Chapter Eighteen
Raising her fists, Hope kept her guard high and pivoted around the heavy bag. Footwork perfect, her bare soles skimmed over the hardwood floor. Shift right. Dance left. Keep her opponent in her sights. Rope creaked. The black bag swayed from her last strike. Muscles pulsing with energy, she flexed her hands inside the sparring gloves and, timing her punch, hammered the sucker again.
The violent thump echoed across the weight room.
The impact jolted up her arm.
Satisfaction hummed through her as her biceps squawked in protest.
Ignoring the discomfort, she struck again. And again. Jab right, a quick left cross before powering into an uppercut, moving in a rhythm that would make her trainer proud. Over and over. Again and again until her surroundings fell away. Concrete walls nothing but blur in her periphery, she brought her feet into play. Kicking high, she slammed her foot into the target zone. Black leather groaned. The heavy bag rocked sideways. Sweat rolled down her spine as she swung into another turn and, snapping her knee, slammed her heel into the imaginary bad guy.
Pivot. Spin. Slam-bang . . . do it over again.
Her heart pounded, each collision increasing the throb behind her breastbone. Now all she heard was blood rush. Not that she cared. Heart-attack, smart-attack. She needed the release, wanted the pain, longed for the mental shift into weariness. Feet and fists flying, she upped the pace until her chest heaved and her body ached, fatigue making her mind haze and . . . oh yeah. Thank God. About time. She’d hit the sweet spot, sliding down the slippery slope into exhaustion.
Maybe now she’d settled down.
She needed her brain to stop whirling long enough to formulate a plan. Execution was everything. At least, when it came to Forge. If she couldn’t get her act together—and her attraction to the gorgeous but annoying Scot under control—she’d fail to keep him at arm’s length, a safe distance away.
Squeezing her eyes closed, Hope pulled her punch mid-swing. She staggered back a step, wobbling on her feet, all of her hurting, and shook her head. What to do—what to do? The question knocked around inside her head, scattering neat ideals like bowling pins. Gosh darn it all. When had she lost the ability to think? Sometime in the last twenty-four hours, for sure. Now, for the first time in her life, she didn’t have a clue what to do. Couldn’t begin to understand how to help Forge—how to treat him, help him recover his memories—without becoming a nymphomaniac.
Opening her eyes, she frowned at her hands. Well used and worn in place, the red gloves didn’t offer a solution. Hope sighed. Having a libido sucked sometimes. Particularly when it came to Forge. The second he got anywhere near her, she became one great big throbbing urge, the kind that tossed her into needy so fast it made her head spin.
And her body sing.
Hope huffed. “How the hell am I supposed to combat that?”
Good question. Another to add to the growing pile.
Not that it mattered.
Existential ponderings could wait for another day. The only thing that interested her now was Forge—and how to deal with him. She frowned. Or rather, herself. Forge wasn’t the problem. She was to blame, responsible for her own actions, not the pointer of fingers. What she required was a straightforward plan of attack. A strategy that was not only viable on paper, but achievable in real life, so . . .
Job one—murder her inner alley cat.
Task two—hit the bag hard enough to obliterate the lust Forge inspired.
Mission three—get her head screwed on straight and grow a backbone.
Sounded like a plan. Not perfect, by any means, but reasonable nonetheless. Now, if only she could—
Movement flashed in her periphery.
Hope spun toward the exit.
Forge stood in the doorway. So tall his dark head brushed the lintel, he looked her over. His gaze heated, darkening with desire, then wandered down, caressing her face, stroking over her body, and Hope shivered. A bead of sweat trickled down her back, pooling at the base of her spine, sensitizing her skin. The tank top and shorts she wore made it worse, cupping her like a lover, holding the heat in, making her throb with the pressure.
He stepped into the room.
The space contracted. The air warmed. Her senses narrowed, seeing only him: the width of his shoulders, the size of his hands, the hard planes of his face. God, he looked good enough to eat. She wanted to touch him, lick him like a lollipop, have the taste of him on her tongue again and—
Wrong thought. The worst really, given the plan she was trying to hatch. Figured, didn’t it—that he’d show up before she implemented job one and task two? And crap, forget about mission three, its achievement so far out of reach Hope wanted to scream at the unfairness.
The realization sparked her temper. Swiping a damp chunk of hair off her forehead, she pointed her boxing glove at him.
“You’ve ruined everything. I’m supposed to treat you, not want to sleep with you, and now . . .” Knowing she sounded like a spoiled three-year-old, she huffed. God, talk about irrational. She shouldn’t be blaming him for her weakness, but with him standing there looking so hot she could hardly stand it—her brain ceased to function at normal levels. Now she devolved, spiraling into unreasonableness. “And now, I’m so mad at you, I can’t think straight.”
“I know.”
Surprise dropped her guard. Arms at her sides, she scowled at him. “You’re not supposed to agree with me.”
Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Nay?”
“No—you big jerk.”
“Donnae call me names, jalâyla,” he said, tone soft with warning as he moved into the room. “It’ll get you in trouble.”
“Trouble? I’m already in trouble.” Baring her teeth, she snapped at him. “I’m not your plaything.”
“You could be,” he said, voice rough with desire. “I would love you for a playmate, lass.”
Hope blinked. Temptation tugged at her. Thick yearning rose, tightening her chest, clogging her throat and—the self-serving, gorgeous idiot. He was baiting her, egging her on, hoping she gave in to the attraction and . . . God. She wanted to do it. Needed him so much, she actually considered it.
Her eyes narrowed on him. “Come any closer, and I’ll punch you.”
Halfway across the gym, he slowed his pace, but didn’t stop. He ghosted left, making her shift with him. A sly move. The perfect strategy. She huffed. Talk about a smooth operator. He knew how to maneuver, pushing her buttons, pulling her strings, moving her across the hardwood floor like a master puppeteer.
He walked closer.
Hope sidestepped the heavy bag, maintaining distance between her and the man stalking her across the gym. He was bigger than her—stronger, faster, no doubt smarter in a fight too. She hated to admit it. Disliked the advantage he held, blocking the only exit, but Hope refused to deny the facts. Forge moved like a dream, forcing her to pivot, ensuring she mirrored his movements. All of which opened her stance, leaving her more vulnerable by the second.
Angling her shoulders, Hope raised her hands, threatening him with her boxing prowess. “I mean it, Forge.”
“I believed you, luv.” His lips curved.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not, but . . .” He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Silence built like a wall, expanded out and up, touching the high ceiling, dripping down the concrete walls, making her itch with curiosity. No doubt his plan—the sneaky Scot. Which meant she shouldn’t ask. She really shouldn’t. Hope knew it, told her mouth not to open even as she heard herself say, “But what?”
“You willnae do much damage with those on.” He flicked his fingers toward the gloves encasing her hands. “Bare knuckles are always best, lass.”
“Like I said—jerk.”
He growled, the sound soft yet ominous, the amusement in his eyes gone. Fine hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end. “I warned you, jalâyla. Now you pay the price for insulting me.”
The threat echoed inside her head.
Anticipation shivered through her.
Wrong reaction.
Job one! Job one! her mind screamed. What in God’s name happened to job one?
Excellent question.
Particularly since her inner alley cat appeared to be alive, well, and in heat.
Hope tried to scold it. Sleeping with Forge was a bad idea. She needed to remain impartial, ethical, and in control of her responsibilities. Terrific argument. Nothing wrong with her grasp on reality. Too bad her alley cat didn’t care about consequences. The beast wanted what it wanted—now—allowing desire to override the system.
Her mind said one thing—move, shift, say something to stop him. Her body refused to comply, leaving her standing in the open, feet rooted to the floor, as Forge stalked across the gym. He strode past a freestanding weight rack. Her mouth went dry. He sidestepped a mangled workout bench. Air caught in the back of her throat. He skirted a pile of exercise mats. Her skin tingled, anticipating his touch.
Pay the price. Pay the price.
What the hell did that mean? A few feet away now, he growled her name, and Hope knew she was about to find out.
Closing the distance took a handful of seconds. Between one stride and the next, Forge reached her. A quick tug pulled Hope into his arms. His senses contracted. His magic flared, speeding through his veins as it wrapped him in pleasure. Hmm, lovely. Exactly where he wanted her—curvy body flush against his, gorgeous green eyes wide with shock, thick ponytail coiled around his fist—and . . . all right. It hadn’t taken a few seconds. It had taken less than three—one, two, and . . . bam. Easy as pie. More satisfying than any dessert he’d ever eaten. A helluva lot tastier too.
And he’d barely touched her yet.
Her gasp puffed against the underside of his chin. She brought her hands up. Red boxing gloves bumped against his shoulders. Eyes locked with hers, he waited, giving her a choice, letting her decide, but . . . surprise, surprise. For all her bravado, Hope didn’t try to hit him. She softened instead, conveying her need, broadcasting her level of want, asking without words to be taken. Beautiful female. Gorgeous beyond measure. A precious gift he didn’t deserve, but wanted anyway.
Tightening his grip, he wound her hair around his hand, inhaling the delicious, dewy scent of her. Slick with sweat from her workout, she smelled amazing, like spicy cinnamon sticks and sunrise, the fragrance more addictive than the finest aphrodisiac. He growled in welcome, the beast in him scenting its mate as Hope tipped her chin up, parting her lips, unconsciously begging for his kiss.
He wanted to give it to her. Hand her everything. Every last microspeck of his focus. But not yet. A smart male started as he meant to go on, and Forge wasn’t stupid. Ground rules needed to be set. A strong female, Hope would fight his tether, assert her will, and try to dictate the play.
Not going to happen.
A dominant male, he required a certain amount of control in the bedroom. Outside it, her opinion carried as much weight as his; everything was up for discussion. Inside it, however, she would give him what he needed—total submission in the sexual arena.
Twisting his hand, he pulled her head back a touch farther. Not enough to hurt, but enough to put her on her tiptoes. Body taut, dragon half barely contained, he shifted against her. Her back arched. The press of her breasts against his chest shook his control. He bared his teeth and bore down, asserting his will, unwilling to let his dragon half lead. Disaster lay in that direction. Denied earlier in the day, he’d get rough. Might end up hurting her. Something Forge refused to do and—
Hope quivered in his arms. She whispered his name, the uncertainty in her scent palpable as she reacted to his tension and . . . bloody hell. Not good. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. Once today was quite enough. But with his dragon half knocking against the cage door, begging to be set free, he struggled to hold himself in check. Unprecedented for him. He never lost control with a female. Hope, though, was different. His need for her crossed boundaries, into primitive and primal. A dangerous place to land, considering the territorial beast inside him demanded he take what it needed—Hope, in whatever position put him inside her the fastest.
Bearing down, Forge fought the urge.
“Hey.” Bumping his shoulders, Hope refocused his attention. His gaze returned to her. Forest-green eyes full of concern, she patted him with her boxing gloves. “Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I want you too much. You threaten my control,” he said, being honest, hoping it reassured her.
She blinked, surprise in her eyes. “Oh. Well . . .”
Her words dried up.
Worry churned inside his chest. Shite. A quiet Hope wasn’t a good thing. He needed her talking, voicing her concerns, tackling her uncertainty head-on, not avoiding it. Otherwise, he’d never get what he wanted—her back in his bed. “Made you speechless, have I?”
“No. I mean, not really.” Rubbing her lips together, she tilted her head. The move so adorable lust almost overwhelmed him. Again. Like always whenever she drew near. His dragon half didn’t help. The impatient bastard kept pressing his agenda. One that insisted he take Hope now. Turning inward, he snarled at his beast. Hope blew out a long breath. “It’s just . . . I’m trying to decide how I feel about your—”
“Need for you?”
“Jeez.” She huffed, but Forge could tell she wasn’t upset. The gleam in her eyes directed him, telling what he needed to know. The more honest he became, the more favorably she responded. “You don’t pull any punches, do you? Do you even know what tact is?”
“’Tis naught but a waste of time. Blunt is better.”
She rolled her eyes.
Unable to help himself, Forge slid his hand down her back. Spreading his fingers, he touched as much of her as he could and dipped his head. Hope met him halfway, parting her lips, humming in welcome, setting his body on fire. A shudder racked him. He stroked deeper, needing her taste in his mouth. She mewed, the sound so sexy he kissed her again before pulling away. “Hope?”
“Yes,” she whispered, panting now, so breathless he hardly heard her.
“Do you want me?”
Her brow puckered. The movement wasn’t much. Barely anything at all, but Forge understood the message. He read her like an open book, one full of tips to understanding body language. The slight frown, the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the fact she looked away—all of it told a story. Hope didn’t want to answer. She was afraid to face the question, and what her response would reveal. So she shied instead, searching for a way to deny him.
Forge refused to let her. He knew the answer before asking. Was attuned to her hunger, and the stark quality of her need. “Be honest with yourself, Hope. Tell me true.”
She swallowed. The graceful column of her throat bobbed. “I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t. Being with you . . . like this . . . is against everything I believe, but . . .”
As she trailed off, Hope closed her eyes, shutting him out, fighting herself, before opening them again. Conflict showed in her expression, and Forge understood. Acknowledging her desire for him was one thing, admitting it out loud was quite another. So he waited—silent, patient, worried as hell—for her to work it out, hoping she gave him the answer he craved.
“You’ve been honest with me, so it’s only fair I be honest with you.” Straightening her shoulders, Hope nodded. “I want you, Forge. I do. So much it hurts and . . . God. What does that make me?”
“Normal. It makes you normal, luv.” Gentling his grip, Forge tucked her against his chest. He hugged her close, enjoying the way she snuggled against him, seeking comfort in his embrace. “No shame in admitting it. Guilt will never be a part of this.”
“This?” Braving his gaze, she lifted her cheek from his chest. Her eyes glinted green through her lashes. “What is this exactly, Forge? I’ve lost my bearings here. I don’t know what the heck I’m doing anymore. I came to Black Diamond with a clear mission—to help you regain your memory. So far, all I’ve managed to do is almost sleep with you.”
“I like what you’ve accomplished, except for the almost part.”
She snorted. “Do you have an off switch?”
“Nay. Not when it comes tae you,” he said. “We’re in the same place, Hope—wanting without getting. That’s not going tae change unless we do something about it, so . . . time tae decide. What’s it tae be, lass—me or weeks of sexual frustration?”
“Nice,” she said, dry tone full of sarcasm. “Nothing like slanting it your way.”
One hand flat against her back, he cupped her nape with the other. Holding her still, he lowered his head. Hope sucked in a quick breath, and he invaded her mouth. He didn’t give her time to retreat. He conquered instead, taking possession, tangling their tongues, forcing a moan from her throat. Such a sweet sound. He wanted more of those, all of her sexy mews. Preferably while buried deep inside her.
Retreating a little, he gentled the kiss. She protested, trying to grip him with her boxing gloves. Half-drunk on her taste, he took her under again, fanning her need, feeding his own, nibbling on her bottom lip before releasing her mouth. Lips a hair’s breadth from hers, he pressed his erection against the curve of her belly. Her breath hitched. He rocked into her, providing a preview of all he wanted to give her.
“How’s that for incentive?”
“Stunningly good.” A flush spread over her cheeks.
Her eyelashes rose, and Forge tensed as Hope met his gaze. She stared at him unblinking, examining him as though she’d never seen him before. He gazed back, refusing to break eye contact. His dragon half stirred again. A connection bloomed, calling forth his magic, sending delight zipping through his veins. Multiple streams of consciousness snaked into his mind. Like a braided river, the magical rills diverged, taking separate paths only to merge once more, connecting him to Hope, allowing him to read her intentions. Forge felt her mind spark. Wheels turned behind her eyes and . . . clever, clever female. Even overcome by desire, she assessed first and acted second. A fine attribute, one he couldn’t help but admire.
“Forge—”
“Please, jalâyla. Let me love you.” Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, he cupped her cheek. So soft. So smooth. So pretty with the blush of arousal pinking her skin. Caressing her, he ran his thumb over her bottom lip. The tip of her tongue peeked out, licking over his skin, and . . . please God. Let her agree. He wanted her acceptance more than he needed his next breath. “No guilt. All pleasure.”
“I could use that combination right now,” she said, the yearning in her tone so thick his heart jolted.
“Is that an aye?”
“Yes—it is.”
“Yes. Bloody hell, I love that word.”
She smiled. “Especially coming from me?”
Forge growled. “Especially then.”
Good Christ, she was beautiful. A veritable goddess with her strawberry blond hair a mess and green eyes full of mischief. He liked that best of all. Her trust humbled him. Her fortitude amazed him. And her need? Hmm, aye. Hope’s hunger matched his own. She was a perfect fit—the right female . . . finally—and as he stripped the elastic from her hair and kissed her deep, Forge let go, unleashing a side of himself no woman ever saw.
Dangerous, mayhap.
Foolish, perhaps, to give so much of himself.
A warrior never exposed his flank, and emotional entanglement was never a good idea. But as he walked her backward across the gym, looking for a place to lay her down, Forge didn’t care. Fuck convention. The threat of vulnerability too. Hope deserved the best of him, and he planned to give it to her—one mind-blowing orgasm at a time.