Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(84)

Cain offers him a twisted half smile. “Of course.”

Peeling off his gloves, the other man says, “You need me for anything else?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Cool.” The man leaves the ring, heading for the front door. He grabs a towel on the way out and mops his face with it. Cain ducks between the ropes, too, and when he straightens, he suddenly sees me.

“Hey,” he says. “Look who it is.”

My breath is suddenly caught in my throat, fluttering like a frightened bird. My heart beats hard; I can feel it there right next to my broken breathing. “Hey,” I manage, barely.

He starts to saunter toward me. His twisted smile lets me know he’s not going to give me any kind of a break. About anything. He’s probably mad still, after his talk with my father. I overheard part of it, lurking at the door like a teenager, just in case Cain said anything about me.

Cain’s not done taunting me. “Had to come back, huh? Itching for another taste?”

“I just…” I trail off. Why am I here? I’m not even sure myself, except that I just needed to get out of the house. Why I think I’d be any safer with Cain than at home is beyond me at the moment.

Crossing the rest of the distance between us, he stops a few steps away. His gaze rakes me, top to bottom, taking me in. It almost makes me feel dirty, but it’s arousing, too. He lifts his arms a bit away from his sides. “Take a look. This what you want? Want me to make you scream again?”

I can smell him now, the acrid stink of the sweat that’s dripping on his body. Why don’t I find it disgusting? I probably should. But I’ve gone so wet between my legs I feel like I might be melting. “I should go.”

I turn to do just that, but his hand grabs my arm and drags me back around, forcing me to look him in the face. “You know, I was wondering if you were going to say something to your dad this morning. Like, ‘Hey, leave my boy alone ’cause he fucked me so hard last night and now I don’t want you to hurt him.’ You tell him what we did last night?”

“No.” I layer scorn into my voice. It’s a stupid question, and he knows it.

“Too bad.” His hand eases off my arm, but his eyes hold me still. “I should have. That would have been a kick, huh? I wanted to. Wanted to tell him how his little girl screamed like a cat in heat. Begged me for it. How he might think he owns you, but now I’ve got part of you and I’m not letting it go.” He moves a little closer. I can’t drag my eyes away from his mouth. He has full, almost pillowy lips, incongruous in the harsh lines of the rest of his face. “What do you think he’d think about that, huh? How do you think he’d feel if I told him I own your cunt? That all you can do now is think about getting me back inside you?”

I should be hating this. He’s an asshole, throwing crude words like weapons. But something about the way he does it, the way his eyes hold mine, as if he’s daring me to say something about it, just revs my engines. I should want a nice guy, I guess. Somebody who’ll bring me flowers and breakfast in bed. But that’s not what I want at this exact moment. What I want is him. Hard and crude and filthy.

I reach up, grab the sweat-soaked hair at the back of his neck, and drag his face down to mine. Bite his lower lip—hard—then kiss him. I push up onto my toes, letting my silk blouse press against his sweaty chest and belly. It’ll be ruined, most likely, but I don’t care. My other hand goes around him, my small purse slapping him in the hip as I gouge my fingernails into the high arch of muscle next to his spine.

His hands close on my shoulders. His head leans down and his mouth pushes mine open, his tongue thrusting inside in a possessive stab. I shift a little because I’m having trouble breathing, and he follows my movement, kissing me hard and deep, like he owns me.

He does. No way in hell I’ll tell him that, but he does. And I’m not even sure why I feel that way.

Before I can decide what I’m doing, figure out why I’m throwing myself at this man, he bends and picks me up, carrying me toward the back part of the gym. Where are we going? I don’t even care.

He backs through a door, shoving it open behind him. I smell still more sweat, overlaid with disinfectant. It has to be the locker room. I don’t even bother opening my eyes. I’m too involved in his mouth, my tongue engaged in a duel with his that I know I won’t win. And after a few more steps he sets me on my feet. Grabs my blouse and pulls it open, pops the front of my bra.

I open my eyes. We’re in the showers.

“You want this stuff off before I turn on the water?” he asks me in a gritty voice that makes my toes curl.