Outmatched

“What are—”

My words were lost in his kiss.

A deep, thorough, searching kiss that made my toes curl in my sneakers and my fingernails bite into his shoulders. His body pressed deep into mine, and I instinctively spread my legs to accommodate him. Everything faded in the heat of his kiss. Watching him kick butt—no, Rhys kicked ass —and defend me was unexpected foreplay.

It wasn’t a typically romantic kiss. In fact, it was much like our kiss at his loft—wet, hungry, breathless, needful, passionate, sexy. And I never wanted it to stop.

Rhys’s grunt rumbled deliciously down my throat seconds before he broke the kiss with a grimace. “Fuck.”

As he glanced over his shoulder, it took me a second to come out of my lusty, lip-swollen haze to realize Jackson, Camille, Laura, and Xander surrounded us. They grinned, and I blushed beet red.

“This is just too easy,” Jackson snorted, stepping back to hold up his gun.

He, like the others, was covered in paint.

Rhys stepped back.

Convinced I was blood red from the tip of my toes to the top of my head, I avoided everyone’s gaze as Rhys turned to the others. That’s when I saw four paint splatters on his back. He’d taken hits while we were kissing, and I hadn’t even noticed.

My goodness.

“You’ve been hit.” I stated the obvious in all my fluster.

Rhys looked over his shoulder at me, eyes full of laughter. “It was worth it, sweetheart.”

“Yes, thank you for the show,” Xander teased.

I lifted my gun in warning, and he chuckled, aiming back at me.

To everyone’s surprise, Rhys stepped in front of me, his hands raised in surrender. “How about we let Parker walk out of here unscathed, huh?”

“That’s okay.” I moved around him, even though I really didn’t want to get shot at again. It hurt more than a sting. “I can take it.”

In answer, Rhys pulled down the neckline of my shirt to bare my shoulder. His thumb swept the skin. “You’ve already got a nasty bruise from where Pete hit you.”

As lovely as his concern was (and he seemed genuinely worried about my bruise), I covered his hand with mine and guided my shirt back up to cover the skin. “Everyone else has been hit.”

Rhys frowned. “Everyone else is not five foot nothing, weighing in at ninety pounds.”

“Uh, five foot two and a hundred and ten pounds, thank you very much. Plus, I can take care of myself.”

“Fine. Let them take aim.”

I nodded, my inner feminist pleased.

However, Rhys crossed his arms over his chest and stared at my colleagues. “Of course, if it were me, I wouldn’t really want to risk my mortality by bruising up an ex- heavyweight champion’s girlfriend. But that’s just me.”

Groaning, I watched as the others exchanged knowing looks, and then my boss called time on the game.

Rhys looked at me, his gaze dragging down my body and back up again. His eyes lingered on my mouth for a second too long.

“Why?” I blurted out, referring to the second explosive kiss he’d given me.

He shrugged. “No one will question our relationship now, Tinker Bell.”

Disappointment filled me as I realized the kiss had not been a spontaneous response to me shooting him, but a calculated move. A strategic play.

Rhys wanted to earn that money I was paying him, I reminded myself.

Right there and then, I decided for my well-being not to let Rhys Morgan’s mouth anywhere near mine ever again.

I left the field with only Pete’s yellow paint splatter on my shoulder and a whole bunch of pent-up indignation and sexual frustration in my gut.

Eleven

Rhys

My fist slammed into the bag. Jab. Jab. Cross. Jab. Hook. Cross. Jab.

Calm settled into my bones even as they felt each impact. Hitting something didn’t exactly hurt. Not anymore. But I definitely felt it. Working the bag drew my awareness inward. It clarified things.

I needed clarity. Because I was in very real danger of losing it around Parker. Freaking disturbing. Control wasn’t something I lost. Never. I’d spent my life honing it.

I had excellent control.

God, she tasted sweet. Felt even better. Her mouth should be listed as a national treasure. Freaking perfect. And when she wrapped those tight thighs around my waist…

My glove glanced off the edge of the bag. The bag swung back into me, knocking my ribs.

“Shit.” Disgusted at myself, I ripped off the gloves and tossed them aside.

“Losing your touch?” Dean lounged at the far side of the sparring room.

Grabbing my bottled water, I took a long drink before answering. “Get in the ring with me for a couple rounds and find out.”

“I’m a smart-ass,” he said, walking farther into the room. “Not a dumb-ass.”

That made me laugh. I set the bottle down and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off my face. “What’s up, little brother? Bored already?”

“Of course, I am.” He shrugged. “Aren’t you? Or do you like hanging out in empty gyms on a Friday night?”