"Hey, kids," Kit says to McQueen and me. "I'm going out to grab some food, and run home before I reopen the gym at five. You okay locking up after you clean up?"
"Of course," I tell him.
This isn't anything new. Kit trusts me explicitly, which makes me feel more than mildly bad about the fact that I'm keeping him and this gym a secret from my family. They have no clue how much his trust in me means. They have no clue about him at all.
If I get a bigger fight lined up I'm going to have to tell them what I'm up to. There are only so many ways I can lie about bruises on my body, cuts on my lip-only so many times I can exaggerate about why I'm so ridiculously tired after a week of working out under Kit's regime.
Besides, a big-ticket fight would get publicity. And I don't really want my name on a poster announcing my career choice before I tell them myself.
Although my logic is kinda messed up. Surely they'll kill me once they find out, and maybe I ought to get killed in the ring first if I'm going down either way.
With Kit gone, I look over at McQueen, who's taken off his sweaty tee-shirt and tossed it in the gym bag sitting on a bench. His back faces me; his broad shoulders are stretched, smooth, and tan. His large, well-defined muscles are evenly distributed on his frame and, with the waistband of his shorts slung low, my eyes linger on his ass.
I know I'm over my head ... but, just this once, I wonder if maybe that's okay? I want to forget about the things my dad told me this morning.
The things that will literally ruin my life. No way in hell can I be a fighter if I'm Grotto's wife. Probably if I'm anybody's wife.
Right now, I just want to be JoJo. Because I might not be able to be her for that much longer.
And frick. Now I'm talking in third person.
Gah.
I never put myself in situations like this, where I can even consider giving in to what I want. My mind is focused on the gym and on playing my part in the family. Namely, smile and look pretty and do as I am told.
Any time a guy hits on me, I pretend I don't hear them, brush them off without any attention. I know my family is complicated, which is why I've never dated anyone seriously. Never even told Lucy about all my connections. It would be messy.
The few times a guy has persisted, I played the part of a prude.
But I don't want to be a prude right now.
Right now, I want McQueen.
"JoJo, you ready to show me that submission hold?" McQueen turns to face me, bringing me back to reality. Or maybe not reality. Maybe my absolute fantasy.
His baby blue eyes and short cropped blonde hair, his full lips and perfectly proportioned nose – everything about McQueen is perfection. A performance. Which I get, that's his profession. But it's like he's almost too good. Like ... he knows exactly what he is doing.
Me? Not so much.
But I've held onto the V-card long enough, and I sure as hell don't want to throw it away on Grotto.
Grotto could be out of prison in a month. Then what? I'll lose my virginity anyway, by consummating a marriage on someone else's terms.
Right now I have a chance.
I'm going to take it.
On my terms.
Chapter Three
McQueen
She looks at me, from head-to-toe, and for a second I think I've read her completely wrong, that all that sexual tension I fucking felt out there in the ring was really just her in beast-mode.
But then she meets my eyes.
Hers are filled with fucking desire.
I'm not waiting around for her to change her mind.
I walk over to her, and pull her into my arms. Her sweat is a fucking turn-on. She's dirty and needs to be cleaned up, and I'll fucking wash her nice and good.
I lift her by her little ass and her legs instinctively wrap around my waist.
"You're so strong," she says. Her eyes flicker as if she is caught off guard.
"You just saw me lifting for three fucking hours, JoJo. You know that lifting a hundred and twenty pounds is nothing. You're light as a feather."
"You also make a living carrying women around."
"Have you seen my show?" I smirk, not able to read this girl at all. I carry her to the women's locker room, kick the door shut and lock it.
"I went once." When my eyes widen she clarifies. "My friend insisted. But I didn't stay."
"Why?" I set her down; the top of her head meets the center of my chest. I use a finger to lift her chin, so she can look me in the eye.
"It's not my thing."
"Strippers or men in general?"
"Strippers," she says, shaking her head at me like I'm a dork.
"That's where you're wrong, JoJo. I'm a stripper, and you want me." I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my shorts, lower them an inch. "Don't you?"
She takes a sharp breath, and I see she's practically drooling in anticipation of what lies beneath my shorts.
"Think you can handle a man like me?"
"I have no clue." She gives a sharp laugh. I can't read her, but I'm gonna try.
I pull her to me. My thick cock is growing hard, but I can't handle her standing there one more second without pressing my lips against her mouth. I need to taste her, explore her. I need to fucking know her body.
So much of her body is solid and true, exhibiting her complete control over herself, but her lips sink into mine, like she's desperate for them. She kisses me hungrily, as if she's never kissed a man in her life.
And maybe she hasn't. There are an awful lot of pussies out there in the world. Not many men like me-men who know how to a work a woman nice and good.
She moans as my tongue finds hers, and I pull her even closer, my hand on the back of her head, letting her know she can give in to me. That I can take it from here.
My cock is hard and it presses against her thighs. I want to strip her out of these clothes; I want my cock to press against her skin, then press against her pussy. I want to fuck her until she's worn out like she's never been from a work out. Exhausted in a way she can only get from riding me.
I kiss her hard, our mouths discovering one another, and I run my other hand through her gorgeous red hair. Her hands have travelled to my waistband, and my cock throbs at the idea of her reaching down and stroking me.
But she hesitates.
"You okay?" I ask her, pulling away from the kiss.
She's breathing so heavy, almost like she's dizzy. "I know I said I wanted to show you a submissive hold, but … umm. I just. I can't."
"What, JoJo? You want me to stop?" I try not to show annoyance. I get that this girl is a thousand kinds of complicated, but come on. We're in a fucking locker room, post-workout, both clearly horny as hell. I can't handle her backing out now. I'll have to fucking jack off like a fourteen-year-old if she leaves.
"Oh, no. Don't stop." She looks worried, and shakes her head. "I meant that I don't want to be the one to show you anything. I want you to be my teacher. I want you to do whatever you like."
A smile spreads across my face-and when I grin, she does, too, like she's relieved by my answer. Like she wants this, but just needs my help.
I can fucking take the lead.
"Then let's start by getting you out of these clothes and washing you up."
JoJo
It's obvious I'm over my head the moment McQueen kisses me. His lips know what they're doing.
And the reality is, the last time I kissed a boy was back in my freshman year of college, when the guy who took me to a formal dance tried to kiss me when he dropped me off at my father's house.
I quickly realized my family was way too complicated when two of my brothers threatened to punch him if he didn't back the fuck away from their little sister.
I felt embarrassed, but also trapped. No matter how many guys asked me out over the years, I always, always declined. No one deserved to deal with the family I brought along.
But McQueen is different. No one in my family knows where I am ... and I absolutely know that, for a player like him, this is only about sex. I won't be hurting anyone by having a one-afternoon-stand. Least of all him.
When I tell McQueen that I want him to lead the way, it's a relief to see his dazzling white, perfect teeth smile, looking down at me.
But now it's getting really real. He spins me around, smacks my ass, and we head to the shower. He turns on the water, lets it get nice and hot, and then playfully shoves me under the steaming spray.
"Oh my God, I'm in my clothes," I scream, grabbing his bicep, trying to pull him in with me.
"Yeah, you are. I want you to get nice and wet, and then I'm going to strip you down. All the way down."
"McQueen, you have to get in here with me. I feel stupid."
"Don't feel stupid. You're fucking hot. I'm so hard looking at you like this. Your tits are so round in that tiny see-through shirt. Your nipples are hard as rocks." He steps into the shower without hesitation and lifts the hem of my shirt, easing up the elastic of the shelf bra and pulling it off over my head.
Beads of water pour down on us. My breasts are completely uncovered. I feel exposed.
"Shut up, I'm gross after that workout. I mean, McQueen, you must see women all done up all day, everyday ... at your shows, I mean." I look down at myself, self-conscious. But McQueen wants none of that.