Fighter's Heart

Scene 14

Lena

I didn't realize it was possible to get so turned on just from hearing a growly alpha male make crude comments across the table in a salad bar. The fact there are people all around us—including children—barely registers. All I know is that he wants me, and I want him, and my single-minded vagina is throbbing between my thighs, begging for attention. Squeezing my legs together, I try to stop my thoughts from veering into the dangerous territory of wondering how Jase's stubble would feel against my skin.

Ugh, it must be morally wrong for me to be this horny in public. I'm already wet and ready for him, and all he's done is touch my hand. I'm not even sure I like the guy, even if he's not the violent asshole I initially believed.

"Lena?" His cocky grin widens, showing his teeth. He knows exactly what he's doing to me, the dick.

"Work," I say out loud. "Questions." Yes, that's it. "Will you answer more of my questions now?"

He sighs, and runs a hand over his damp hair. "There are things I'd rather do, but shoot."

Resorting to my notepad, I'm about to read the first item when a waitress comes to take our order. I choose a chicken salad tortilla, but Jase orders three separate meals without checking the menu.

"You come here often?" I ask when the waitress leaves.

"Yeah, they sponsor me, so I get free meals."

"Sweet deal."

He nods to my list. "What do you wanna know?"

A flock of pigeons take up residence in my belly. Now that I know Jase more, asking these questions feels personal. "You must earn a reasonable amount." I looked up his net worth earlier. Even if the estimate I found is a little off, it's impressive. "What do you do with your money?"

The question seems to bore him. He takes a drink from my glass again, even though his own is full. "I bought a house. I pay the bills and the mortgage. I see a physio and a massage therapist every week."

Nothing surprising there. "You mentioned yesterday that you contribute to charity."

"Yeah." He clams up. "Not much to say as far as that goes."

"Really?" I cock my head. "Are we back to one-word answers and evasion?"

He sighs, and rolls his neck from side to side. Finally, he speaks. "Most of my money goes to King's Sports Grants. I'm one of their major donors."

Because I'm a sadistic bitch who enjoys his discomfort, I ask, "Is there a particular reason for that?"

His neck cracks, and he rubs it, but his slate gray eyes catch on mine. There's something dark and unfathomable in their depths, and I can't look away. "If not for those grants, I'd probably be in jail by now."

Oh. This man gets more fascinating with every tidbit I tease out of him. "Why?"

He shrugs those massive shoulders, and glances behind me. A moment later, the waitress deposits a number of bowls in front of us. Each of Jase's meals is twice the size of mine, but I'm not surprised he can tuck away food like no one's business. He must burn through thousands of calories each day, and maintaining that muscle mass can't be easy. He grabs a fork and shovels lean beef and quinoa into his mouth while I wait patiently for him to answer.

"I grew up dirt poor," he mutters, looking like he'd rather be having any other conversation. He's much more confident when he's on the offensive, especially if that involves suggestive comments and glances hot enough to burn. "Went through the foster system. Never stayed anywhere long, but one of my foster fathers ran an MMA gym, and I picked it up easy. Got one of those grants so I could carry on after I moved. At my second fight, I met Seth, who runs Crown MMA. He was a big name at the time, and he took me under his wing. When I aged out of the system, I lived with him until I could afford my own place." He looks up and stares at me, as though daring me to look away. I don't. "There you have it. The sad story of Jase Rawlins."