Touch Me, Daddy

5 - Kat.

...How could I tell?

The floorboards creak as I shift my weight. Is he really asking me that? Does he really want to know?

Is Pierro Rush saying I got it right?

"I, um." My words are hoarse. I clear my throat, but it doesn't help. "I've been watching you for years. The difference lately was obvious."

"No, it wasn't." He steps closer to the door, agitated. I jerk back, before I remember there's a slab of wood between us. "Not to anyone else. The guys I train with didn't even notice. No one did, not until you pointed it out. And now I'm screwed—pushed onto the back foot. They're talking about retirement," he spits the word. "So how could you tell?"

"I don't know," I snap, flustered now. I never wanted to cause him trouble, but this is my work. "I guess I'm good at my job. Shocking, right?"

He grunts, annoyed too, and then we're silent. Glaring at each other through the door, jaws clenched and eyes sparking. For a crazy second, I wish there was nothing between us right now. That I could feel the full force of his angry gaze raking over me, heating my body like a trail of wildfire.

My hand drops down, fingers tracing the deadbolt. Tracing, but not moving.

"I'm not sorry," I call. Jeez, why am I baiting him? A muscle ticks in his jaw. "I mean, I'm—I'm sorry it's caused you trouble. I'm not happy about that. But I have to do my job right, Mr. Rush. I have to be objective. I can't have favorites."

There's a beat.

His scowl deepens.

Did I really just say that? My stomach sinks.

"Favorites?" he repeats. He steps right up to the door. This close, I can see the flecks of darker blue in his ice chip eyes. Can see his sooty eyelashes and the glint of silver in the stubble on his chin. He's still pissed at me, still rigid and annoyed, but there's something else there now too. Something molten churning in his gaze. "Am I your favorite, Kat? Do you ruin the careers of all your favorites?"

Kat.

Hearing my first name in his gravelly voice sends a ripple down my spine. My toes curl against the floorboards, and I slam the deadbolt back and yank the door open, fixing him with a glare.

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr Rush."

"Pierro," he says, prowling forward. I fall back automatically, shuffling deeper into my living room. The boxer kicks my door shut behind him, and then we're alone, facing each other down. His eyes rove over my white crop top, a strip of bare skin visible at my waist; my pink leggings, clinging to my ample thighs; all the way down to my bare feet with my purple-painted toes.

Pale eyes flick back up to mine.

If another man burst into my apartment like that, I'd scream the building down. I'd run at him, brandishing a floor lamp.

But this is Pierro Rush. The man I've watched for years. I'm not scared, I'm just...

So. Freaking. Turned on. There's a coil of heat, winding tighter and tighter in my belly.

And I'm irritated. That's still true. Both of us are, and we square off with matching scowls and tense shoulders.

"I can't believe you just pushed in here."

He jerks his head to the side, like he's nudging off a fly. An irritant. Then ignores my statement completely, and says: "I'm not past my prime."

Seriously? I roll my eyes, and a little thrill zips through me at his answering growl. "The only place you can prove that is the ring."

It's not strictly true. I have lots of ideas for other ways he could prove it—it's hard not to when he's squaring off with me, so vibrant and grumpy and handsome in the sunlight filtering through my window. But I won't voice those ideas, not for a million dollars.

A girl's got to have some pride.

"I won the fight against Anderson." Pierro steps forward, and my chin tips back to hold his gaze. God, he's massive. I didn't really appreciate how big he is until now, feeling the twinge in my neck. "I win every fight. That's not enough proof for you?"

It's a fair question. Clearly, it was enough for everyone else—until my article came out, anyway. And now everyone's doubting. Trying to get him to retire, when that was never what I was suggesting. I just wanted the Pierro Rush magic back.

A car horn wails somewhere down on the street.

For the first time, I feel a pinch of regret.

I raise my palms in surrender. "You'll win your next fights too. We both know that. And everyone else will forget this and move on. They'll say you've still got it after all, and I was wrong."

He grunts, mollified, and it's almost sweet. Like he just wanted to hear my confidence in him. Wanted to hear me say he'll win.

"But you won't forget it." Pierro watches me intently.

I shrug. "No. I'll still be waiting for that Pierro Rush spark."

When he swallows, it shifts the column of his throat. He comes forward again, half a step.

"You've been watching me for a long time," he says quietly. The floorboards creak under his weight, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne. Something fresh and minty. Something delicious, like a fresh spring breeze.

"Um. Yeah, I have. It's my job."

"Watching me closer than anyone." Another half step.

I try not to think about that freaking poster in my bedroom wall. I've done some pretty shameless things while watching that poster.

"Maybe," I squeak. "I don't know."

And the sensation of Pierro Rush, famous heavyweight champion, inching towards me in my apartment—it must be how hedgehogs feel when they freeze on the highway in front of a truck. Everything is slowed down but unstoppable. Fated, somehow. And when he raises one hand, I brace for impact.

Not for pain—for a full body shiver. It rolls through me as his fingertips graze my throat, lighting up my nerves, and that heat pulses heavy in my belly.

His pale eyes narrow.

My heartbeat thumps in my ears.

"I could show you that spark right now," he grits out. Like the words pain him. Like he's pissed with himself for even offering, but he can't help it. Can't resist.

My lips part on an exhale. My tongue darts out, wetting my lip. He's still touching me, and I haven't had this daydream, this version where he hates me but also wants me, but I guess I must like it, because I tell him...

"Game on."