“But why—” I begin, then stop myself. I get it. Because Damien’s career took off. The golden boy. The young celebrity athlete. And even after Carol passed away, Jeremiah wasn’t about to risk that cash cow by tossing scandal into the ring. Another family. Another child.

And so instead he went the other direction. Told Jackson that if he breathed a word of the family secret, then Jackson and his mother would starve. And he justified his absences by his need to keep the meal ticket performing.

He drew upon and honed his skills as a con man, a player, and left his blue-collar days behind for good.

And in the end, both Jackson and Damien suffered.

The intercom buzzes, and Jackson goes to let the pizza guy up, pulling on a pair of sweatpants that he’s left as a permanent fixture in my apartment. I slip into a robe and follow him into the living room, feeling a little bit shell-shocked.

I want fresh air, and so I open the big, garage-style door to my patio.

Jackson joins me out there, and we sit on the oversized lounge chair and balance the pizza box on the smaller chair that is the only other place to sit out here.

“I’m so sorry,” I say as I grab a slice of pepperoni pizza. “I get why you hated him growing up. I really do. But don’t paint Damien with his father’s brush.”

“The day after he fired me probably isn’t the best time for you to make that case,” Jackson says, and I have to admit I see his point.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Of course.”

I brush my fingers lightly over his bruises, leaving a streak of oil from the pizza. “Where did you go? You said you belong to a gym, but it was the middle of the night.”

“A fight club,” he says. “Bare knuckle. It’s gambling and it’s illegal, but it takes the edge off.”

My stomach twists. “Jackson.”

“Hey, I won the purse.”

I shoot him a scowl. “To the best of my knowledge, you’re not hurting for money. How’d you find the place, anyway?”

“A friend from my rough-and-tumble high school years. Name’s Sutter. He owns the gym I belong to. And as for the fights, well, he’s hooked in.”

“I don’t like it,” I say, voicing the understatement of the century. “I mean, it’s dangerous, right?”

“Compared to what? To boxing with gloves? Gloves add weight. More risk of head injuries.”

I put my pizza down. “Jesus, Jackson, why compare it to anything? It’s just dangerous.”

He says nothing, and I sigh. “Look, I’m not going to sit here and debate the right way for you to get the shit beat out of you. I just don’t want you to get the shit beat out of you at all.”

I shift on the lounger so that I’m looking at him straight on. “I meant what I said earlier. You want to pound something, then I think you should just pound yourself inside of me.”

His smile is slow and deliciously sexy. “All right.”

I blink, surprised by his quick acquiescence. “All right?”

“What? Didn’t you think I’d take you up on your kind offer? Did you not mean it?”

“No,” I assure him. “I meant it. I just thought that you—”

He cuts me off by taking my hand. “Listen, Syl. I can’t promise I won’t ever want to beat the crap out of something again. But I was thinking about your offer while I was watching you sleep.”

“Watching me?”

“Oh, yes. You’re beautiful, baby. I could watch you for hours. And so I watched you, and I thought.”

“And?” My palms are suddenly sweaty, and I wipe them on my robe.

“And the thing is that sometimes my fights are about temper, and I really do want—like you say—to just beat the shit out of something. And maybe I can rein that in a bit. I don’t know. But the truth is that most of the time, it’s not temper that sends me into the ring but frustration. The need to wrap control around an uncontrollable situation.”

“And I’m controllable?” Even as I say the words, I realize that my voice sounds breathy, and that my nipples are tight with excitement and anticipation. Hadn’t he said that I got off on submitting, so long as it was my choice?

Well, he was damn sure right about that.

“So you’ll use me?” I ask, my voice husky.

“Baby,” he says, pulling me close, “it will be my pleasure.”

nine

I stretch in the shower, then press my hands against the tile as the water pounds down on me, soothing my body. I feel sore and achy and very well-fucked, and I smile with satisfaction. If I felt this sore after a gym workout, I’d vow to not go again for a week. As it is, I want nothing more than to crawl back into bed, wake Jackson, and spend the day riding him hard.