Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down

She caught him staring. “Yes?”

“Just looking at you. Wondering how you dodged all your dad’s homely genes.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Might pass for one if you finish that glass.”

She shook her head, smiling.

“Polish off the bottle and maybe I’ll pass for Brad Pitt.”

A snort.

“You—”

She shushed him. “My stupid show’s back on. Quit flirting with me.”

Mercer waited for perhaps half a minute before he leaned across the center cushion to whisper loudly, “I was not flirting with you.”

She sipped her wine, attention glued to the screen. “I know flirting when I see it.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic—” She shushed him again and Mercer leaned over even farther, so far he knew he looked ridiculous, practically lying down between them. He lowered his voice back to fake-whisper level. “You probably see flirting all over the place. You probably think those filthy hippies at Park Street with clipboard surveys are just interested in a date with you.”

She turned to blink down at him, the cutest pantomime of annoyance he’d ever seen.

He sat up. “Fine. Live in denial.”

Mercer went back to pretending to research apartments, and Jenna went back to what he assumed was pretending to watch her show. Ten minutes later, though, he knew she really was ignoring him. She made a disgusted noise.

“What?”

She shook her head. “I knew she’d pick him,” she said, waving at the screen.

“Pick who for what?”

“Pick this hair-gelled personal trainer meathead for her getaway date, when she should have gone with the science teacher. What is wrong with these women?”

“As a trainer and a meathead, I find your outrage offensive.”

She tried and failed to hide a smile.

“How can I sign you up for this show?” he asked.

“I don’t kiss and tell. No way I’d ever let cameras follow me around while I made out with strange guys. Or worse! You should see the stuff that some of these girls will do on national TV.” She sighed and sipped her wine.

“You drunk yet?”

“I’ve barely had two glasses. Why?”

“Nothing. Just wondering if I need to be worried. You get all buzzed, all worked up watching your little make-out show… You might try and take advantage of me.”

Her lips tightened with a poorly suppressed smirk. “You think you’re really cute, don’t you?”

Mercer shrugged. Cute, no. He wouldn’t be winning any beauty pageants, but after nearly twenty years of boxing, he could read other people’s faces like billboards. Their emotions, fatigue, pain…attraction.

And Jenna’s smirk told him everything he needed to know. The trouble was, he didn’t have the first clue what to do with that information.

* * *

THEY DIDN’T SPEAK AGAIN until Jenna’s show was over and a program about home decorating came on. She sat up straighter, thinking she might get some ideas for the apartment. Plus it’d be smart to force her mind off its awareness of Mercer’s body, mere feet from hers. She glanced to the cushion beside him, at the pad he hadn’t taken a note on since sitting down.

“Could I borrow that?” she asked, pointing to it.

He handed it to her. “Knock yourself out.”

Mercer had written two headings at the top of the page—Yes and Maybe. Both were crossed out, and beneath he’d started a different list, one that included the items Sell kidney and Rob a bank. Thank goodness Jenna had landed an apartment for free. She didn’t envy his challenge.

She flipped the pad to a fresh page and awaited the wisdom of the show’s host, pen poised. But fifteen minutes or more passed and she’d absorbed nothing.

She kept thinking about what he’d said, about his supposed kissing prowess. Jenna hadn’t kissed a guy—really kissed a guy—in ages. Polite smooches at the ends of a few first dates, but no deep, sexy, toe-curling kissing. She hadn’t really given it much thought until Mercer had roused her curiosity, along with the dating show’s on-screen lip-locking. She missed being kissed like that. Plus with Mercer, she might feel those interesting, scarred hands on her jaw, maybe run her own palms down his extraordinary arms. She blinked, waking from the trance. She grabbed the remote and switched off the television.

“Off to bed?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m starting to zone out.” She glanced at his computer. “Are you still depressing yourself with apartment listings?”

“Gave that up a while ago. Just catching up on some admin. Probably time I called it a night, too. I’m meeting Delante at seven tomorrow in Somerville. Gonna make him run the stairs in the Porter Square T station until his legs fall off.”

“While you what? Sip a coffee on a bench?”

“Nah, I’ll join him. Keep my own game up.”

Again, she ogled his powerful arm. Bad. Bad eyes.

She rose and headed to the kitchen to clean up the dinner mess. She heard Mercer’s laptop click closed and the couch creak.

“Don’t,” he said, walking over. “Let me do all that.”

She opened the dishwasher and began rinsing the bowls. “I don’t mind. It’s still novel for me to even have a kitchen to clean.”

He muscled her to the side and she submitted. “Fine.” She turned instead to the items scattered across the counter, finding homes for her spices and new utensils. She nudged Mercer’s unnaturally hard shoulder and he shifted to let her get to the trash can beneath the sink. She shut the cupboard door and stood at the exact moment he reached for her wineglass. Their chests brushed, faces inches apart. She felt her eyes widen, mirroring his.

“’Scuse me.”

“Sorry.”

Neither moved. Their eyes darted and she felt her lips part. His did the same. Unbidden, her chin tilted up, and Mercer’s dipped in response.

“This is…” She trailed off.

“Yeah.” They were so close, she felt his breath on her lips.

They were trapped, stuck in some mutual daze, mouths edging closer. She felt a warm, damp hand on her neck, heard the clink as he set her glass aside to free the other. She shivered at the rasp of his fingertips, then melted as his lips met hers. As she softened, he grew bolder, angling his head, kissing her deeply.

The hand cupping her neck was just as rough and commanding as she’d imagined. His tongue swept against hers, his kiss aggressive but controlled, and she felt consumed in a way she hadn’t in ages. She grabbed his arm and the hardness there left her reeling. She’d never felt a kiss like this, never connected with a man on such a visceral, physical level, as if their mouths were made for one another, their bodies meant to join this way. Other ways.

But a voice was screaming in the back of her head, telling her to stop, stop, stop. Lust had slammed its foot on the gas, and if she didn’t find the brake, they were going straight into a tree, a ditch, off the edge of a cliff.

She pushed firmly at his chest with both hands, and with a final deep taste, Mercer let her go. He licked his lips.

She took slow breaths, willing the madness to pass.

This man was too complicated. He was her employee, her roommate. The son her father had wanted, a man whose very livelihood was at odds with hers. He was a dozen things that made this an awful, awful idea. But standing this close, the energy between them felt anything but complicated. It was a question with a single solution, and that solution was to feel his body against hers.

She grabbed his neck, and he was kissing her. She felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her, guiding her, pushing her lower back against the counter. His leg went between hers, driving her skirt a couple inches higher. He gathered her hair in his hands as she stroked her palms up his shoulders, his neck, cupped the back of his head and felt the soft bristle of his short hair. Between the deep strokes of his tongue and the press and tease of his lips, she heard his sounds—tiny grunts and moans. She imagined how much deeper and louder they’d be if they made a terrible decision and took this to one of the bedrooms…

No, no, no.

But as he kissed her, so firm and explicit, she knew this was hotter than any sex she’d had in the past five years. This wasn’t attraction as she’d ever experienced it. It made her feel wild and helpless and electrified. So many things, all of them scary and exhilarating.

Mercer’s kisses grew graceless and needy, and just as he seemed to be losing control, he broke away. The separation left Jenna aching. He looked drunk, his nose and ears and lips flushed, exactly where Jenna felt the heat. This insanity was mutual, and dangerous.

For long moments they stood that way, hands slowly slipping from one another’s hair, breaths deepening, eyes locked on each other’s mouths. Jenna cleared her throat, lust fading enough to expose a deep vein of embarrassment. She clasped her hands at her waist and felt blood flooding her cheeks, ashamed to have lost control of herself with a man she barely knew.

“You know, you’re right.” Mercer ran his tongue over his lower lip. “That’s good wine.”

She could think of nothing to say—no reprimand or smart remark or even a dumbfounded “Well.” She closed her mouth and looked away. Mercer took a step back, then another.

The water was still running and he turned to the sink, resuming the dishes. Jenna pursed her tender lips, knowing she ought to say something. As she stowed the cutting board he handed her, she managed a weak “That was very…unexpected.”

He shot her a teasing look, though a tighter, more cautious one than she’d grown to anticipate. “I suppose you’re going to blame that on me?”

She mustered a weak laugh. “No. Wish I could, though.” It scared her to know she was capable of such reckless attraction, so much stronger than logic.

“That was…that was a bad idea,” she murmured.

“Probably.”

“Definitely,” she corrected, getting a hold of herself, smoothing her skirt and top.

“Let’s just call that research or something, for your business.”

She nodded vigorously. “Yes, good. I was just, um, comparing kissing data on East- versus West-Coast men. To better understand my new market.”

Finally, another genuinely devious glance. “So how’d Boston measure up?”

“Bit more aggressive than I’d expected.” Crap, they were flirting again.

“Aggressive, huh? How do you want to get kissed, then? All gentle, like I just took you to the ballet or a funeral or something?”

“I never said I didn’t like it.”

That shut him up a moment. “Well, good. Oh, wait, no. Bad.”

She nodded. “Really bad.”

“Really complicated.”

For a few breaths they looked at each other with matching, perplexed expressions. Then Mercer said, “Sort of complicated. Or when you think about it, actually, it’s really pretty uncomplicated. I mean, you’d never get hung up on me, since I’m like the opposite of your type.”

“And you wouldn’t get hung up on me, since I doubt you could commit to a sandwich long enough to finish it.”

Mercer shut off the faucet and dried his hands on a dishtowel. “So really, that was a totally harmless accident.”

Harmless, yes. Harmless as an alcoholic’s first sip of liquor. She closed the cupboard. “Right… Well, good.”

“Perfect.”

“Yes, perfect.” For a few moments, they shared a diplomatic calm, crisis averted. Then disaster struck, and Jenna couldn’t for the life of her pinpoint whose fault it was when they were suddenly lip-locked again.

He was fiercer than ever, and she wasn’t any better behaved. She stroked his shoulders and back, welcomed the heat and insistence of his tongue, the possessive weight of his palms on her waist and neck. They staggered a dozen paces to the couch, narrowly avoiding crushing Mercer’s computer as he pulled her down to straddle his lap. It was dangerous how perfectly level their mouths were in this position. More dangerous still was how good his thighs felt as her knees sank into the cushions—hard and substantial. A hot palm pressed Jenna’s bare, lower back, at the gap between her skirt and top.

She freed her mouth long enough to murmur, “This is such a stupid idea.”

Mercer kissed her deeply for another breath before replying. “Yeah. Massively stupid.”

But her body said it was pure genius, the thing she’d been put on this earth for. The only thing that mattered.

She held the back of his head, taking the lead. He massaged her skin, his other hand holding her hip, gently but unmistakably coaxing her closer. She obeyed, edging her center to his. Her skirt was gathered between their waists and she felt his erection through her panties and his jeans—hard as his arms and ten times as thrilling. His kisses faltered as he moaned, the noise giving her shivers. The strongest man she’d ever touched, totally helpless.

His hands went to her waist, guiding her in small thrusts against him. She leaned back and they both studied the scene, the point where their bodies met, his gaze rising to her breasts and throat, hers drawn as always to those powerful arms. He looked into her eyes.

“We should probably stop.”

“Yes, we probably should,” she agreed, yet neither put the advice into practice.

She leaned close again but the kissing was different. Mercer changed, distracted by the friction. His kisses were shallow, breath heavy. Sexy as hell. Though his hands still dictated her hips’ rhythm, she knew he was at her mercy. She knew, too, she could have anything she wanted. She could run her curious palms over every fascinating inch of his exceptional body, issue any order and expect to have it followed. She could lead him by the collar to her never-slept-on mattress and christen the hell out of it. She could sleep with the gruffest, fittest, most shameless man she’d ever been attracted to and find out if he screwed as well as he kissed—

But no. No, no, no.

Jenna didn’t screw, for starters.

She also couldn’t sleep with a guy and not have it mean something. She’d wake up in deep trouble, unable to pretend she was capable of having sex without assigning significance to the act. Or scarier still, the fact that she wanted to have sex with Mercer meant she already felt something for him. That one was too much to contemplate. She shuffled back on her knees, separating their crotches, and flipped her skirt back down her thighs. “We really ought to stop. Like, really.”

He nodded, the gesture looking hazy and crazed.

If romances were candles, as Jenna’s philosophy suggested, then she and Mercer were a stick of dynamite. Nothing but a sizzling flame gobbling up the fuse en route to imminent disaster. They’d be over before her ears quit ringing. Then what?

A whole lot of fallout, that’s what. A big old mess to clean up.

Good thing they’d managed to snuff things before it was too late. Her love life deserved to be as well thought out as her future clients’. And that meant observing one of the franchise’s cardinal bits of advice—never sleep with someone before the fourth date. Well done, Jenna. The man loads the dishwasher and suddenly you’re on his lap.

Mercer let her get to her feet.

She tidied her hair, caught her breath and did a very good job of not stealing a glance at the front of his jeans. Shutting herself in her room, she switched on the light and opened the window, welcoming the traffic sounds to chase the last of that impulsive lust from her consciousness.

Crisis dodged. Logic restored.

Then again, if logic was the main ingredient needed to make a lasting, passionate match, why wasn’t Jenna still with her college flame? Or indeed her high school sweetheart? Two perfectly logical, perfectly likable men, but that hadn’t kept her attached in the long run. Hadn’t kept her up nights or left her pulse racing this way. She sat on the bed and rubbed her face, touched her lips, tender from Mercer’s kisses.

Thank God in heaven she didn’t have herself as a client.

CHAPTER FIVE

AFTER THEY FINALLY, successfully separated, Mercer and Jenna had shared an awkward dance, negotiating the bathroom before retiring to their rooms for the night.

Mercer didn’t think he’d gotten that worked up since tenth grade, and he entertained some rather unprofessional fantasies about his new roommate-slash-boss-slash-landlady before going to sleep. Still, that was safer than actually implementing any of his dick’s many inspired ideas about what to do with the woman.

He woke up confused about the exchange, but resolved to let it go. He’d never wasted much time over-thinking a sexual encounter before, and this was the last situation that needed overthinking. She was too many things to him, without also adding “crush” to the list.

He had plenty to worry about already, Delante first and foremost. He’d come under Mercer’s tutelage the way Mercer had come under Monty’s—grudgingly, shoved by a desperate mom at the end of her rope. That had been enough to get Mercer invested in the kid, but it took no time to realize Delante was special. A natural talent who thrived like a dying plant suddenly watered. Add the fact that the kid had a highly marketable projects-to-greatness urban underdog appeal, and Mercer knew he had something major on his hands.

If he could just keep Delante’s head as focused as his punches, the guy could be signing a pro contract before the crowd had even filed out of the arena following next month’s tournament. It was good for Delante, no doubt. Great for the gym, too—a boost right when they needed one most. Nothing fostered new memberships like launching a big name, and the boxers who’d come out of the gym in the eighties were ancient history. MMA was the future. Rich was rising in the ranks, too, a respected semipro with a lot of managers’ eyes on him, but Delante was almost a decade younger, ripe for a long, enviable career.

They met early, and Mercer worked him into the ground, running and dodging commuters up and down the endless Porter Square Station stairs, until a T security guy told them to knock it off. They jogged the four miles through Cambridge and Boston back to Chinatown, greeted by an irksome sight when they finally reached the gym.

“Cool down and hit the showers,” Mercer said, knowing he had to end Delante’s torture earlier than he’d planned. Delante hauled his tired ass inside the building and Mercer stared up at the big plastic banner hung over the entryway, almost completely obscuring the gym’s sign.

Future home of Spark: Boston! it proclaimed in a bold, modern font. Your local branch of the Northeast’s most respected dating service for busy professionals. Your perfect match is just a heartbeat away! Below were web and email addresses.

Mercer read it three times, frown growing deeper with each pass. The businesses were cohabitating, sure. But it wrenched his guts, because the facts were plain. He had a single season to turn the gym around—the blink of an eye—and if the neighborhood knew the details, they’d no doubt be rooting for him to fail. For all he knew, Jenna was rooting for the same, all the better for her new venture’s image. All the better that she get busy hiding the gym’s very existence.

How easily Mercer had let himself forget what side she stood on the second they’d been tangled on the couch.

He jogged up the steps and into the foyer. The office was lit but locked, and he could see Jenna’s half-finished lunch on the desk. He ran up to the apartment, but she wasn’t there, either. Must have gone out on an errand.

He headed back to the gym, ditching his shoes and thinking he’d better find somebody down there to spar and work off some of his angst. Angst that felt distinctly like misplaced lust. Felt like way too many things. Feelings. Blergh.

And feelings promptly punched him in the face as he near-literally ran into Jenna heading up the steps.

“Hey,” she said, her smile polite but nervous. Nervous because of the sign or because of them getting to second base on the couch, Mercer couldn’t pinpoint.

“I was just looking for you,” she said.

“I was just looking for you.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “We gotta talk about that sign.”

“I know. I’m sorry—that’s why I was trying to find you. The franchise people came to take a tour of the space. I didn’t know they’d put that up so soon. Or, you know…quite so prominently. I didn’t see it until after the men with the ladder had gone.”

Mercer sighed, irritation lifting a little. One less emotion. Good. But there were still plenty underneath, all charged with that physical tension from the night before. Except down here…

Down here, Mercer could keep his priorities straight.

“That sign’s going to cause a stir with the guys. I haven’t told anybody the deal yet. But we’ve been needing new equipment for years, and suddenly there’s the money to open an entirely new franchise? You’re not going to make any friends that way.”

She crossed her arms, and God help him, that defiant little gesture had his anger morphing to lust in a heartbeat.

“I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to run a business.”

“Two businesses.”

She was kind or smart enough not to add, For now. “I haven’t forgotten that.”

He glanced at her feet. “Take your shoes off. These mats have enough holes in them already.”

She yanked off her heels. “I know it looks bad. That’s why I apologized. But this place is your territory. Spark is mine.”

“I can’t have a bunch of keyed-up fighters questioning the future of this place so soon.” It hurt too much to even know the score himself. “Not with an important tournament coming up.”

“I get it, and I’m sorry. Like I said, I didn’t ask them to put the sign where they did. Maybe we could find a ladder and move it up, so it doesn’t look so…”

“Condemning?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, sounding exhausted. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah, we will. What’s up with you, anyway? You look beat.”

Another loaded breath. “It’s fine. It was just stressful, showing the managers around, not knowing what they’d make of the place. It was approved last month on paper, but who knows what improvements the franchise overseer will demand to get it up to Spark standards. Or how much it’ll cost. But they said they like the neighborhood—I hadn’t been sure they would.”

“And the neighbors?” he asked, jerking his head to mean the gym.

She smiled, a tight, apologetic gesture. “I won’t pretend they were giddy about it.”

“No, I’m sure they weren’t.” Suddenly exhausted himself, Mercer cast his gaze around, searching for a change of topic. A distraction from both the conflict and the attraction that had him so screwed up in the head.

“There’s something I was meaning to show you, next time you were down here.”

“Oh?”

He led her to the back wall. It was plastered with old boxing posters. Photos of the greats, newspaper and magazine stories about local fighters hung behind Lucite. He tapped an item in the middle and she came close to peer at it. It was a yellowed article from her hometown paper, with a picture of Jenna at age twelve or so, in a bathing cap and suit, holding up a medal for her team’s showing in a county swim meet. He watched her face, her blue eyes widening only to then narrow, lips pursed in a tight line.

“He put that right up there, with all the stories about his favorite fighters,” Mercer offered.

“Yeah. That’s sweet.” She was forcing a pleasant response, but Mercer couldn’t even guess what emotion she was aiming for.

He pressed on anyway, compelled as always to defend her dad. “He was really proud of you. Never shut up about you.”

“Great. Thanks for showing me that. It’s very touching.” She was so lousy at faking enthusiasm, she almost sounded sarcastic. Mercer felt suddenly diminished, reduced to a sweaty, weary heap of aching muscles. Maybe it had just been the wine for her, all along.