“Man.” Devon whistles. “Took her down like a boss.” He glances at me, one side of his mouth hitched up. “Nervous?”
“Fuck, no.” I’m buzzing just from watching it. “I can’t wait to get in the cage with her.” She’s my kind of fighter, and I can already see her weaknesses. “She’s not used to being on the back foot. If I push forward, she won’t know what to do with me. I might be reading too much into it, but I think she’s used to people being intimidated by her.”
He cocks his head, lips pursed thoughtfully. “You might be right. Hell, I’m a little scared of her. But,” he adds, holding up a finger, “I’m more scared of you.”
My laugh catches me by surprise and turns into a snort. My cheeks flame. Talk about embarrassing. “So you should be.”
He meets my eyes, and my stomach somersaults. Unlike the bartender, I have his full and undivided attention, and the appreciation in his gaze makes me feel things I ought not to. Tingles. Stirrings. Stupid little flutters in my heart.
Except for the novelty of being a white female fighter in Thailand, I’m used to flying under the radar. I get the feeling Devon won’t let me get away with that. He’s trying to drag me, kicking and screaming, into the light, and I’m not sure what to do about it.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I angle my face away, only to feel the heat of his palm as it settles on my thigh. His touch is light and casual but my skin throbs beneath it and it occupies my mind so entirely that I couldn’t even say whether the woman entering the ring is blonde or brunette, and I’m looking straight at her. All of my being concentrates down to his touch, and when his thumb rubs circles on my inner thigh, I twitch in surprise. At least, that’s what I tell myself it is. Surely the racing of my heart and rush of arousal are simply side effects of shock. Thank God there’s a layer of fabric between his thumb and my bare leg, or I’d be burning up. A sigh eases between my lips.
“Good?” he asks, voice low and wicked.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, determined to keep my focus on the next woman to enter the ring. She’s another from my tournament, and looks like the girl next door with doe-like eyes, more curves than your average athlete, a smattering of freckles, and light brown hair that’s braided to the nape of her neck and tied in a low ponytail. “What’s her deal?”
I sense him turn toward the cage. “Enya Sears. Everyone’s favorite girl fighter. Humble, tough, and cute.”
“Huh.” For some reason, hearing him call her cute bothers me. It shouldn’t. He’s a playboy, and he’s done nothing to hide that, but perhaps I like to think I’m the only female fighter he finds attractive. “Cute isn’t exactly a selling point for a pro athlete.”
“Isn’t it?” he asks, turning back to me. “Want to bet she rakes in the dough from sponsorship deals?”
His thumb has stopped drawing on my thigh, and I finally dare to look at him. “Ugh, I have such mixed feelings about those deals.”
He raises a brow. “Why?”
“Because sponsors judge people based on the package they present to the world, not on how good they are or how much work they put in. It pisses me off.”
“Why?” he repeats. “It’s not as if they’re all overlooking you. If you tried, you could probably bring in the big bucks, too. I mean, you don’t have that sweet and wholesome thing going on, but you’re hot as hell.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I’m not sure whether he thinks false compliments will butter me up, but there’s nothing I can say without looking ungrateful or vain, so I clamp my mouth shut.
The fight starts, and to my surprise, Enya Sears is more than just a doe-eyed cutie. She may not be tall or bulky, but she’s technically proficient and moves with the grace of a ballet dancer and the speed of a gymnast. Despite myself, I’m impressed, and excited for the chance to face off against her.
Game on, Sears.
Once it wraps up, nature is calling so I let the others know where I’m going and head for the restroom.
ChapterEight
Devon
The moment Harley is out of earshot, Gabe and Jase shuffle along and trap me between them.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Jase demands, eyes narrow.
I feign innocence. “What do you mean?”
Gabe scoffs. “He means that you’re putting your hands all over Seth’s baby sister, and it’s not cool.”
I do my best not to squirm. “‘All over’ seems like a stretch.”
“But you would be if you thought you could get away with it,” Jase says.
“I’m flirting,” I allow. “But I flirt with everyone, so what’s it matter?”
“I think it’s the intention behind the flirting that they’re concerned about,” Lena says, joining the conversation.
