, husky growl sends a shiver down my spine.
“Spoon…please,” I whisper. Why can’t I be like normal people and lose my appetite in times of stress or profound embarrassment?
He hands me the spoon and leans against the bed, thick arms folded. Although I don’t look up, I can feel his eyes on me. Maybe he’s hungry.
“Would you like some?”
“I don’t eat ice cream. It’s full of chemicals and unnecessary fats.” The soft, velvety texture of his voice is almost a match for the smooth, creamy ice cream on my tongue. What a combination: Torment, ice cream, unnecessary fats, and me.
“It’s very unhealthy,” he continues. “Any nutritional value is canceled out by the high sugar content.”
“Have you actually ever tried it?” I scoop out some ice cream and lick it off the cold metal spoon with slow, careful, little flicks of my tongue. When I lift my eyes, Torment’s lips have parted and his eyes burn with sensual fire.
He spins around and his eyes widen. A grin spreads across his face and his deep, soft chuckle warms me to my toes.
***
Two hours, two pieces of pizza, and one exhilarating motorcycle ride around San Francisco later, we arrive outside the club. Torment glides his motorcycle to a stop and turns off the ignition.
For a moment we just sit. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to memorize the heady, erotic sensation of having my arms around his waist, my br**sts against his back, and his ass tucked tight against the juncture of my thighs.
Finally, he pulls off his helmet and twists in his seat to help me. “Was that too fast?” He slides the helmet off my head and clips it under the seat.
“Are you kidding?” I squeal, bouncing on the seat like a little kid. “I think I might forget about buying a car and get one of these. What did you call it?”
His lips curve into a smile. “It’s a custom MV-Agusta F4CC, but you might want to feign a little concern for the fact we were going almost one hundred and fifty miles an hour down the freeway. I might start to think you want to live dangerously.”
My smile broadens. Maybe I do. Maybe that is what has been missing from my life—a little excitement and a whole lot of danger.
“What should I do with this?” I pat the stiff, leather jacket Torment gave me when he picked me up. Just my size.
“Keep it. You’ll need it for the ride home.” He helps me off the motorcycle and props it up on its kickstand. Although I don’t know much about motorcycles, I can appreciate the sleek lines, shiny chrome, and death-defying speed of his Agusta. My hand rests on the seat, still warm from our ride. When I look up, Torment is watching me and the intensity of his gaze makes my heart pound.
“Come.” He holds out his hand. “I have a surprise for you inside.”
As if he hasn’t given me enough surprises today. The only thing missing is the tiniest personal detail about him. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like to talk about themselves—even a little bit.
We walk through the brightly lit parking lot, and Torment gives me a warning lecture about the dangers of Ghost Town and being alone outside the club at night—as if I haven’t lived in Oaktown all my life and been immersed in the daily reports of muggings and shootings in the Foster Hoover Historic District.
Once we are inside the club, he sends me to inventory the first aid room while he unlocks the doors and turns on the lights.
The room is cool and quiet and smells faintly of antiseptic. I rifle through the drawers and cupboards. Someone has taken the time to think about the types of injuries that might occur in a fight club. Since my last visit, the room has been restocked, and everything is organized and labeled.
“You’ll need this.” Torment appears in the doorway with a cooler in his hand.
“Another picnic?”
He places the cooler on the counter and waggles his crooked finger, motioning for me to open it. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips and his eyes sparkle with an almost palpable excitement. I can’t resist happy Torment. I open the lid.
“Ice cream? You bought me five pints of ice cream?” I pull out a container of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and lick my lips.
“Is that the right one?”
An idiotic grin splits my face. “Yes. This is the right one. The only one. But why did you buy it? And why so many?”
“Welcome present for new staff.” His brow wrinkles and then he spins around and walks out the door.
First pizza, then a motorcycle ride, and now my favorite ice cream. The night is just getting better and better.
My mouth waters and I pull the lid off the carton. The ice cream is at its optimal state—partially melted. Unable to resist, I dip in a finger and pop it in my mouth, closing my eyes at the first, creamy, rich, chocolaty banana burst of flavor. Ahhh. Heaven.
“I brought you a—”
My eyes fly open. Torment is standing in front of me with a bowl and a spoon and eyes as wide as the ice cream lid.
“Spoon.” He chokes out the last word, and his eyes lock on the finger in my mouth. I pull it out with a loud, elegant pop.
“Looks like you don’t need it,” he chuckles.
“I…it’s so good…I couldn’t wait.” My face heats. “Usually I use a spoon. Always, actually. I always use a spoon.” I hold my breath and pray for a natural disaster—earthquake, flood, hurricane, even a plague of locusts. Anything to save me from death by mortification.
“I think I would prefer to watch you eat it the other way.” His low, husky growl sends a shiver down my spine.
“Spoon…please,” I whisper. Why can’t I be like normal people and lose my appetite in times of stress or profound embarrassment?
He hands me the spoon and leans against the bed, thick arms folded. Although I don’t look up, I can feel his eyes on me. Maybe he’s hungry.
“Would you like some?”
“I don’t eat ice cream. It’s full of chemicals and unnecessary fats.” The soft, velvety texture of his voice is almost a match for the smooth, creamy ice cream on my tongue. What a combination: Torment, ice cream, unnecessary fats, and me.
“It’s very unhealthy,” he continues. “Any nutritional value is canceled out by the high sugar content.”
“Have you actually ever tried it?” I scoop out some ice cream and lick it off the cold metal spoon with slow, careful, little flicks of my tongue. When I lift my eyes, Torment’s lips have parted and his eyes burn with sensual fire.
