Shadowboxer (Tapped Out 1)

But he didn’t back off. He moved even closer as he walked at my side. His elbow bumped mine, and I fought the urge to put a mile between us on the sidewalk. I didn’t get all touchy-feely with men unless I was kicking their ass or they’d offered me money. Even then, I only did one thing. Blowjobs only. No kissing, no fucking, no rubbing like a kitten looking for a soft hand.

Or in my case, a rough one.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Mia.”

His voice was so pleasant it set my teeth on edge. The usage of my name—at least the version I used now—didn’t help either. I sped up, hoping he’d get the point.

Leave me the fuck alone.

He easily kept pace with me. “I asked a question. I’d like an answer.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like world peace. Don’t see that happening either.” I cut in front of him and turned at the corner to hurry up the block. Well aware that his strides lengthened at my side.

Huddling my shoulders against the wind, I waited, fully expecting him to snap back some snarky response. I was ready for it. Spoiling even. My black mood demanded a target, and apparently the ass whupping I’d given and gotten earlier had only made it worse.

What I didn’t expect was for him to drape his jacket over my shoulders. I hadn’t even noticed him removing it. And it smelled like him. All manly and sexy and tongue-tying.

A knot formed in my throat, cutting off my stilted breaths. Not good. It took everything I possessed not to bury my nose in the collar and inhale more of his scent like it was some illicit drug. Worse, because I’d never been tempted by drugs. I couldn’t say the same about Fox.

Before I did something stupid, I reached up to throw the jacket back in his general direction, unprepared for how his big hand closing over mine would feel. It didn’t make me think of punching him between the eyes, that was for sure.

“You’re shaking.”

He gestured to my discount-store-special windbreaker. It wasn’t a winter coat. I couldn’t afford one. I also couldn’t speak, apparently.

“Your coat is worthless. Wear mine.”

I looked up at him for a moment. Two. Behind me, horns honked and cars skidded through slush. People shouted greetings and goodbyes. Maybe even threats. My Spanish wasn’t the best, and the people closest to us were talking in short, clipped sentences.

None of that mattered, because those aqua blue, surprisingly understanding eyes held me hostage for the second time in my life. And for the first, I didn’t want to get away.

My throat convulsed. Fear. I recognized the taste, the smell. It lived inside me, just waiting for its chance to rule me again.

I didn’t think. Didn’t consider how running from him would look when I finally asked him for something he would never agree to unless I found the right key to turn. It didn’t even enter my consciousness. All I cared about was escape.

I fisted the coat at my neck and took off down the street, winding around the foot traffic as if my very existence depended on me getting away. He d

idn’t have a chance of catching me, not when I ran full tilt. I’d gotten good at running for my life a long time ago.

Only when I flipped the locks and sagged against my apartment door did I realize the mistake I’d made.

I still wore his jacket.

Chapter Four

Tray

She’d gotten the best of me. No one ever did that.

I’d been at the gym for a couple of hours already that morning, and I’d just finished a good sparring session. But I might as well have given up my fight to Mia, since she was the only thing I could think about.

I didn’t react well to tactical errors. This was a doozy. If she’d been across from me in the ring, I’d be tapping out right now. And I didn’t tap out for anyone, especially scrawny brunettes with enough marks on her flesh to play tic-tac-toe.

She’d fucking ditched me. I was fast. Hell, I made my living from my speed, among other things. Yesterday, I must’ve been moving through molasses, because she’d lost me before she cleared the first block.

Maybe she was a ghost. A figment of an overworked imagination. I’d’ve blamed my unnatural state of horniness, if not for the fact she wasn’t even my type. I liked curves on a woman. Her breasts were negligible. Ass? Hardly visible under that paper-thin coat. She had long hair and long legs, though both only emphasized the dichotomy of her appearance. Female or not, she was as hard as the wall at my back. As serious as the fist I’d had at my temple half an hour ago. Lush lips aside, she’d been all angles, wounds, and huge, wary eyes. Not exactly prime boner material.

Yet here I was, still remembering our brief encounter. Still replaying the few words uttered by her mouth and the many offered from her eyes. If only I understood the unspoken dialect of women…