Sneak Attack (Tapped Out 2)

She thought she’d fought her final match…but the bout isn’t over yet.

Mia Anderson found more than she ever bargained for when she set up a fight with reigning king of the underground MMA fighters, Tray “Fox” Knox. Eight months have passed, and both have walked away from the sport that brought them together. Now they fight for love, not blood. Until a voice from the past comes back to haunt Mia, causing her to struggle with her secrets and her need for Tray.

Tray’s tired of battling to be with a woman who keeps pushing him away. He loves Mia, but maybe he can’t love her through this. Not unless she will let him put his back to hers, all or nothing. He’s ready to slay any demon she has—except the one she refuses to share.

One opponent will walk away the victor. And one will lose…everything.

Warning: please be advised this book contains content some may find triggering (past sexual trauma) and also contains graphic sex and language that may not be suitable for underage readers.

1

Mia

“How do you like living with your boyfriend?”

I stared at my therapist, wondering if a reasonable answer to her question would appear if I tried to read between the lines on her forehead. “Well, I appreciate the easy access to sex.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Dr. Phelps didn’t so much as blink. She was either used to me and my blunt honesty or else she’d heard just about everything.

I suspected a little from column A, plenty from column B.

“How are things otherwise?” she asked.

“He’s only lived with me for ten days. It’s a little soon to tell.”

Tray was only staying with me while he searched for a new place. His latest fight with his father had led to him moving out of the apartment building his dad owned, something he claimed was long overdue. I suspected more had happened than just a simple argument, since the tension between him and his parents tended to be stifling at best and downright choking at worst. But I didn’t push for the truth because I didn’t want him to push me.

Not the best reasoning, probably.

Considering the lack of affordable apartments available on little notice in New York City, he’d be with me for a while. This didn’t worry me at all. I was totally chill about the whole thing. It was just a coincidence that I’d almost gnawed my thumbnail to a bloody stump upon hearing the news that he’d be living with me—even temporarily.

“Still, you must have some early impressions.”

“Yes. My apartment is way too small for three people, especially when one of them takes up almost all of my bed. Then there’s the dog.”

“You don’t like dogs?”

“I love dogs, Veyron especially. But he’s huge and his tail is always knocking shit off my coffee table. Plus he has to pee a lot. A lot,” I repeated. Just that morning Vey had made me take him out before dawn. Technically, he’d tried to wake up Tray, but Tray hadn’t budged.

My boyfriend was many things. An early riser by choice wasn’t one of them.

“Mmm-hmm. You’re not used to having to make new arrangements to cohabitate.”

“My sister lives with me too, so that’s not exactly true. We’ve cohabitated for eight months now and no one’s lost any blood yet.” Yep, there was my snark, right on time.

“That’s a bit different than a love relationship.”

“True. Carly’s never tried to put me in a headlock if I took the last piece of cheese.”

Sighing, Dr. Phelps set down her pen and propped her chin on her perfectly manicured hand. Her nails were long, rounded and mauve. Mauve, for God’s sake.

I’d entered the sixteenth realm of hell.

“Mia, is there a reason that you continually put up walls between us during our sessions? I want to help you, but you need to help me do that.”

I kicked out my jean-clad legs and studied the diagonal tear on my right knee. Mine weren’t ripped in deference to current fashion. I’d gotten that tear fencing. In my bedroom. With my boyfriend.

We had non-traditional interests. So sue us.

“I guess I don’t get why I need to discuss Tray’s living arrangements as part of my therapy. Obviously I don’t mind spending time with him or I wouldn’t have bruises on my hips.”

“I’m assuming you’re referring to your preference for rough sexual contact.”

“Actually, no, I was referring to the fact that I let him pin me three times yesterday and didn’t break any of his limbs or pull out any of his pretty blond hair.” I glanced at my watch and tried not to cringe at her casual reference to my sexual kinks. The day I’d brought up my proclivities—in passing, I might add—I must’ve had heat stroke. “I think the hour’s up.”

“Not quite. Ten minutes remain on the clock.”

“Oh goody.” I shifted my attention to the row of shiny framed degrees on the cream-colored wall. “What if I was referring to rough sexual contact? What’s the BFD? I like it, he likes it, we’re not breaking enough furniture to end up on the news. I don’t see the problem.”

“If you didn’t suspect it might be one, you never would’ve mentioned it.”

“That’s incorrect. You saw the bruises on my wrists and asked if I’d started fighting again.”

“You’ve expressed interest.”

“I have.” I looked at my own lackluster non-manicure. My cuticles were ragged and the coat of dark purple polish I’d let Carly talk me into had nearly worn off. “But it doesn’t matter, since it’s not going to happen. Tray doesn’t want me to do it.”

Hearing myself, I nearly growled. Since when I had become the kind of chick to let her boyfriend’s wishes influence her behavior?

Oh yeah, since I’d fallen stupidly in love with a guy who knew exactly how to get his way with me every time. That’s when.

“Tray doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

“No. Although I never got seriously hurt when I was fighting, unlike him. But he knows I wouldn’t be satisfied just

fighting the lightweight female fighters.”

“You still harbor a need to fight a male?”