A second later, his head fell against her shoulder and his grip on her waist was so tight, she expected bruises the next morning, but she didn’t care. His fingers grazed her inner thigh and she swallowed hard. His hand moved to the edge of her panties and his fingers dug deeper into the flesh at her hip. Her breath caught.

“Am I hurting you?” he murmured.

No . . . yes . . . who cares? The intense pleasure of anticipation waiting for his touch outweighed the slight discomfort of pressure as his fingers pressed into her skin.

“Let’s go to your bedroom,” he said, wrapping his hands around her thighs and effortlessly lifting her out of the water and setting her onto the pool deck. He hoisted himself up over the edge and then lifting her into his arms, he headed into the house. “Where is it?”

“Upstairs, first door on the right,” she whispered, her body shaking in anticipation. She kissed the edge of his jawline, liking the feel of his stubble against her lips—the perfect permanent five o’clock shadow she’d longed to reach out and touch since the day they’d met. He ascended the stairs and she traced her fingers along his neck, feeling him swallow hard.

“Parker, if you don’t stop, I’m taking you right here on the stairs.”

“Mmmm, haven’t done it here before,” she whispered, biting the edge of his ear.

“Challenge accepted,” he said, lowering her to the stairs, midway from the top.

She laughed as she lifted her hips. He grabbed the edge of her wet panties and pulled them down her legs. Tossing them to the bottom of the staircase, he knelt on the lower stair in front of her. His big, rough hands traveled the length of her wet inner thighs, chasing the drops of water away, and she let out a deep breath.

Come on, Tyson. She was aching for his touch . . .

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his hand sliding down her stomach and resting against the pale mound of swollen flesh between her legs.

She moaned as she felt him parting her, then the pressure of his fingers as they entered her. She lifted her hips, wanting him to go deeper, farther, faster, harder . . .

“I need to taste you,” he murmured as he placed a trail of kisses along her inner high. His fingers continued to explore and his thumb teased her clit.

“I don’t know if I’ll last that long,” she said, the ache inside of her growing stronger with each flick of his thumb.

He slowly slid his fingers from her and she moaned. “No, don’t stop . . .” But a second later, his head was between her thighs and his tongue licked over her . . . inside of her . . . sucking gently at first, then harder . . .

She felt dizzy as she gripped the edge of the stairs at her sides. This was it. This was really happening. Two weeks of foreplay ensured this first time with him wouldn’t last long. She felt herself tighten and clench beneath his mouth. “Tyson . . .”

Then he pushed his fingers back inside, and there was no stopping the rippling sensations of ecstasy that overtook her. “Fuck, yes, Oh my God, Tyson, yes . . .” she cried out, her hands gripping the stairs as her body shuddered in release.

He took his time leaving her, licking gently as he eased his fingers back out. When he raised his head to look at her, the need and want in his eyes made her ready for him again immediately.

Would she ever get enough of him?

Rising slowly, she took his hand and led the rest of the way down the long hallway to her bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door and dropped to her knees in front of him. “Your turn.”

*   *   *

“So what is it about fighting you love so much?” Parker asked hours later, her head resting on his chest in her king-sized four-poster bed. She traced circles around his nipples, tickling him, and he reached for her hand, holding it to his chest.

“Are you trying to get inside my head?”

She laughed. Moving away and grabbing a pillow, she tucked it beneath her chest and propped herself up on her elbows. “That would be impossible. No, I’m just curious. Consider it research for the role.”

He rolled to his side, resting his head on his hand. “Fighting was never really an option—when you come from a family of athletes and a father who was once considered best in the world, you have an obligation, an expectation, to continue that legacy. It’s not that I love to fight . . . it’s just that it’s in my blood.” He didn’t expect her to get it. No one really did unless they’d come from a similar background and upbringing. It wasn’t about enjoying dominating an opponent, it was about knowing he could.

She nodded. “Makes sense. So, where did the fight name ‘The Sledgehammer’ come from?”

“When I first started fighting, people just always called me ‘Baby Reed’ . . .”

“Because of your dad’s career?”

He nodded. “Man, I hated that name. Then after my fourth straight knockout win with an overhand right, dad had ‘The Sledgehammer’ embossed on all my fight gear.” He hadn’t chosen the name for himself, but it had fit and it stuck. And it sure as hell was better than “Baby Reed.”

“That’s how you usually end a fight? With an overhand right?”

“Yes. About 80 percent of my fights go that way.”

She frowned. “By now, aren’t your opponents expecting it? I mean, they must have watched your previous fights. Wouldn’t they just move out of the way?”

As if it were that easy. She was cute. “Yes, they do expect it and they do move out of the way—the smart ones, at least. That just means I need to work on learning how to attack against their defense of the move. The guys at the gym avoid getting hit with it all the time and I train harder to learn different ways of setting it up.”

“Why not just win a different way?”

“Who says I know how to win any other way?”

“I’m not going to feed your already overinflated ego,” she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder, revealing the soft, irresistible skin at her neck.

He leaned forward to kiss it, but she held him away. “I’m not finished with my questions yet.”

“Seriously? You’d rather talk?” he asked, pulling her toward him.

She resisted. “Yes.”

He sighed. Talking it is. “All right. What else do you want to know?”

“Has your dad always been your trainer?”

“I don’t trust anyone else. I mean, I have coaches for each aspect of my fight plan, who specialize in different areas and I spend about 90 percent of my time with them now, but ‘The Steel Fist’ is the only one I know has my best interests at heart . . . even if he goes about things a little differently than most coaches.”

“What do you mean?”

He hesitated, glancing quickly at the clock on her bedside table. Pillow talk after mind-blowing sex was not his thing, but she was staring at him with open curiosity and interest. “Well, for example, my first real fight at sixteen. I wake up at dawn, we drive to the gym, and start training. About two hours in, he says, ‘By the way, it’s fight day.’”

Her eyes widened. “He told you that day?”

He nodded, the memory of it returning. He’d been nervous to get in the cage but eager to prove himself at the same time. “Yeah. He didn’t want me to know weeks before and stress myself out. He wanted me to train every day the way I had been without the worry of an upcoming fight in the back of my mind.” His father had taught him to train as though every day was fight day and therefore he knew he was ready that day when his dad had announced the fight.

“What happened?”

“I won,” he said with a smile, remembering that first taste of victory. The cheer of the crowd as his hand was raised. He’d won with a TKO after several combinations had staggered his opponent—a kid two years older.

“And you’ve been winning ever since?”

“Not exactly. I lost my next fight after that. It was the same as the first—I was told the day of, I hadn’t spent hours watching my fighter’s previous fights . . . and it turned out the guy was a submission specialist, a Gracie family member.” The Gracies were well-known in the sport for having their own style of jujitsu and if a fighter hadn’t trained to fight one of them, they were sure to be submitted. Just as he was—with an arm bar in the first round.