Hard As It Gets

Chapter 7

Becca couldn’t sleep. Despite being more exhausted than she’d maybe ever been in her life, she’d tossed and turned for hours. She couldn’t get her mind to stop racing from one question to the next. Where is Charlie? Is he okay? Could he have run, or was he taken? Who ransacked his apartment? Who broke into my house? How are we going to figure all this out?

We. As in, her and Nick.

God, the man kept her on edge. One minute polite and helpful, the next cold and moody. As if her head wasn’t spinning enough from the mystery of Charlie’s disappearance.

Sighing, she turned on her side. She’d wanted Nick’s help—no, more than that, she needed it. Still, she couldn’t help but feel like she was getting in way over her head.

The image of the soldiers inked on his right bicep came into her mind’s eye, their silhouettes dark and still. Six soldiers. Why six? Seven men on her father’s team had been killed in that enemy ambush. Maybe it wasn’t the memorial she’d first thought? Or maybe it was just symbolic of those who’d gone before him? The thought touched her heart. That day, she’d lost her father, but Nick had lost a whole family of people who no doubt meant the world to him. In that moment, sitting at the bar eating the meal he’d made for them, she’d realized they were connected in the grief born from the events of that day, and it had made her feel they weren’t strangers after all.

Except, really, what did she know about Nick? Ex-Special Forces. Had been with her father when he died—which made her eyes sting if she thought on it too much. Lived with his brother. Did occasional tattoos. Made kick-ass sloppy joes. Had a dimple on his left cheek and at least one tattoo. Helped her when he didn’t have to.

Actually, she supposed she knew more than a little.

And, geez, she’d come at him with a butcher knife.

He’d disarmed her in a flash of movement and muscle. In her terror, she hadn’t fully registered that moment, but her mind went back to it now. Replayed it. Resurrected the feel of his tense, hard body trapping hers against the counter, his masculine heat and the soft caress of his breath washing over her.

And now that hard body lay sleeping just down the hall.

A flush ran over her skin, and Becca tossed back the covers.

Sitting up, she reached for the lamp and squinted against the light when she turned it on. Lying there was no use. Her brain felt like that of a kid who’d consumed too much sugar, bouncing from one thing to the next, and her body was wired to the point of being jittery. There wasn’t much she could be doing for Charlie in the middle of the night, but that didn’t stop the urge from flooding through her.

Out of bed, she slipped on some sleep shorts under her old tee and stepped to the door. It opened with a click that revealed nothing but quiet darkness on the other side.

Keeping one hand on the wall to guide herself, she made her way to the big open kitchen and living room. At a panel of switches she’d noticed earlier, she tried each one until she turned on the cool, industrial fixture over the breakfast bar. It threw a wedge of gold on each side, casting illumination over both the kitchen and the closest edge of the living room.

She opened the fridge and surveyed the shelves and drawers. After all, the last thing Nick had said to her before they’d gone their separate ways at bedtime was “Make yourself at home. What’s mine is yours.” Which had left her mind churning on exactly what the full practical application of that principle might include . . . But, at the very least, she assumed it included midnight raids on his fridge. One of her worst and most favorite habits.

But the contents primarily fell into one of four categories: beer, other drinks, restaurant takeout and general leftovers, and meat.

Wrinkling her nose, she closed the lower door and opened the upper one. Icy air blasted out as her gaze landed on a two-deep stack of ice cream tubs, the double chocolate fudge brownie catching her eye in particular. “That’s more like it.”

She pushed the door shut and turned to the counter. And screamed.

Nick was standing like a silent phantom at the edge of the dim light. The half-gallon container flipped out of her hands and did a triple somersault in the air before she dove for it at the same time Nick did.

They crashed and she shrieked, her hands flush against a mountain of bare, hard flesh, and the tub of ice cream fell at their feet. His arms came around her, his greater weight nearly knocking her over and making them stumble until he’d all but pinned her against the counter.

Time froze for an instant, then Becca burst out laughing, the ridiculousness of the past ten seconds growing in hilarity the more she thought about what had just happened. She covered her mouth with one hand as her head fell back and her laughter devolved into a series of choked chortles she couldn’t control. She gasped for breath, her forehead falling against Nick’s chest.

His chest. Holy crap, the man was half naked and she was touching him. Her hand. Her face. Her stomach against his. The details of their position finally registered in her sleep-deprived brain.

He was all over her.

She lifted her gaze over the hard planes of his chest, getting snagged for a long moment on the swirling tribal pattern of black ink that ran over the bulge of his shoulder and down his arm. Finally she met the light green of his eyes. Nick stared down at her, one eyebrow arched, one corner of his mouth lifting enough to bring his dimple out to play.

“Hi,” she whispered, the release of the laughing fit making her shoulders lighter, less tense.

“Hi,” he said. He didn’t move away or drop his arms from caging her against the counter.

Heat bloomed over her skin. Becca released a shaky breath, one that emphasized just how close they were. Her hands, lying flat on the pads of his pecs, itched to move and explore. And her tongue volunteered to follow close behind.

What was it about this guy that made her brain shut off and her body turn on? Way on. Her nipples went tight, liquid heat gathered low in her belly, and her hips were a breath away from grinding against his. Wanting this man—and acting on that desire in any way—was a really bad idea. All her energy needed to be focused on finding Charlie. But when she was around Nick, need vibrated through her veins and lust became a living thing inside her. And, oh, how she wanted to let herself go.

As if he’d picked up on the shift in her mood, Nick’s gaze went molten and he leaned in, just the smallest bit, his line of sight zeroing in on her lips. Oh, God, he’s going to kiss me. She swallowed hard, her mouth going dry.

“Hey, is everything okay—oh. Oh, shit. Sorry. Carry on.” Jeremy’s voice retreated as quickly as it had appeared. Down the hall, his door clicked shut.

Nick wrenched back, leaving Becca frozen and breathless and hungry against the granite. As much as part of her absolutely loathed the distance between them, his position several feet away allowed her to soak in the whole of him. The broad, muscled shoulders, the cut definition of his chest and abdomen, the way his unbuttoned jeans hung on his lean hips. Unbuttoned. Like he’d just pulled them on. And, with how low they sat, no way he was wearing anything underneath. Even his bare feet, sticking out beneath the ragged hem of the denim, were sexy.

“Becca, what are you doing?”

Busted. Her gaze whipped up to his. The heat absolutely blazing in his eyes did nothing to help pull herself together. She bent down and retrieved the fumbled ice cream. What she really needed was a cold shower. With a handheld showerhead. And really good water pressure. The thought was so not helpful.

“Midnight snack,” she said as she placed the tub on the counter’s edge, hoping he believed the rasp in her voice was left over from sleep. “Want some?”

He remained silent until she looked at him. “Maybe I do.”

The words hung in the air between them, seeming to answer a question she hadn’t asked. Or maybe she had. If they were playing chicken, she definitely lost, because she was the first one to turn away.

A moment later, he stepped to the counter, then leaned onto his elbows next to her. The position bunched his biceps, pulling her attention to another piece of ink he wore there. Toward his shoulder, above the band of fallen soldiers, a silver knife lay atop a pair of crossed arrows. The inner part of the Special Forces crest, readily familiar to her from her father’s service—except this was different. A black circle surrounded the weapons like a shroud.

“Trouble sleeping?” he finally said.

She dragged her finger through a bit of condensation on the ice cream’s lid. “Yeah. I’m wired. Too much nervous energy. Didn’t mean to wake you, though.”

He shook his head. “Wasn’t asleep.”

“Oh.” She wondered why, but since he hadn’t offered, she didn’t want to push. She blew out a long breath, trying to get her body to settle down. His proximity wasn’t helping. Heat poured off his arm into hers.

“I might have a better way to blow off some steam.”

Her heart tripped in her chest. His expression was serious, challenging. “Better than chocolate ice cream?”

“Yep. You game?”

She pushed the container of ice cream away. “Depends on exactly what it is you’re proposing.” Her mind reeled with the possibilities. Anticipation spread a shiver over her skin.

The smile he unleashed was a complete killer, part smirk, part smolder. Twin urges coursed through her—to smack it off him or kiss it off him. Just then, both urges ran neck and neck.

Rixey grabbed the double chocolate fudge brownie and chucked it in the freezer. “I’ll show you.” He made for the front door.

Becca frowned. “Uh, where are you going?”

“Come find out.”

Gesturing to herself, she stepped around the counter. “I’m not exactly dressed for a middle-of-the-night stroll.”

His gaze dragged over her, and she felt it like a physical caress. “You’re fine. Except, um—” He cleared his throat. “You might want to put on a bra.”

Put on a bra? Hands on her hips, she watched him attempt to keep a straight face, then she turned on her heel. “Not what I expected you to say.”

“What’s that?” he called.

“Nothing,” she muttered. Put on a bra. Hmph. Apparently their ideas about good ways to blow off steam differed. Clearly, she was way more affected by him than he was by her. And just as well. In her room, she slipped a bra on under her sleep shirt. Shouldn’t even be thinking of anything else while Charlie was missing. No matter that Nick made her feel more like a woman than any other man ever had. Selfish much, Bec? Guilt settled over her like a lead blanket.

From the moment she returned to the hall, Nick’s gaze was on her. Leaning against the front door, he watched her walk the straight line to him. And, damn, even though she was trying like hell to ignore it, he was sex on a freaking stick, his folded arms emphasizing the inked and stacked muscles of his biceps and shoulders, and leaving bare the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his now-buttoned jeans.

“All right, lay it on me. What kind of big surprise requires a bra at two o’clock in the morning?”

“This way,” he said, holding the door for her. He followed her out and gestured to the door opposite their apartment, where he entered a code into another electrical panel.

“What’s with all the keypads?” she asked.

“Secure. Easily changeable. Not easily picked.” A metallic click sounded and he stepped inside, into the yawning darkness. He reached to the wall, flipped some switches, and light illuminated a mostly unfinished, cavernous space. One they used as a gym, judging by the machines, free weights, and other equipment within.

But Becca couldn’t focus on the details of the huge space. Because all she could see was the magnificent expanse of Nick’s bare back.

Running almost the whole length of his spine, a dragon wrapped itself around a deadly black sword, hilt just below his neck, point at his lower back, ending near a mass of scars that traveled outward toward his hip and disappeared below the waistband of his jeans. The dragon’s wings spanned his shoulder blades, and the movement of his muscles made it appear alive, actually struggling to hold its perch on the steel. The red of the beast’s eyes looked out from the image, holding her gaze.

Surrounding his left shoulder, the tribal tattoo looped and jagged in a lighter shade of black than the dragon. A reach for something off a shelf revealed lines of writing on his rib cage beneath his right arm, but Becca couldn’t make out what they said.

Tattoos had never looked better than they did on this man. She was absofreakinglutely sure of it.

“Put these on.”

A pair of fat white boxing gloves fell into her hands. “We’re gonna box?”

He smirked. “Figured you’d enjoy taking a swing at me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What? I don’t want to—”

“Relax.” He grabbed a smaller pair of black gloves for himself and slid one on. They left the tips of his fingers exposed. With a smirk, he pointed. “We’ll use the heavy bag.”

Becca’s gaze cut across the room, where an oblong vinyl bag hung suspended from a beam. “Oh.” Actually, beating the crap out of something did sound like a good way to work off some nervous energy. “Cool.”

“Here. Let me help you with those.” He tucked one of her white gloves under his arm and held up the other. The padding that encased her hand was cool and stiff, and the Velcro band that secured it was tight around her wrist.

“These fit perfectly.”

They repeated the process with her other glove. “They’re Katherine’s. Figured they’d work for you.”

“Katherine boxes?”

Tugging his other glove on, he nodded. “Yeah. My sister is tiny, like five foot two. Before she left for college, I made sure she knew how to take care of herself. Now she’s hell on wheels.”

Becca smiled at the image of this apparently petite yet kick-ass woman, but also at the obvious affection in Nick’s voice. “You were a totally crazy overprotective big brother, weren’t you?”

“No more than necessary.”

She knocked her gloves together. “Ha. According to you or her?” His scowl made her laugh. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. I think I’d like to meet your sister.”

He crossed to the heavy bag. “I’m sure that would be tons of fun for me. You ever hit a bag like this before?”

Becca stopped a few feet away. “Er, no. You don’t just hit it?”

“Not if you don’t want to hurt yourself. Hit it wrong and you could sprain or break your wrist. Watch, and then I’ll walk you through it.” Nick stepped about an arm’s length away, his body at an angle to the black vinyl, right foot, hip, and shoulder back. He brought his arms up, elbows in tight and gloved fists in front of his chest. As he explained, he demonstrated in slow motion a few times, twisting his body into the fake punch. “Your goal is to make solid contact with the bag, not to push it or make it bounce. Like this.”

He unleashed a series of right punches, the muscles rippling under his skin. His movements were precise and efficient.

With a gloved hand, he stilled the bag and turned to her. “Now I’ll show you how to do a one-two punch, and then you’re up.”

“Okay,” she said, half of her eager to try, because smashing something right now would probably feel great, half of her perfectly content to grab a tub of popcorn and a drink and watch him as long as he wanted to do it.

He got back into position and demonstrated again. Using his full power, Nick attacked the bag. Smack-smack, smack-smack, smack-smack. Light on his bare feet, the dragon absolutely alive underneath his powerful movements, he hammered his punches into the firm surface for a full minute.

Becca picked her jaw up off the floor before he saw. But . . . just . . . wow. He was beautiful to watch, all controlled strength and purposeful movement.

He stilled the bag. “Your turn.”

She swallowed hard. No way she was going to look like that, but the idea of being able to direct her strength that way had her stepping up without reservation.

He moved behind her, and heat radiated off him. “Hold your arm out so you know how far away to stand. Good. Right foot back, hip and shoulder angled away.” Becca followed his instructions. “Okay, arms up.” His big hands fell on her shoulders and gently squeezed. A tingle of nerves and heat shot through her. “Relax your muscles. Only thing you want to keep tense is your wrist. No floppy wrists.”

“Okay. Floppy wrists bad. Got it.” She let her shoulders go loose under his grip.

“Good. Now, start out in slow motion so you can get the feel for the movements.” She twisted her body, bringing her arm out straight against the bag. He stepped in close to her extended arm. “If you weren’t wearing the glove, what part of your hand would be touching the bag right now?”

Becca concentrated on her position. “The middle knuckles of my fingers.”

He adjusted the angle downward. “You want to hit with the knuckles closest to your hand. Try again. Slow.” Becca did it a half dozen more times under his intense observation. “Good. That looks good.”

Despite the chilly air, warmth rolled over her skin. Since she really hadn’t exerted herself yet, it was hard to deny that he was the cause, his bare muscles and patient, encouraging words. “I want to hit it for real now.”

He stepped back. “Go for it. Just take your time.”

Staring at the bag, Becca released a deep breath. Her right fist shot out, made contact, and retracted. A wave of giddiness flashed through her. Position, breathe, punch. She did it three more times, then grinned at Nick.

Liquid heat filled his gaze. He nodded. “Good. Again.” Was she just imagining it, or did his voice sound deeper?

Her heart pounded in her chest. She threw four more punches, lifting a light sheen of sweat from her skin. “I don’t feel like I’m hitting it very hard, though.”

Nick moved to her right side. “Do it in slow-mo again. Just a right punch.”

She did.

His hand fell on her hip, stirring up a nest of butterflies in her stomach. “When you punch, make sure you’re involving your hip. The power is coming from your back foot. Let it move your body with the punch. Slow-mo again.” He pushed her hip further into the movement. “Now, do it.”

Concentrating, Becca threw a punch. She threw her gloved hands into the air. “That was harder.”

Nick nodded. “Again.”

Becca pounded the bag in slow repetitions. She’d have to figure out how to add this to her regular exercise routine, which mostly consisted of running a few miles around the park by her house. Because, damn, it felt good. The movements required her concentration, shutting out all the crap that had been bombarding her brain.

“I think you’re ready for more,” he said after a while. “Try the one-two.” For a moment, she shook out her arms, then got back into position. “Only small steps with your feet, and twist your body into the bag. Try it slow first.”

Demonstrating the one-two, she liked the way the fluid action made her body feel, especially when Nick stepped behind her and placed his hands on her hips, encouraging her to turn more into the punches. She shuddered, her mind conjuring all kinds of really distracting images. Him, gripping her hips from behind while he—

“Okay, give it a go.”

She blew out a breath. Heaving her mind out of the gutter, she directed the pressure cooker of her lust and anxiety at the vinyl and struck out. Left-right. Left-right. Left-right. “Feels . . . freaking . . . awesome,” she gritted in between punches. And it really did. She pictured Charlie’s apartment, thought of someone breaking into her house, recalled the precise moment she’d learned that her mom had died of an aneurysm when she’d been thirteen. And Scott of a totally mind-boggling overdose. And her father of an enemy attack. Smack-smack, smack-smack, smack-smack. Her fists pounded harder.

Sweat dripped down her face and her mind raced. Where the hell is Charlie? God, if somebody took him, hurt him . . . She punched faster. What else can I do? There’s got to be something. Why didn’t I listen to him? What if I never see him again? A moan echoed from somewhere, but all she wanted to think about was the amazing release pummeling the heavy bag brought.

“Becca. Becca, stop.” Hard arms banded around her upper body and hauled her back. “Becca, it’s all right.”

Without the exertion to distract herself, she came slamming back into her body. It wasn’t sweat alone that covered her face but tears as well. A sob worked up her throat. Nick turned her into his body, cradling her head against his chest as best he could with the thick gloves. “Sshh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

She shook her head and gulped down the jagged ball of emotion, afraid that if she started letting go, she might never stop. “I’m okay. I’m all right,” she rasped against his hard chest.

“I know,” he murmured against her hair.

Becca’s breathing hitched, and she sucked Nick’s masculine scent—all clean sweat and spicy soap and leather—down deep. After that, the rest of her senses came online in sequence. The feel of his hard chest against her cheek, warm and pulsing with life. The heady sight of his inked shoulder, bringing his arms around to hold her. The sound of his heart, picking up steam beneath her ear. That only left taste . . .

Out of nowhere, her emotions lurched in a new direction. Her tears dried up, but just the thought of acting on the urge to press her lips, her tongue to his skin had her body growing damp elsewhere. God, as wrong as it probably was, she had no doubt she could lose herself in him, that being with him would take away all the crap filling her head and weighing on her chest. Even if only for a little while.

Heart slamming against her breastbone, panting breaths falling against his pecs, she looked out over the edge of the responsible thing she should do and leapt. “I want to kiss you,” she whispered, the room spinning around her at the admission. If he hadn’t been holding her, she was sure she would’ve fallen.

On the outside, he didn’t seem to react, but their position gave him away. His chest rose and fell more quickly, his heartbeat thundered. The pressure of his growing cock nudged her belly.

The thrill of arousing him made her bold.

She pressed her lips to his chest, once, twice. On the third kiss, she let her tongue drag against his skin, drawing the salt of his sweat into her mouth. His taste—the very fact that this was happening—blew her mind, especially as his thick erection grew harder against her. Her hands yearned to clutch him, to feel every ridge and cut of muscle, but the gloves made it impossible.

“Becca,” he growled. A warning.

The need to have him inundated her. She couldn’t deny it. Didn’t want to. Her mouth came down on his nipple.

The groan that ripped out of his throat shot right between her legs and filled her with an empty ache that begged for relief.

Hands tight on her upper arms, he shoved them apart but didn’t let go. Mouth open, breathing hard, muscles rigid everywhere, he glared down at her with a lethal look that did absolutely nothing to deter her lust.

He ripped off his gloves and threw them to the floor, blazing eyes never leaving hers. And then he was on her.

Hands in her hair, he tilted her head back and devoured her in a kiss. Hot. Hard. Commanding. Her lips fell open on a gasping moan and his tongue slipped between, stroking against her own. He tasted of mint and man and sinful promise, and Becca couldn’t get enough.

The room spinning around her, she grasped at his shoulders—and groaned at the gloves. “Off, off,” she rasped around the edges of the kiss.

Nick pulled back, his face a dark mask of desire. He removed her gloves in about two seconds and tugged her into his chest, holding her tighter than before, kissing her more deeply.

Becca’s hands were immediately in heaven, caressing and grasping at the bunched muscles of his chest, his shoulders, his back. He was hard everywhere, and the strong, aroused feel of him curled heat low in her stomach.

One hand holding her head, his other hand slid down her body and cupped her breast. She moaned as he massaged her through the layers of her clothing, his thumb stroking over and over against the hard nub of her nipple. Her hands found his hair, soft and thick, and grasped and tugged at it as he tormented her with his mouth and fingers.

His hips rocked against her belly, and Becca gasped and shifted against him. Groaning, he dropped the hand from her hair to her ass and urged them more tightly together. Wetness created a maddening need for friction between her legs. God, this was crazy, but she wanted him like she’d never wanted another man. She dragged her fingertips over his chest, slipped her hand between their bodies, and grasped his cock through the denim. Oh, he was a delicious handful. She couldn’t wait—

“Stop.” He pulled back and grasped her wrists.

“Why?” she asked, missing his heat against her.

Chest heaving, he rolled his tongue over his bottom lip, like he was tasting her there. “Because you’re upset and vulnerable. And I shouldn’t take advantage. I won’t.”

“It’s hardly taking advantage if I want it.” And she did. She just wanted to lose herself in his body, his intensity, his strength, for a long while.

His fingers dug into her wrists, just shy of painful. “It’s not a good idea.”

Her gaze dropped to the bulge filling out the left front of his jeans. Jesus, if he straightened himself out, she had a sneaking suspicion the rise of the denim might not cover the whole of him. Her mouth watered. “Looks like a pretty good idea to me.”

“Damnit, woman.” The percussive blast of his curse drew her gaze back to his face. “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

“Why? If I don’t want you to—”

“Because I want to make you hold onto that bag while I bury myself in you so hard and so deep you don’t know your own name. But then tomorrow, in the light of day, when your brother’s still missing and we’re still trying to figure out the mystery of who broke into your house, getting fucked by a stranger in a warehouse will be just one more thing you have to deal with. And I won’t do that to you.”

The words absolutely stole her breath. She tugged out of his grip. His words dragged Charlie back to the center of her thoughts, where he should’ve been all along. Guilt sloshed over her arousal and pricked at the backs of her eyes.

“Fine.” She scooped her gloves off the floor and crossed the room to return them to their shelf, then made for the door. “What’s the code to your apartment?”

“Becca,” he called, a note of regret in his voice.

She lifted her gaze to him, and his face was all shadows and hard angles. Harsh, but beautiful. “No, I should thank you. You’re right. The code?”

He braced his hands on his lean hips. “Zero-five-zero-one-two. But Becca—”

“I enjoyed the boxing, Nick. You’re a good teacher.” She pulled open the door and decided to just leave it all out on the floor. With everything he was doing for her, he deserved the truth from her. One last time, she looked his way. “But you should know. You fought beside my father. And you’re helping me when you don’t have to. You don’t feel like a stranger to me.”

Without waiting for his reaction, she stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.