Free Full Contact by Sarah Castille

magnificent chest, taut and hard, and then along his broad shoulders, I drink him in with a never-ending thirst. Hot and hungry, my tongue tangles with his, questing, seeking, wanting more as I grind my hips against his thigh in an entirely uncharacteristic display of need.
    My actions inflame him. In one smooth movement, he spins us and backs me into the cold, brick wall. His arm tightens so hard I can barely breathe. And then he ravages my mouth, his tongue questing deep, as if he has lost control and the beast within will settle for nothing less than devouring me.
    I have never really, truly been kissed.
    Until now.
    I feel him with every inch of my skin, every breath I take. My breasts ache for his touch, my clit throbs for his attention, and my heart pounds in warning.
    But when I moan into his mouth, he tenses and pulls away. “Condition I’m in now…it’s like after a fight…I got no gentleness in me.”
    Bloodlust. The aftereffect of a fight. The edge of control. Tag told me about it, warned me to stay away from fighters immediately after a fight. But I have watched Ray for so long, lusted after him for so many nights, imagined I was the one in the ring pinned to the mat, I do the unthinkable and lean up and nip his lip. Hard.
    “I don’t want gentle.” I’ve had years of gentle. Years of being treated like a piece of glass. Years of men who held my hand and wept with me when I told them about my past because they couldn’t believe anyone would be capable of inflicting such pain. Years of wondering if my heart never pounded when I was with them because I wasn’t capable of being loved or giving love in return. Ray is the opposite of gentle. He is the opposite of all the men I have been with. Dominant. In control. He is everything I fear and everything I have secretly desired.
    “Fuck.” He yanks my head to the side, exposing my throat to the heated slide of his lips. My blood turns to molten lava, burning hot through my veins, but when he grasps my hands and pins them tight over my head, clasping my wrists easily in his broad palm, the lava erupts in a high-pitched shriek.
    Startled, Ray drops my hands and takes a step back. “Did I hurt you?”
    Damn. Damn. Damn post-traumatic stress disorder. Damn psychological triggers. Damn therapists who can’t make them go way. Damn Luke for putting them there.
    Stuttering and stammering, I manage to get out a few words. “I…no. Just…like my hands to be free.”
    He studies me for long time, as if he knows I’m not telling him everything and then he takes another step back. “This wasn’t a good idea. Especially now. When I can’t pull it back.”
    I draw in a ragged breath, my arousal a living beast inside me, desperate, hungry, and howling at the possibility of being denied. “But…you didn’t hurt me.”
    “Don’t know what I was thinking,” he says, half to himself. “When I thought you were in danger, and then you were okay…” He scrapes his hand through his hair. “Fuck…just…lost it. You’re a sweet girl. This was a mistake.”
    Sweet? With my tats and leather pants? Doc Martens and pink-streaked hair? Broken isn’t sweet, but he must sense I’m not normal because he’s walking away. Normal girls don’t shriek when mouthwatering, hot, sexy fighters hold their hands above their heads the way they fantasize about almost every night.
    Maybe I should tell him it’s just a quirk and I’m not looking for a relationship or even a date. Just one time. Here. Now. Him. But clearly it isn’t meant to be.
    “Sia.” Tag rounds the corner and jogs up the alley toward me, stopping when he meets up with Ray.
    “Don’t know how I can ever thank you for looking out for my sis. The guys outside told me what you did. If you hadn’t been there…” Tag chokes up and gives Ray a manly thump on the shoulder. Ray nods.
    “Gotta go give a statement.” He turns the corner. And then he’s gone.
    * * *
    An hour later, I am sitting in Tag’s