Lena

I didn't realize it was possible to get so turned on just from hearing a growly alpha male make crude comments across the table in a salad bar. The fact there are people all around us—including children—barely registers. All I know is that he wants me, and I want him, and my single-minded vagina is throbbing between my thighs, begging for attention. Squeezing my legs together, I try to stop my thoughts from veering into the dangerous territory of wondering how Jase's stubble would feel against my skin.

Ugh, it must be morally wrong for me to be this horny in public. I'm already wet and ready for him, and all he's done is touch my hand. I'm not even sure I like the guy, even if he's not the violent asshole I initially believed.

"Lena?" His cocky grin widens, showing his teeth. He knows exactly what he's doing to me, the dick.

"Work," I say out loud. "Questions." Yes, that's it. "Will you answer more of my questions now?"

He sighs, and runs a hand over his damp hair. "There are things I'd rather do, but shoot."

Resorting to my notepad, I'm about to read the first item when a waitress comes to take our order. I choose a chicken salad tortilla, but Jase orders three separate meals without checking the menu.

"You come here often?" I ask when the waitress leaves.

"Yeah, they sponsor me, so I get free meals."

"Sweet deal."

He nods to my list. "What do you wanna know?"

A flock of pigeons take up residence in my belly. Now that I know Jase more, asking these questions feels personal. "You must earn a reasonable amount." I looked up his net worth earlier. Even if the estimate I found is a little off, it's impressive. "What do you do with your money?"

The question seems to bore him. He takes a drink from my glass again, even though his own is full. "I bought a house. I pay the bills and the mortgage. I see a physio and a massage therapist every week."

Nothing surprising there. "You mentioned yesterday that you contribute to charity."

"Yeah." He clams up. "Not much to say as far as that goes."

"Really?" I cock my head. "Are we back to one-word answers and evasion?"

He sighs, and rolls his neck from side to side. Finally, he speaks. "Most of my money goes to King's Sports Grants. I'm one of their major donors."

Because I'm a sadistic bitch who enjoys his discomfort, I ask, "Is there a particular reason for that?"

His neck cracks, and he rubs it, but his slate gray eyes catch on mine. There's something dark and unfathomable in their depths, and I can't look away. "If not for those grants, I'd probably be in jail by now."

Oh. This man gets more fascinating with every tidbit I tease out of him. "Why?"

He shrugs those massive shoulders, and glances behind me. A moment later, the waitress deposits a number of bowls in front of us. Each of Jase's meals is twice the size of mine, but I'm not surprised he can tuck away food like no one's business. He must burn through thousands of calories each day, and maintaining that muscle mass can't be easy. He grabs a fork and shovels lean beef and quinoa into his mouth while I wait patiently for him to answer.

"I grew up dirt poor," he mutters, looking like he'd rather be having any other conversation. He's much more confident when he's on the offensive, especially if that involves suggestive comments and glances hot enough to burn. "Went through the foster system. Never stayed anywhere long, but one of my foster fathers ran an MMA gym, and I picked it up easy. Got one of those grants so I could carry on after I moved. At my second fight, I met Seth, who runs Crown MMA. He was a big name at the time, and he took me under his wing. When I aged out of the system, I lived with him until I could afford my own place." He looks up and stares at me, as though daring me to look away. I don't. "There you have it. The sad story of Jase Rawlins."

"Not so sad," I say, taking a bite of chicken. "It's a rags to riches success story. America's favorite." When his eyes narrow, I add, "I'm sorry for how you grew up, though. That can't have been easy. For some reason, I pictured you as a spoiled rich kid."

This time, he laughs, and breaks away from our stare-down. "You probably saw me that way because it suited you."

I can't disagree, and for a while, we eat in companionable silence. When he finishes his beef salad, he takes a break before moving onto the next bowl.

"So what about you? What's your story, Lena?"

The way he says my name like a caress drives me crazy, and I resist the urge to shiver. "We're not talking about me."

He grins. "Maybe we should be. It's only fair that you spill all your secrets if you want to know mine."

I shake my head. "It's not an interesting story. The opposite of yours, actually. Grew up rich, refused to settle down with a nice boy like my parents wanted, paid my own way through college, and now I live in a tiny apartment I can hardly afford because I'm drowning in student debt."

"Huh." His brows draw together. This clearly isn't the story he expected, either. "But you look so"—he waves a hand at me—"put together."

A laugh-snort escapes me, and I bury my face in my hands. "Oh, my God." I can't believe I just made that sound in front of him. I might actually die of humiliation. "I only look put together." I keep my face in my hands. "It's my job to appear that way."

"So others trust you to make them look good, too?"

"Exactly."

"Lena." He touches my chin with a slight but firm pressure. "Look at me."

I raise my head and find him watching me intently, hunched forward so his gorgeous eyes aren't far from mine. "Yeah?"

"Your laugh is fucking cute."

I laugh-snort again—a nervous reaction—then groan. "It is not."

"Is too."

Straightening, I try to preserve what's left of my dignity. "We should stop arguing like kindergartners over something that doesn't matter."

His gaze pins me to the spot, and I'm unable to move. Hardly able to breathe. "I know you're not a kindergartner, Lena."

Why does he keep saying my name? Does he know how crazy it drives me?

Danger zone. Get back to business.

Shaking off the effect of his statement, I raise my glass, only remembering when it touches my lips and his pupils dilate that he's just been drinking from it himself. Forget danger zone, I'm heading into the territory of screwed beyond redemption.

"So..." I say slowly, gathering my wits from a puddle on the floor. "What else do you do with your spare time? Is there anything I need to worry about coming out of the woodwork?"

Jase draws back and continues eating his second salad. I'd think he was ignoring me, except his brow is furrowed in thought. "You shouldn't have anything to worry about." He polishes off the salad in a few massive mouthfuls and moves to the third, which looks like a mound of seasoned potatoes. "I used to be a party boy, can't deny that, but I didn't get to where I am by being that guy. I rarely drink anymore, don't do drugs, and don't fuck around indiscriminately. Haven't done that for a couple years."

My mind catches on that last part. "I thought all MMA fighters fucked around. Isn't that part of the code, or something? All those hot girls throwing themselves at you must be hard to resist."

His gaze flickers up and locks on mine as he chews. When he's finished, he swipes my water and drinks, his throat pulsing. "Didn't say I always resist, but I don't jump into bed with just anyone."

I have a feeling I won't like hearing what comes next, but I need to know anyway. "Elaborate."

"I have a few girls I hook up with when I'm not in fight camp." He shrugs. "They use me, I use them, and we all leave happy."

For some insane reason, the thought of these anonymous girls being with Jase makes me want to hunt them down and scratch their eyes out. He must read something in my expression because one side of his mouth hitches up.

"Pull your claws in, kitty. I don't have sex during fight camp, so I haven't been with anyone for a couple of months."

I gape. A couple of months? For a guy like him, that's an eternity. I expected him to have a different woman in his bed every weekend. Jesus, he must be wound tight. I bet all it would take is a few well-placed touches to make him desperate... and the thought of having this big man under my power is seductive as hell.

Not appropriate. He's a client, and a fighter. He's not for you. Keep your hands to yourself.

"Why?"

"Superstition. Most sportsmen have their share of idiosyncrasies. Surely you know that."

"Yeah, but the spoiled football players I usually deal with wouldn't go a week without a woman. If they could score two or three at once, they'd yell it from the rooftops."

"Football players." He pulls a face. "That's who you usually work with?"

"Football players, hockey players, and the odd basketball player." None of them remotely as unsettling as Jase.

He grins. "I bet they don't have a clue what to do with a girl like you."

I smile back. "They like to think they could try."

Jase reaches over and envelops my hand with his, his thumb drawing swirls on my palm. "If I had the chance, I'd know what to do with you."

I gulp. I don't doubt it for a moment, but I shouldn't encourage him, either. Even if he's a decent guy for the most part, he's still capable of violence, and what's more, the company has a policy against fraternizing with clients. Considering it's our job to protect their image, engaging in intimate activities with them is out of the question.

"So." My voice comes out as a squeak, and I cough to clear it. "What do you do when you're not training?"

Reading my cue to back off, he resumes eating. "I watch fight videos with my brothers for research, and coach the kids at my old community center."

"I didn't know you had brothers."

"Yeah, that's what I call the guys at the gym. They're the closest thing to a family I've ever had."

My heart melts a little at that. "Sweet."

"Sweet is the last thing I am, cutie pie."

Somehow, I think that's a lie. "You coach at a kids' program?"

"Yep." I've barely finished my meal while he's just demolished the potatoes. "I set it up at the community center in my old neighborhood. Just to give the kids an outlet for their anger, and someplace to go for a while where they don't have to worry about anything other than giving me their full attention, you know. There's no financial or racial divide in my group. It's a safe space for them."

Much as the idea of an MMA class being a "safe place" is bizarre, I can see it. I bet the kids adore him. And this is exactly the sort of thing I can use to dig him out from beneath the steaming heap of dung Erin piled on him.

"That sounds wonderful. They're lucky to have you." I can't believe how much I totally misjudged this guy. I suppose he was right, I wanted him to be a loser so I could write him off. "When's your next class? I'd like to come."

He scowls, forking the last piece of potato a little too violently. "I guess you want to take photos of me with the kids and get them to say how great I am, or some shit like that."

Gritting my teeth so I don't cuss him out for referring to my job as "some shit like that," I say, "Yes, that's about the sum of it. So, when is it happening?"

"Tomorrow. Five-thirty. At the Alderton Community Center." He shoves away his final plate. "But I don't want you exploiting those kids. They're vulnerable, and they come to the center for an escape."

I hold up my hands. "I won't exploit them. Promise. You can okay anything I write ahead of time, and you have veto rights."

His shoulders heave as he exhales. "Okay, then. Sounds like we'll be seeing each other again tomorrow."

My stomach fills with butterflies at the prospect, and I try to ignore them. The waitress returns with our bill and hands it to Jase. I grab my purse, but he signs something and sends her away.

"What was that about?" I ask.

"Taking care of dinner," he says. "You're my plus one, so you're covered under my sponsorship."

Nuh-uh. I wave my purse at him. "You're my client, not my date. I pay my own way."

"Not today, cutie pie."

"But—"

He stands, and the squeal of chair legs on the floor cuts me off. "Just give me this, Lena. You can pay next time."

"There's not going to be a next time," I mutter, hoping to God his paying for my dinner doesn't have anything to do with my confession about being broke. I'm no one's charity project.

"You tell yourself that." His hand lands in the small of my back as he guides me outside. "Where are you parked?"

I gesture up the street. "Over that way."

"I'll walk you."

"Not necessary."

He grabs me by the shoulders and spins me to face him. My brain ceases to function. I can't process even the most basic thought with his hands on me like that.

"Babe, when a man wants to see you safely to your car, you let him. Unless he's a creep, which I fucking hope I'm not." His face dips closer to mine, and he's trying to catch my eyes but I'm having a hard time looking anywhere other than his lips. "I want to show you how much I appreciate you believing in me, so can't you just let me get you dinner and walk you to your ride?"

He appreciates me? Well, you know what? I appreciate him, too. I appreciate the breadth of his shoulders, and the sexy edge of his jaw, and most of all, the way he smells so wonderfully delicious. With his hands on me, and his face so near to mine, it takes very little for me to close the distance between us and press my lips to his. I've had a lot of bad ideas in my life, and this has to be the worst. He's so wrong for me, and kissing him could jeopardize my job, but with him so intoxicatingly close, I can't bring myself to care.

His entire body stiffens. I flick my tongue out. Mm, he tastes as good as he smells. A low rumble works its way up his chest, and then he's grabbing me tightly, his hands dropping to my ass and hauling me into his body, where a very impressive ridge grinds into the V at the top of my legs. I want him closer, so I go onto my toes, letting him take most of my weight, kissing him with everything I have. It's rough and wild and out of control. I can definitely believe this is a man who hasn't been with anyone in months. His lips clash, teeth gnash, and then he's trailing open-mouthed kisses down my neck, stopping to nip at the juncture of my neck and shoulder. I gasp, and sigh, and clutch him.

"Fuck," he swears. "Lena, cutie pie, you feel so fucking good."

I rock into him, loving his ragged breaths, and the groan that rips from deep in his throat. He's big, and hot, and demanding, his hands journeying up my body and touching, squeezing, plumping my breasts, fisting in my hair and pulling my head back so he can latch onto my neck. His stubble is rough against my skin, and his teeth graze over the pulse that's throbbing furiously. Moaning, I try to yank him closer, impossibly closer.

Then a wolf-whistle pierces the air.

My befuddled mind can hardly comprehend it, but Jase shifts, shielding me from onlookers with his body. After a moment, he draws back, still panting, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It's swollen from my kisses, and I imagine mine looks much the same.

"Stop looking at me like that," he growls. "It's unfair."

Seems perfectly fair to me. He's distracting me just by existing. Turnabout is fair play.

"Here's what's going to happen," he says. "I'm gonna walk you to your car, then you're going to sit your hot little ass in the driver's seat and go home. Understood?"

I nod, because he's right. That's what needs to happen, for both our sakes. Then, once I'm home, my vibrator is going up to its maximum setting, and I'll lie back and pretend we didn't do the sensible thing.

"I'm totally with you."