15

Evangeline

His eyes lock onto mine, and the intensity of our connection hits me like a physical blow. My chest tightens, squeezing my lungs. My throat constricts. I'm ensnared in the magnetic pull that seems to encircle us both. I'm frozen, unable to move or break our gaze. The noise of the crowd fades into the background. It's just him and me, linked by a primal force I sensed from the moment I first saw him.

Then, his body jerks. Color drains from his face. Oh no, Rayden has struck him again.

"Quincy, fight!" I shout.

A surge of energy seems to course through him. He tears his gaze away from mine, swings, and lands a hook on Rayden's right temple.

Rayden seems to freeze mid-step. Then, he shakes his head and keeps going. Quincy moves so fast; he seems to blur. The grace, the agility with which he moves, the fluidity of his body as he follows with another upper cut to Rayden’s cheek, then a jab to his shoulder, then to his side, a final one to Rayden’s stomach... Oh my god! My pussy clenches. My nipples harden. How can I be turned on when he’s beating up another man?

Why did it bother me so much to see him taking a beating? I couldn't just stand there and watch it happen. I couldn't comprehend why Quincy appeared to surrender without a fight. I needed to spur him into action, to make him fight back. I called out his name, hoping to provoke a response, but I didn't anticipate what happened next.

Rayden shakes his head, trying to clear it, and throws another punch. I'm no expert in boxing, but even I can see that the big man is wearing down. Quincy dodges out of reach, and with a grace that ignites a surge of adrenaline within me, he sweeps Rayden's legs out from under him.

Rayden goes down with an earth-shaking thud. Without giving him a chance to recover, Quincy leans his knee into Rayden’s throat. Rayden struggles to rise. Quincy presses his weight down into his stance.

The crowd around me boos. Seems these people are on Rayden’s side. Time to even things out.

I cup my palms around my mouth and chant, "Quency! Quency! Quen-cy" Next to me Zara jumps up and down. “Go, Quincy!”
Quincy bends his head; his lips move. He seems to be talking to Rayden. Asking the giant if he’s ready to give in? At least, I think that’s what is happening. There’s an imperceptible nod from Rayden, and Quincy rises to his feet. He holds out his arm to Rayden, who ignores it. The hulking man straightens, his movements slow. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, then brushes past Quincy.

He heads to the ropes, ducks under them, and doesn’t acknowledge the men standing there. A man who I assume is Rayden’s brother, going by the facial resemblance, holds out his T-shirt. Rayden grabs it, without breaking stride. He walks through the path that emerges when the crowd steps aside. He walks past me and heads for the exit.

Clearly, the crowds were there to see him in action, for they begin to stream out after him.
From inside the ring, Quincy lifts his head, and when our gazes meet, it feels like all of my breath leaves me. He takes a step forward, another. His jaw is hard, his forehead furrowed. Only, his eyes are clear. Those blue eyes flare with cold fire. His gait is purposeful. His expression determined. He reaches the ropes, and I back away. He ducks under them, straightens.

Nathaniel walks over and hands him his T-shirt. He nods his thanks, without breaking our connection.

Not bothering to wear it, he stalks closer. I take in his massive shoulders, the width of his chest with the tattoo of the beating heart dripping blood on the skin over his heart, and tiny black triangles which peek out on either side of his torso. It’s almost like a serrated edge brackets his chest. Then there’s the brick-like musculature of his abs, with his dog tags nestled in the demarcation of his pecs, the concave stomach with the trail of hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans, the thick thighs which strain the fabric, and the bulge at his crotch which indicates the size of what this man is packing.

As he closes in on me, the scent of his sweat, mixed with the coppery tones of the blood splotched on his torso teases my nostrils. And below that is the pungent scent of woodsmoke and the freshness of pine, a confluence I recognize as uniquely Quincy.

When he comes to a stop in front of me, I tear my gaze from the part of him that has captured my imagination and meet his eyes. Oh my god! He’s more injured than I realized. I saw him take the hits; now I notice the impact of Rayden’s fists on his face.

Blood drips from a cut on his forehead, there’s a bruise on his cheek, and one eye is swollen. Why does it add to his allure? Why does it make him seem more magnificent?
He could be a conquering hero or a knight returning from a joust to claim his spoils.

In this case, me.

He inclines his head. "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." His voice is a harsh whisper scraping over my already sensitized nerve-endings.

"Poe." I swallow.
"Obsidian," he growls.
"You’re bleeding."
"Not nearly enough." His lips twist.
"You’re hurting."

Beside me, Zara's eyes dart back and forth between Quincy and me.

He nods solemnly. "More than you could understand." The wrinkles around his eyes deepen. "What happened is a part of me. I have to live with the consequences."

I furrow my brow. "Is this about... about... what happened between you and Rayden?"

"Um, I think I'll head out. Glad you're okay, Quincy," Zara interjects, giving a small wave before leaving.

Quincy acknowledges her departure with a nod, then turns to me. His expression closes off. "What do you know about what happened between me and Rayden?"

"Not much. Just that... there's a history between you two?"

Around us, the crowd continues to thin.

Quincy tightens his lips. When he looks away, it's clear he doesn't want to discuss it. I swallow my disappointment, feeling a knot in my stomach. Why did I think he would confide in me? Our relationship is superficial, at best. Yet, this is the most vulnerable I've ever seen him. His gaze reflects anger aimed inward, tinged with helplessness and pain.

I raise my hand to touch him, then stop myself. "You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” I murmur.

"It’s the only way I know,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Maybe I can show you otherwise?"
He jerks his chin in my direction. "Is that why you came here?

"I came here because—" I bite down on my lower lip, and his gaze instantly darts to my mouth and stays there.

My body recognizes him, knows who its master is, no matter how my logical mind insists I’m crazy. How would it be to have him touch me, to place those thick fingers on the curve of my breast, to bury his face between my legs and draw his whiskered chin over my pussy lips? To have him squeeze my butt, and bite down on my nipples and suck on them? To have him cover my body with his weight and take me without showing any mercy? To?—
"Because?"

"What?" I blink.
"You were saying you came here because?—"
"I wanted to keep Zara company.” Yes, that’s it. That makes sense. “I knew she was coming to watch the fight and uh... I decided to come take a look for myself.” I bite the inside of my cheek.
One side of his lips twists. “Lying to me, Obsidian?”
I flush. “Of course not. It’s the truth.”

“So, you’re here because you wanted to see me fight?”
I nod. Then shake my head. “No, no, not you... just… An underground fight. It could have been anyone fighting.”

My cheeks are hot, and my heart is jackhammering away like it’s going to cleave through my ribcage any moment.

“Only it was me,” he reminds me.

And something shifted in me when I saw you getting beaten up. Something I'm not going to think about right now, because I have no right to feel that way. I have to stop feeling so much for him. Stop missing him when I’m away from him. Have to stop myself from wanting to throw myself at him and climb him like a tree. Have to stop myself from blurting out ‘yes’ to his crazy proposal. OMG, don’t you dare!
I am so pissed off with myself; it’s the only explanation for what I say next. “And Rayden.” I jut out my chin.

His features darken. His eyes flash. He’s angry, as I hoped he would be. His response propels a thrill of anticipation down the back of my throat.
"Why are you here?" he asks in a clipped tone.

His face has gone carefully blank, while a fine tension radiates from his body.
The lack of emotion in his voice sends a warning jolt up my spine. The hair on my forearms rises. Did I push him too far? Do I dare stretch his control even more?

"I came to see if you could hold your own against someone younger than you, of course." He's denied it's an issue, but c'mon, he must be conscious of the fact that I’m much younger than him, and his son’s ex.

Or perhaps, it’s me who’s more conscious of our age gap, and that's why I drew his attention to the age difference between him and Rayden? Which is why I implied Rayden would have more stamina than him. Which would mean he could keep going longer, whether in a fight or in bed.
I wanted to make him uncomfortable. Now the words are out, and I realize, I've made myself equally uncomfortable.

The space between us turns into a mass of pulsating emotions. An undercurrent of tension ripples through his demeanor. He hardens his jaw and narrows his gaze on me with such intensity, my chest seems to seize up.
"You’re here to test my masculinity?"

His tone is casual, but it feels like a whip wrapped in silken threads curling around my body and pulling tighter. My insides quiver. There’s a threat in his voice which warns me to shut up. Shut up. Zip it, you idiot.

But what if I push him all the way? A frisson of thrill pinches my nerve-endings. I want to see him unfettered. I want to goad him and watch him unravel. I want to find out what he does once he sheds that iron control he wears like chains. What will he do when he loses that iron grip on his emotions? What will he do to me? And why do I know that I'll like it?

"Not how I’d put it, but if you want to see it that way, sure.” I raise a shoulder.
For a few seconds, his features turn into a mask of stone. Those blue eyes of his glitter with an emotion I later place as resolve.

And I know I’ve pushed him beyond the ability to think straight, for the next moment, the world tilts.

I yelp, for he’s bent his knees, wrapped his arm around my thighs and thrown me over his shoulder.

My hair flows down, blocking out my line of sight, and when he begins to stalk forward, my breasts bump into the hard expanse of his back. My skirt rides up and cool air assails my upper thigh. Oh my god. Oh my god. He’s carrying me over his shoulder in front of everyone. Like he’s some caveman and I’m the woman he’s dragging to his cave.

My cheeks feel like they're on fire. And it’s not only from the blood which has rushed to my face. My scalp tingles. My skin feels too tight for my body. This is so embarrassing. So mortifying. But it’s also primal and exhilarating and…

No, no, no, how can I think of it like that? I seriously can’t be turned on, though my soaked panties say otherwise. This is the antithesis of every feminist principle I’ve ever believed in.
"What are you doing?" I cry.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps moving.

My cross-body bag with my phone is caught between my stomach and his upper chest. I bury my fists into the unforgiving muscles between his shoulder blades, then hiss. Pain shivers up my arm. Incredible. It’s like I’m beating my fists against a brick wall. Or the side of a mountain. The man’s super-built. And the way his muscles flex under his skin, every dip and roll of which I feel against my own, it’s as if we’re already melded into one organism.

And the fact that I’m so intimately close to him, and that my blood feels like it’s turned into a crimson tide of desire, and every cell in my body seems to have opened up and is absorbing his nearness, makes me so pissed off with myself.

I lock my fingers together, raise my joined-up fists and bring them down on the slope of his back.

He must feel something, for he tenses. Then, his big palm connects with my butt. A sharp pain squeals up my spine.

What the—! "Did you spank me?" I yell.

In reply, he smacks my other butt-cheek, and the first and the next. With each slap, my backside quivers, and the pain zooms straight to my cunt. Moisture drips out from between my legs, and I have to squeeze my thighs together. Then, he places a possessive palm over my butt and gently squeezes.

Instantly, the hollow sensation between my thighs curls in on itself.
A groan spills from my throat. I bite down on my lower lip to avoid making any further noise. How can I be so aroused? I should be worried I’ve lost every shred of pride I had, but I can’t bring myself to care for that. All of my attention is focused on the throbbing heavy flesh between my legs.

My silence must satisfy him, for he keeps moving forward.
I assume the crowd dispersed, for he carries me toward the exit without stopping. The warmth of his big palm over my butt reminds me he hasn’t removed it yet. It’s a declaration of his possession to the world.

I sense him walking up the short incline which leads onto the sidewalk. When he comes to a stop, I open my eyes, just as he wrenches open the front door of his car. He throws me down in the passenger seat.

The man carried me nearly a hundred yards over his shoulder and he’s not out of breath. And I’m not slim, by any means.
The blood rushes away from my face, and my head spins. It's a good thing I'm sitting. Or maybe it’s because his scent of woodsmoke and pine is in my nostrils. I feel like I’m surrounded by his presence in this car.

Without looking at me, he pulls my seatbelt across my chest, and when his knuckles brush against my pointed nipple, I shiver. He fastens my seatbelt and straightens, then shuts my door.
Nathaniel walks over and talks to him. I hear the low murmur of their voices, before Quincy walks around. He shrugs on his T-shirt, then opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat.
I should get out of the car. I should leave, call Zara, who I'm sure would be happy to come back and get me or call my sister. I should do anything but go home with a man who just carried me like a sack of potatoes. But as much as I'm furious, I don't want to leave. I want to fight him because it will keep me in his blue gaze.

I turn on him. “How dare you carry me out of there like that?”
He places those thick fingers of his on the steering wheel and stares at me.
“Nothing to say for yourself? Do you realize how humiliating that was?” I burst out.
He inclines his head. “If I touched you between your legs, would I find you wet?”
I gape at him. “How?… What?… Why?… Why would you say that?” I sputter.
“Answer the question, Obsidian.”

I open my mouth, then shut it. I could lie and say I’m not. But somehow, I can’t bring myself to lie. So instead, I point at my head. “I’m blonde.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“You called me Obsidian. But I don’t have dark hair.”
“But there’s a darkness in you that yearns to be let out.
I begin to speak, but he holds up his hand. “Don’t bother denying it, when we both know it’s true.”

I swallow past the knot of emotion in my throat. How is it possible that this almost-stranger sees me when everyone else in my life sees what I portray for the outside world?
I hear a sound of distress emerge from my throat. He does, too.

He cups my cheek and somehow, his touch is soothing. “It’s okay. It’s okay to let go. You’re safe with me. I’ll never judge you, I promise. I want you to be true to yourself. To your emotions. To what you feel inside. To what you want to be. To explore what you feel. Your feelings. Your desires. Your deepest darkest needs. They all matter to me.”

A bead of sweat runs down his temple. It’s cold in the car but I feel like a million flames are trying to burst out of my skin. “I... I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do. You liked it when I carried you out of there.”
I shake my head.