12
MEGAN SHIFTED IN her chair, adjusting her digital recorder and thumbing idly through her notebook. Late-afternoon sun streamed through the windows along the front of Sunshine Coffee, a trendy spot off of the Strip. She took a sip of her mocha latte, knowing the caffeine wouldn’t do anything to slow her racing heart, but wanting the jolt all the same. Around her, customers milled about, sipping their drinks, talking, laughing. She’d suggested the café hoping the relaxed atmosphere would put Gabe at ease, and that maybe he’d open up a bit more and give her something for her next article.
She drummed her fingers on the tabletop, watching people on the sidewalk. A young couple holding hands. A handsome older man talking on his phone. A pregnant woman pushing a stroller with a toddler inside. That one sent a sharp pang right to the center of Megan’s chest, and she picked up her mug, taking another sip, as though sugar and caffeine could chase away the longing for something she might never have thanks to the cancer. She’d frozen some of her eggs before undergoing the chemotherapy, but she knew that the success rates with frozen eggs hovered somewhere around the 40 percent mark. Not fantastic odds.
She hadn’t seen Gabe since their night together at the Palms, but she’d thought of him almost constantly. The way he’d spoken to her, touched her. The feel of his hands and his mouth on her skin. His scent, his taste, the sounds he made when he came. The way her body had responded to him, lighting up like a Christmas tree at his gruff orders and the way he’d completely taken control. She’d given him her trust, and he’d cradled it, cherishing it, never crushing it.
She’d barely known what to say to him when she’d called, but then . . . something had changed. Shifted. He’d clearly been drinking, and she’d been able to hear the pain in the rough timbre of his voice. Although she’d wanted to, she hadn’t pried, knowing he wouldn’t have answered her questions, and that he probably would’ve ended the conversation despite his obvious need to talk to someone. He’d needed connection, and she’d talked about whatever he’d wanted to talk about because the pain in his voice had hurt her heart, and she’d desperately wanted to do something to ease that pain.
Her heart fluttered in her chest, nerves tightening her stomach into a quivering knot as she saw Gabe heading for the coffee shop. He wore a black long-sleeved V-neck and worn jeans, his hair half up, half down. She curled her fingers into her palm, remembering the brush of that soft hair against her thighs. For what had to be the hundredth time, she reminded herself that what they’d shared was temporary. He was distant, gruff, and obviously had a metric ton of baggage. Not exactly relationship material, but God, as she watched him, she found that she didn’t care. She just wanted him.
An intense pang of longing hit her as he pulled open the door, and she wondered—more of a wish, really—if he wanted her the same way she wanted him. If he was just as intrigued by her, or if now that he’d had her, he’d flushed her from his system. Was she something to keep, or a mountain already conquered?
He stepped inside and scanned the coffee shop, his unreadable expression not changing when his eyes landed on her at her table near the window. Heat flushed over her skin, a prickling awareness of his gaze. She didn’t know if she should stand, or try to shake his hand, or hug him as he approached, but before she could settle on any of those options, he’d dropped into the chair across from her, his elbows on the small table between them.
The corner of his mouth kicked up, the hint of a smile. “Hey, Megan.”
Her toes curled in her shoes, her stomach dipping and swirling at the sound of her name in his deep voice. She licked her lips and then swallowed, trying to be professional and get herself together. Trying not to remember the way he’d made her come, or the way he’d held her after. The way his hand had stroked her hair and traced her lips. The way his heart had beat steadily against her cheek. The memories were hers to keep, but he wasn’t.
“Hey,” she said, trying to keep her tone light and casual. “Thanks for agreeing to another interview. My editor will be thrilled.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything, his eyes holding hers. The air thickened and pulsed between them, and she shifted in her seat, pressing her thighs together. His gaze dipped down her body, and she knew he’d seen her squirming. The corner of his mouth notched up a bit higher.
He looked down at his hands and cleared his throat. “I wanted to say . . . I guess both sorry and thank you for the other night,” he said, pressing his thumbs together. “I wasn’t myself, and . . .” He looked up, once again catching her eyes with his. So clear and blue and guarded, as usual. “I was glad you called.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Oh. Um, you’re welcome.” She fought the urge to reach across the table and lay her hand over one of his. “You didn’t sound like . . .” She paused, not sure how to finish that sentence. She licked her lips, Gabe’s eyes tracking the movement, his pupils dilating. She bit her lip and smiled at him, shaking her head. “I’m glad I could help.”
Another moment passed, heavy with the silence of everything they weren’t saying, and he finally tipped his chin at her recorder. “You had more questions?”
She reached for her recorder, her clumsy hands almost knocking it off the table. She let out a little laugh and a long breath, repositioning it, then turning it on. The counter on the screen started, and several seconds went by before either of them spoke.
“Last time we talked,” she began, “we touched on your dedication to your training, what inspired you to pursue a career as a professional fighter, and your childhood in California. But . . .” She tapped her pen against her lips and turned to a fresh page in her notebook. They’d had their one night together, and she had a story to pursue. It wouldn’t be fair to treat him with kid gloves. She’d already compromised her journalistic integrity by letting him tie her up and fuck her senseless. Images flashed through her mind of their night together, dirty and erotic and scorching hot.
Gabe leaned forward, a cocky smile playing across his lips. “But what?”
“Mmm?”
His eyes glinted knowingly. “You zoned out.” He leaned even closer. “Can’t imagine what you’re thinking about right now.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks, and she let out a laugh, trying to dispel the tension. “Can’t you?”
His eyes darkened, taking on that hungry gleam she recognized from the other night. Her heart kicked against her ribs. Gabe suddenly pulled away, leaning back against his chair, an almost pained expression on his face. The kind of calm that came with certainty fell over her, because for the first time, she didn’t doubt if their night had meant something to him. There wasn’t an ounce of indifference in his expression. Hunger, longing, lust, maybe even a kind of happiness were all there.
She wasn’t just another mountain.
She smiled at him, bright and genuine, and oh Jesus. He actually smiled back. His entire face changed when he smiled like that, lighting up in a way that made him look almost angelic. Beautiful and pure and golden.
“I was going to say,” she said, twirling her pen idly between her fingers, “that the last time we talked, you didn’t want to discuss what motivated you to become a professional fighter in the first place.”
“No?” he asked innocently, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought I answered that.”
She laughed softly. “Still dodging, I see. Fine.” She leveled her gaze on him. “Why don’t you want to tell me?”
He studied her for a second and then shrugged. “It’s not important.”
“You don’t want to talk about it because it’s not important.”
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
She bit her lip, hiding her smile. She liked seeing this playful side of him, and she wondered how many other hidden facets he had, like a genuine diamond in the rough. It felt good to laugh with him. Real, and as though they were actually . . . something to each other, even if she didn’t know what.
She decided to try a different tactic. “Mmm. If you say so. How about this? What would you like to talk about, Gabe?” She leaned forward and gestured at her recorder. “You’ve got a captive audience. What do you want them to know about ‘The Sandman’?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve never liked that nickname, for starters.”
“Really? How come?”
“It’s silly. I’m not a WWE wrestler or something. I’m an athlete.” He paused for a second. “You know, a lot of people don’t take MMA seriously. They think it’s a bunch of hotheaded goons beating each other up in a free-for-all brawl. I don’t think things like the nicknames help that perception, you know?”
She made a note in her book. “That’s a really interesting point. You think the nicknames contribute to the perceived lack of legitimacy around the sport?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“But what about things like the deal with Mereo sportswear? Do you think they help? Counteract the wrestler-esque nicknames?”
He frowned, a thoughtful expression pulling his brows together. “The Mereo thing is complicated.”
“How do you feel about it?”
He took a second to think about his answer. “I’m honestly not sure,” he said after a moment. “There are pros and cons. I’m worried about the fighters who are having a hard time of it now because of lost revenue from other sponsors, but I do think it legitimizes the league.” He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
They talked a bit more about the Mereo deal, and then moved on to his title defense fight, coming up in two months, against Leandro Oliveira, whom Gabe called a “trust-fund brat only in it for the thrill.” She was tempted to ask him—again—what he was in it for, but knew she couldn’t get blood out of a stone. They talked about his training regimen, touched on his friendship with Nick Giannakis, and new rule changes.
She glanced down at her recorder and was shocked to find out that nearly forty-five minutes had gone by. Holy crap. She’d gotten him to talk—pretty freely and openly—for almost an hour.
Miracle of miracles.
Gabe noticed her glancing down at her recorder. “Get what you need?”
She nodded and smiled at him. “Yeah. Thanks for doing this. I’ve got lots to work with here.”
“Great.” He pushed his chair back from the table, but didn’t stand. For several long seconds, their eyes met, and then he swallowed, his Adam’s apple working as his gaze drifted slowly down her body. He let out a breath that was ragged around the edges, almost as though he’d swallowed back a groan, and she knew he was reliving the two of them, together. An intense wave of longing crashed over her, and his words from the other night came rushing back to her.
You have to ask for what you want, sweet girl.
The memory of those words made her feel bold, brave, and before she could talk herself out of it, she blurted out, “I want to see you again.”
Gabe’s shoulders tensed, all emotion gone from his face. Unreadable and guarded again. Doubt and shame crept up on her, and she wondered if she should’ve just kept her mouth shut.
“Tell me why.”
Another echoed phrase from the other night, and she sucked in a sharp breath, the memories sweet like honey.
She shut off the recorder, toying with it, stalling as she warred with herself. But when she opened her mouth, the truth spilled out. “Being with you . . . like that . . . it did something for me. Something really good.” Her cheeks heated, but she kept going. “In the past, I’ve had trouble, um . . . trouble coming.”
His eyebrows rose, the hint of a satisfied smile on his lips. “I see.”
She rushed on. “But with you, it was different. I was different, in a good way. I want more of that. I want to learn, and explore, and maybe make peace with—” She cut herself off. “Being with you was freeing, and incredible, and hot, and I don’t want it to end with just that one night.” She met his eyes. “We started something. We’re far from finished. At least, that’s how I feel.”
Emotions chased each other across his face; lust and doubt and surprise and others she couldn’t name. Her heart beat frantically as she waited for him to say something.
Finally, he said, “What do you mean ‘far from finished’? I told you I don’t date.”
“I know. But I really liked who I was with you,” she added, glancing down at the table. “You made me feel really good in my own skin for the first time in . . . well, in a long time. I want to explore that. And I think, if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t want that one night to be all there is for us either.”
He took a deep breath and shifted in his seat, making her wonder if he was getting turned on remembering that night. “So you want more time together . . . to explore? To learn?”
She nodded, afraid to breathe, expecting him to tell her no.
He leaned forward, his eyes intense and full of lust. “If we do this, I need you to understand something—I’m not your boyfriend. We’re not dating. We’re fucking.”
Megan’s entire body tingled at the coarseness of his words, and the fact that he wasn’t saying no.
He waited for her to nod before he continued. “You want to learn and explore, we can do that, but while we’re doing that, you’re mine, and only mine.”
She sucked in a shaky breath and tilted her head, studying him. “Does that go both ways?” She leaned forward, tapping her fingers on the table. “You want to tie someone up and be all hot and in control, we can do that, but you only do that with me.”
He smiled, heat and something she couldn’t name shining in his eyes. “Yes.”
“Okay. I agree to your terms.”
He narrowed his eyes, his smile becoming almost predatory. “We’ve barely touched on my terms, sweet girl.” She shivered at his words, her nipples beading into aching points.
Something in his eyes softened, and then he stood from the table. Her lungs tightened, and she realized she was holding her breath. He bent down and cupped her face with one big, warm palm, his thumb tracing over her cheekbone. “Tomorrow night at eight. The Palms.”
He walked out of the coffee shop without a backward glance, leaving her a tangled mess of need and anticipation.