Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (9 page)

“Everything. And nothing. But mostly, everything.” She sighed. “It's hard to think when you do that.”

“Stop thinking then.” His fingers trailed up to the inside of her elbow and back down again. Had he ever felt something as soft as Kara's skin? “For tonight, could you do that?”

Her eyes widened, and he waited for the refusal. The denial. The put-off.

And waited.

*   *   *

“KARA.”

Her brain had all but turned off. The way he stroked her arm—just her arm—had her entire body almost shivering in anticipation. Anticipation of what, she couldn't really say. Physical intimacy was—despite having a son for proof—really
not something she had much experience in. Sex, maybe. But intimacy . . . that was a whole different story.

And the way Graham looked at her, she had no doubt he wanted to become very intimate with every nook and cranny of her body. God, how she wanted that, too.

“Are you cold?”

She blinked, and realized she'd become mesmerized by the touch of his fingertips, to the point she'd blocked out all conversation. “I'm sorry, my mind just . . .”

He smiled a little, then used the palm of his hands to briskly rub at her upper arms. “You've got goosebumps. I'll get you a sweatshirt.”

“No, I—” But he was already up and heading to the back where she knew his bedroom was.

Do not follow him like an eager puppy. Do not follow him.

“Here we go.” He handed her the sweatshirt, but when she just stared at it, he rolled it up from the bottom and carefully slid it over her head. He dressed her like she did Zach when he'd still been too little to figure out where the arm holes in his shirts were, guiding her along the process until she was enveloped in fabric that smelled like him, and—if she were being ridiculous—was warm, like him. It was like being wrapped up in his arms, surrounded by him.

Stupid.

“This is the second sweatshirt of mine I've put on you,” he said mildly, sitting in his chair again. “You get cold a lot over here. I'm going to have to start keeping the heat on, or else I'll be out a lot of hoodies.”

Oh, boy. Might as well be honest. She glanced down at her plate and pushed at her pasta with her fork. Her appetite for food had dried up. “Uh, yeah, I'm sorry about that. I meant to wash it and bring it back.”

“I assumed Zach stole it from the hamper. It's no biggie.”

“Confession time.” If he could be upfront about things, so lacking in mystery, so could she. He liked her son, and he respected her. She could be honest, even if it pinched her heart a little. “He didn't steal it. I've been wearing it around the apartment.” At his satisfied look, she narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“You're wearing my clothes. Stealing my stuff and wearing it around your place.”

“Not stealing. Just . . . delayed returning.” She stabbed at a piece of broccoli, which rolled off her plate. She nudged it back on.

“It's a total girlfriend thing to do.”

That made her head snap up. “What is this, high school? I don't need to steal your sweatshirts. I have my own.”

“You like mine, apparently,” he pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest. “I like it.”

“You self-satisfied male.”

“Guilty.”

“Thanks, counselor.” Wanting to get the conversation back on track, she cleared her throat. “Now that we've completely gotten off topic, let's try again. I can't date you.”

That took a little wind out of his self-satisfied sails. But he straightened and leaned forward, forearms on the table, a determined glint in his dark eyes. “I know you're a truthful sort of person, Kara. I believe you when you say you're not using Zach as a reason to not date. And I believe you believe you can't date me. But I need you to tell me why.”

“Does it matter why?” she asked, feeling miserable now. She'd let this happen, somehow. She hadn't shut down the flirting, the anticipation soon enough. She hadn't prepared Zach enough to not get so attached to the handsome, helpful Marine. Her eyes stung, and to keep from crying she started mentally listing all the reasons she despised Henry.

“Yeah, it does. Because if it's something negotiable, I'm open for it. In fact, I love negotiating.”

“Your lawyer's showing.”

“I'm not a lawyer right now. I'm a man, who wants a woman, who says not that she doesn't
want
to date me, but that she
can't
. And I'm a determined son of a bitch, so let's find out the ‘can't' so we can move on to the ‘will.'”

Her mind twisted that around a bit, and she gasped when he grabbed her calves and pulled her feet into his lap. “What—what are you . . . wait, what? That made no sense.”

He quickly pulled her sandals off and let them drop to the floor, then started rubbing her ankles. “I'm a big fan of full disclosure, so I'll go first. I want my hands on you, Kara. I want them all over you, and inside you.”

Her entire body clenched at that blatant statement. At the heat in his eyes, the tight readiness of his own body. But his hands were gentle as he started to massage. She couldn't quite hold back the pleasured moan when he hit the sweet spot of her arches. Rubbing your own feet was nothing compared to having someone else do it for you.

“Your turn,” he added, amusement in his voice.

She glared at him, but didn't want him to stop. “I want you, too.”

“Then the rest can wait.” His thumbs pressed hard into her instep, and she almost melted into a puddle on the kitchen floor. “There's nothing wrong with living in the moment. We're both adults, right? Both mature, productive members of society. By spending time together, it's not throwing off society's delicate balance. It's simply two adults, getting to know each other better.”

He paused, and she sensed he wanted her to say something. Her eyes slid shut. “I hear you speaking words, but all I can hear is my own blood and this vague Charlie Brown teacher sort of voice. I'm in foot rub heaven. Don't kill the buzz.”

He went quiet, and she sensed it was difficult for him. But he was the one who started the foot rub in the first place.

His fingertips finally grazed over the tops of her feet, up her calves and back down again for one last squeeze before gently setting her feet down on the floor. Time to stop being an amoeba. But damn if she could open her eyes.

“I want you.”

His husky voice was what did it. She cracked one eye open. He watched her with such longing, such hunger, she shivered again. Despite the sweatshirt, despite the fact there was no chill in the house, she couldn't stop her arms and shoulders from shaking a little.

She'd denied herself for so long. Not for Zach's benefit, but for hers. Because she'd been tired, she'd had no time, she'd had no money, or decent prospects. And now here sat a man who wanted her, who was quite possibly the end all, be all of prospects, with plenty of time, a fresh foot rub under her belt, and no need for money.

And she still couldn't have him forever.

Would it be bad to have him for a night?

“You're thinking too much.” He reached for her slowly, so slowly, and she could have said no. Instead, when he hooked his hands under her arms and pulled her to sit on his lap, she let him. Her long legs dangled over the side, and her ear rested on his chest, just above his heart. One large hand stroked up and down her sweatshirt-covered arm.

He kissed the tip of her ear. “Will you stop thinking about it so much for tonight?” His phone buzzed, and he grunted and reached for it in his pocket. “Sorry, not trying to be rude but—”

“Work, I get it.”

He unlocked the screen, then chuckled a little. “Zach's asleep.”

“That's early . . .” She checked her watch. “Normally his bedtime's not for another half hour. And usually he cons a sitter into tacking on another thirty minutes.”

“He had some help. Greg ran over and wrestled with him
a bit. Showed him a few takedown moves. And I can hear you doing the mom thing in your head,” he added, rubbing a hand down her back. “Reagan says he did great, was happy as a clam, and hit the hay hard. Look.”

He held the phone out, and she smiled when she saw the photo of her baby boy sprawled out on his bed, feet where the head should go, in Spiderman boxers and Captain America T-shirt. “He looks happy.”

“You can practically see dream bubbles of superhero battles drawn over his head. He's good. And Reagan also says . . .” He navigated away from the photo and back to the text message screen. “‘Don't rush home, Greg and I are watching a movie and we're gonna make out for a while. Be a friend, leave us in peace.'”

Kara gasped, then giggled. When Graham stood, her still in his arms, she gasped again and grabbed for his shoulders. “Put me down! I'm too big for this.”

“Too big,” he scoffed, tossing her a little against his chest. She shrieked—which was probably his number one goal—and held on tighter—a close second. “You're tall, sweetheart, but you're not big. Let's follow in their footsteps and watch a movie. I'll flip through what I've got and yell if you like something.”

“Just a movie?” she asked innocently as he settled them down on the couch and turned on the TV for Netflix. “Really.”

“I mean, if you wanna throw in some of that making out . . .” He held his hands up in a
what can you do?
gesture. “I won't deny you. I doubt I could deny you anything.”

The final sentence had been spoken so softly as he flipped through the instant queue, she wondered if he'd meant for her to hear. But while the movie titles scrolled by, they started to blur. Her skin tingled where it touched his, even through clothing. Her breasts felt heavy, and she fidgeted a little on his lap. In response, she could feel a hard presence making itself known.

“Stop,” she croaked out. The movies froze, landing on what looked like a foreign film. She didn't care. She wasn't paying attention.

“See something you want?”

His voice was low, so low, and she knew he was onto her. Just like she knew, if she stood up and walked out, he wouldn't stop her or complain. And would probably just ask her to dinner again tomorrow night.

She shifted, turning and using some creative flexibility until her knees pressed into the couch, straddling him. “Yes, I see something I want.”

The remote dropped to the cushion beside him, his hand gripped her waist and pulled her forward, torso to torso, groin to groin. His eyes were gleaming, like black onyx, and his mouth was set in a firm line. She could read him so well, now. He wouldn't move until she made the first one. Wouldn't push another inch until she opened the door and issued the unquestionable invitation.

Wanting to delay, wanting to hurry, she forced herself to calm down and slow down. Kara's hand brushed over his hair, nails scratching lightly in his scalp. It had nearly the same effect as his foot rub had on her. His breathing deepened, and his hands squeezed rhythmically against her hips. Leaning down, she brushed her breasts against his chest to test his response. Even between the layers of the thick sweatshirt, her nipples hardened into points, begging for attention.

“Graham,” she said softly by his ear. He uttered a grunt. “Maybe I've been looking at this the wrong way.”

Another grunt. He'd gone very quiet for a man who had all the answers earlier.

“Maybe I should be good to myself. I thought being good to myself meant being disciplined, and resisting temptation. But maybe it means treating myself to something, after having waited for so long.”

Her throat burned, and her eyes stung a little. She breathed
in his scent, just to calm her nerves a bit. Then, pressing her lips to his neck, she whispered, “I've waited for a long time.”

He stood again, and she shrieked again. He hoisted her up below the butt, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist. He was strong. So, so strong. And without another word, he carried her back to the bedroom.

9

H
e'd never been a neat freak. Tidy, for the sake of simplicity and efficiency. Just not a freak about it. But he'd never been so grateful for his natural tendency to put his dirty boxers in the hamper as he was when he carried Kara into his bedroom. It hadn't crossed his mind they would actually make it this far back in the house . . . and not having to shove dirty socks under the bed while she wasn't looking made things much easier.

As he laid Kara out on the bed, he stood and took her in. And had a moment of second-guessing. Was this pushing? Winning the battle but forfeiting the war?

Then she looked up at him, eyes heavy, and reached for him. Any man who could resist the temptation of Kara Smith in his bed reaching for him was destined to be a monk. He quickly stripped his shirt off, just to make things easier on himself, and lay down beside her.

“This skin,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his
sternum, running her hands over his chest. “This skin is amazing to me.”

That . . . was a first. “My skin.” Skin which was currently tingling with every pass of her hands over it.

“It's so different from mine. That's the real reason why men are attracted to women, isn't it? And vice versa? The differences?”

“And you don't have skin?”

She chuckled, then pressed her cheek to his chest in a way that made him want to hold her close against him, curling around her to act like her shield for all the negativity that might come her way. “I don't have this skin. It's always warm, and this gorgeous golden copper color, and it's hard. Not rough, exactly, but not like mine.” She took a testing nip on one of his pecs, and he tensed. “And tasty.”

“You're right. Differences are what attract. Time to compare.” He pulled until her shirt rolled up and over her head, leaving her in what he supposed could be called a bra . . . in fantasy land. The lace cups held her modest breasts up, barely concealing the areolas from his view. And there was a front clasp. Nothing, to Graham's way of thinking, screamed feminine sexuality more than a lacy, front-clasp bra.

He let his lips wander, reveling in the fact that he finally could. Loving every hitched breath, every little sigh. The way her stomach muscles tightened as he edged close to her nipple, then seemed to shudder when he eased back.

“Graham.” Her voice was unsteady. “What are you doing?”

“Getting to know our differences. You're right. You're soft, and your skin is this creamy color that's . . .”

She raised her head, arching one auburn brow at him. “That's what?”

“Never mind.” He kissed her stomach and worked on the front clasp to distract her.

“No, what? Now you've got to tell me.” When the clasp
sprang free, she scrambled to hold the cups in place. “Tell me, or the girls stay in for the night.”

“Kara,” he growled.

“Graham,” she growled back, sounding like an irate kitten.

“Fine,” he bit out. “Your skin reminds me of this antique lace tablecloth my yaya had. Her grandmother made it. And my mom always told me I had to be really careful when we ate at the table, because it was super old and I could hurt it if I wasn't vigilant. So I always thought it was too delicate for me.”

She started to speak, but he stretched up to kiss her quiet again.

“Then one day, I spilled juice on it. I was about nine. I freaked out, started crying, and my yaya asked why. I told her I'd ruined it, that it was special and beautiful and I'd ruined it.”

“Graham,” she began, cupping his cheek. But he shook his head.

“Yaya sat me down and said the tablecloth had survived countless little boys before me, and it would go on to survive countless more after. Because it looked delicate and beautiful, but it was made of stern stuff and wouldn't be ruined so easily. Next time I came over, tablecloth was back on the table. Couldn't even tell where I'd spilled my juice.”

“I'm the tablecloth?” she asked slowly.

“You're delicate and beautiful to look at, but I have to keep reminding myself how tough and resilient you are. Your strength isn't easy to see . . . but you've got it.”

Her eyes watered, and she blinked rapidly. “Dusty in here.”

Graham looked over at his dust-free night stand. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Now, back to where we were . . .” He pulled gently on the cups of her bra, and watched as it fell open for him, revealing more creamy flesh and dusky pink areolas. They furled under his gaze, and he couldn't help but take the closest one into his mouth for a taste.

Kara's hands cupped the back of his head, moaning. He let his free hand move down to unbutton her jeans. Without pushing them down, he reached in, testing her with one finger. Teasing around the entrance to her sex. The tight quarters of her pants gave him little motion, which was exactly what he wanted.

“Take . . . you can take . . . take them off,” she said around swallows. She arched her hips up to give him a chance to slide the pants off.

He didn't.

“Graham?” she said, questioning.

“Easy. Just let me do things my way for a while. If you don't like it, we can change it up later.” He played more, through the soft hair below, grazing her clit, down to the slick, plump folds that were growing more wet by the minute. “Sometimes, I think we skip past foreplay too quickly.”

“We haven't done anything
but
foreplay,” she insisted.

“I mean in general. Adults. We spend our teenage years figuring out all the different ways to get off, or simply have fun, without actually having sex. And then we finally have sex”—he grinned when he rubbed the bundle of nerves between two fingers and she cried out—“and we forget all the fun ways we played before we knew what the end result was.”

“I like the end result.” She gasped. “We could . . . oh my God.”

She came then, and he could see it shocked her. Watching her face contort with the pleasure was one of the hottest things he'd ever watched. As she came back down from the high, he stripped her jeans off. She helped, sort of, with languid, heavy-limbed motions. It was like undressing a drunk.

“You're no help,” he teased, pulling the final way to get her jeans off the ankle they stubbornly clung to.

“If you wanted help, you should have undressed me before you made me come,” she retorted, sort of sing-songy.

“Oh no, you don't,” he muttered as he realized she was slipping away. “Come here.” He rolled with her, pulling her under, then over, then under him again as he made his way to the other side of the bed where he could grab a condom. “Please, God, tell me you're still awake.”

“Let me check.” She reached down and cupped him through his own jeans. “Yup, still awake.”

He croaked out something, then stood and shucked his jeans as fast as possible. Which, with fumbling fingers and Kara in his line of vision to distract him, took about two minutes longer than it should have.

“Okay, so you're struggling a little.” Kara sat up and plucked the condom from his fingers as he finally managed to undo the button to his fly. “I think I should handle this one.”

She palmed his ass and urged him to step toward the bed, putting his erection almost at her eye level. With one hand, she wrapped her fingers around the base, squeezing a little.

“Kara,” he said, voice hoarse. “You . . . I . . .”

“Shh,” she said, licking the head a little before using her teeth to tear the wrapper open and pull out the protection. She rolled it on slowly, so slowly. The sight of her pale, slender fingers working the latex over his penis almost undid him. Then she laid back down, and he couldn't resist anymore. He angled himself, pushing in, sinking deep, sighing with relief.

Her own sigh echoed his.

He needed to go slow. Wanted to go slow. Savor, taste, experience every nuance of being with her, inside her, in her. But she wrapped her legs around his hips, dug her heels into the backs of his thighs and urged him faster.

He couldn't seem to dig up the reserves to resist. He pumped, doing his best to keep to a steady rhythm, until his body was no longer under his own control. He looked down at her, at her face so flushed with pleasure, her eyes filled with it, that he couldn't hold back his release any longer.

And thanked God she climaxed with him, because he was hopeless to do anything more.

*   *   *

KARA'S
fingers ruffled through the dark, springy hair on Graham's chest, playing and twirling locks around a fingertip before letting go. When his hand covered hers and flattened it, she smiled and nuzzled closer to him. “That was wonderful.”

“‘Wonderful' is one word for it.” He kissed the top of her head and pulled her in tighter, until she was halfway over him. Her knee slipped in between his thighs and he clamped them tight around so there was no escaping. “I might go a little more bold and say spectacular. That word doesn't get used often enough.”

“Spectacular,” she mused, grinning in the dark. This part of intimacy had been missing from her life most of all. Yes, the physical portion had been . . . well . . . spectacular. There was no point in discounting the fact that she'd been thoroughly and intensely made love to . . . and wouldn't say no to going back for seconds. But the soft, post-sex whispers, the little touches, the sleepy sounds and heavy-eyed glances . . . this is what she'd truly wanted out of a man. Someone to spend those quiet evenings with, to hold her and make her feel like she wasn't in this life for the long haul alone.

He made a little sound of pure laziness, rolling more toward her to cup her bottom in his hand. The man was going to go for round two, she could tell. She lightly bit down on his pectoral, and had a laugh when he yelped.

“Woman! What was that for?”

He rolled on his back and rubbed at the red mark. “You get punched in the face daily, and you cry about a love bite?” She tsked and sat up, looking for her jeans. “I might have to tell Coach Willis about that.”

“I might have to tell Coach Willis what all that yoga
bending actually equates to,” he growled and pulled her back into bed just as she'd gotten her jeans up over her butt. “What's with the clothes? Denim and snuggling do not mix.”

Her heart melted a little at the thought that he wanted to snuggle—not just have sex—with her. “I have to get home.” Cupping his jaw in one hand, loving the scrape of dark bristle, she kissed him long enough that she had to step away before he pulled her under again. The man was a sexual magnet. “I can't abandon Reagan and Greg at my place forever.”

“Stay. They deserve it.”

“No, they don't. And Zach has school in the morning, and I have a class to teach. Much as I would love to . . . mmm.” She couldn't resist nuzzling in for one more kiss before grabbing her bra from the headboard where it had landed. She put it on and located her shirt on the floor, stuck inside the sweatshirt. She pulled and tugged, but it wasn't budging.

“Just put it all back on. I'll get it later.”

“At this rate, I'll have more of your clothes at my place than you do here at yours.”

“I don't see a problem with that.”

She closed her eyes before heading to the door, then looked back. “Graham . . . eventually we have to talk about later. Now is fun. Now is . . . wow.”

“Spectacular,” he emphasized, getting up to find his own boxers.

Yes, spectacular was the word for it . . . and for him. Lord, he was too delicious for womankind to resist. The navy boxers slid up and over his very fine ass, and she felt a pang of regret she couldn't stay all night.

Being an adult sucked sometimes.

“Nevertheless,” she went on as he hunted up his jeans, “eventually, we have to get to the later part of the conversation. There are things you need to know about why later isn't an option. Things that—”

“Oh, hey, look at the time,” he said, checking his wrist,
which had no watch. “You did say you had to go, and personally I'd love for you to be the one to bust up a Greg-and-Reagan make out session.” His smile turned devilish. “In fact, could you be running your video on your camera when you walk in? Just, you know, flip the lights on really fast like it's a raid? I'd love to see how fast Greg's ass hit the floor from the couch.”

“You're terrible.” She went for her bag, dug out her phone and checked to make sure Reagan hadn't texted with news. Nada. “Thank you for dinner,” she began, turning to find him walking behind her. His jeans were only half buttoned, and he hadn't put on a shirt. He was still barefoot.

She was going to go into a coma. A hot guy coma. “I-I-uh . . . thank you.”

“You just said that,” he pointed out, checking the kitchen. “You have everything?”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, watching his back muscles strain as he reached into the fridge and pulled out two bottles of water. Carrying them with him, he kissed her once more then walked her to the door, and out to the car.

“For your drive back,” he said, handing her one.

“You're a hospitable sort.”

“I want you to come back. Often. And stay longer.”

She kissed him once more, because he was sexy and shirtless and considerate and too much for her to resist in the now. The wow now. The spectacular now. Sliding her palm up and down his chest, she pushed firmly so she could open her door all the way and slide behind the wheel. “Get some rest.”

“No morning practice. I can stay up as late as I want.” He flashed her a sexy smile. “I'll call you.”

Normally, she'd have rolled her eyes the moment she hit the main road, because
I'll call you
was typically male code for
Nah, not interested, and no balls to say it to your face.
With Graham, it was code for . . . he'd call. She knew that one down to the bone.