Page 27 of Sugar Rush (Sugar Bowl 2)

Shaking my head, I give her a chastising look as I take my own jeans off. "I called dibs on being the hander-outer of dirty things."

" 'Hander-outer?' " she laughs.

"Shut up," I mutter affectionately. "And lose the bra and panties while you're at it."

When we're both naked, Sela crawls into the middle of our bed and I follow right behind her, pausing only halfway up her body so I can work her pussy with my tongue. Sela is so responsive to me--has given me her trust--that it never takes me long to bring her to climax if I hit her hard. But now I take my time, swirling my tongue in leisurely strokes against her flesh. I open my ears and hear her breathing get faster and faster. Her moans start out soft but get deeper the closer she gets. When I back off her clit, she groans in frustration and moves her hands to my head, trying in vain to push my mouth onto the exact spot she needs me to lick before she'll come.

I tease her mercilessly, not because I want her to suffer, but because I know it feels good to her. I also want to show her that I love this place on her body so much I'm content to just lie here on this side of forever as long as she's loving what I'm doing to her.

"Let me come," Sela whispers to me, her hips now gyrating wildly under me. "Please, Beck."

Smart girl. She knows I can't resist her begging.

Fluttering my tongue over her sensitive clit, I press two fingers deep inside her and curl them upward. Sela's back arches and she cries out, "Yes!" as she explodes against my mouth.

"Mmm," I hum against her, laving her softly with my tongue as she starts to fall back down to earth. "That was beautiful."

"Fuck me," she pants as she raises her head to look down at me blearily. "Now."

And goddamn...I love that blond hair. It's Sela, but she's different. Softer. More innocent looking, more like her deepest self that remains untouched by the horror she suffered.

I push up, place my hands on Sela's hips, and flip her onto her stomach. I know she wants a hard fucking, because she always does when I drag out her first orgasm. I also know that this position drives her absolutely crazy with lust, so I pull her hips up off the bed, take my cock in hand, and shove it into her without preamble.

"Oh fuck, that's good," I mutter as Sela grunts out her approval, her back arching once again from the pleasure of my invasion.

I pull out slowly, looking at Sela's blond hair spilling down her back, hanging over her shoulders. Reaching out, I grab a hunk of it with one hand, twist it until it loops once around my hand, and give a tiny tug. Her head pulls upward before tilting to the side where I can see a lazy smile on her face.

I slam back into her and she lets out a long groan. "Like that?" I ask her gruffly.

"Mmm-hmm," she purrs low in her throat. "Again."

With one hand at her hip and the other wrapped in her beautiful hair, I start to fuck her hard and fast. Withdrawing to the tip, ramming back in deep. Sela attempts to participate by pulling away and adding her own push backward, but I hold her tight by her hair and hips, making her stay still so she takes what I give her.

I once may have been worried restraining Sela in any way would be too frightening, but I have to accept that she's given me her trust along with her love, and that she's secure in the knowledge that I will only ever bring her pleasure.

Moving in and out of this woman, listening to her sounds and smelling sex in the air, knowing how she feels for me and I feel for her...there's nothing comparable to this feeling. So I continue to fuck her hard, holding her in place, and watch for the signs that Sela will come again for me.

I've learned them well.

Her fingers grip the bedcovers, she sucks in a long, deep breath, and a tangible stillness overcomes her for just a moment. I slam in hard, urging her release, and she gives it to me with a cry and another deep arching of her back. Her pussy clamps hard on to my cock and it causes my own orgasm to rip free.

"Jesus...that feels good," I groan as I press my pelvis to her ass and grind it out against her. She grinds right back against me, intent on drawing it out for both of us as long as possible until we fall into a jellylike pile of limbs onto the mattress.

I immediately wrap my arms around her waist and roll us to our left sides so I can spoon against her without banging my tattoo on the covers. Our breathing is choppy and our skin is wet with sweat, both indications of some amazing fucking.

But then again, with Sela, it's always amazing.

Her fingers stroke my forearm as she starts to settle. "So...you like the blond hair?"

"Love it," I tell her honestly. "You look so different, but still you. Very hot."

She chuckles, wiggles against my body to get closer to me. We enjoy the silence until a thought strikes me.

"I wonder if JT would recognize you now?" I ask her.

"I wondered that too," she says quietly. "It's been ten years."

"My gut says he wouldn't, because he's so self-centered and narcissistic, he probably doesn't even notice the appearance of the women he preys upon. I know this sounds bad, but I don't think he cares enough to notice much."

"I thought the same thing too when I had decided to color my hair. I didn't want to do it, but I didn't want to take any chances either. But still...my gut said he wouldn't recognize me."

"Still," I muse, "it's best we keep you two apart. On the off chance he would, I don't want him having any inkling we're on to him. Taking him down with surprise is going to be key."

"Agreed," she says softly. "And besides...we don't have much longer until this all starts heating up."

That's true. In five days VanZant should take a dive. Dennis says JT's bookie is poised to collect hard and fast, because he knows JT could be a flight risk with those stakes. I figure by the middle of next week, JT will be paying me a visit to ask for money.

And if not, then Sela and I will be at the police station, reporting her rape, and we'll let the chips fall where they may.

It's fight night and I've somehow slipped into hostess mode for the men. I've never entertained before. Cooking Thanksgiving dinner for Beck, Caroline, and Ally was my first and only attempt at playing Martha Stewart. I was terrified, mostly because I wanted Caroline to like me, but it all ended up being fine. So when Beck told me he invited Dennis over to watch the Mariota-VanZant fight with us, I immediately decided we would need snacks and alcohol.

I spent the morning at the grocery store and bought enough food to feed an army. My menu consisted of sweet-and-spicy meatballs, buffalo chicken dip and little ham-and-cheese sliders. My afternoon consisted of making these snacks and batting Beck's hands away when he tried to taste.

I then focused on making Devil's Brew, a secret punch handed down through the generations of the Halstead family. I had to call my dad for the recipe, as I'd never made it before, but it was pretty simple: brut champagne, vodka, brandy, frozen limeade, maraschino cherries, and ginger ale. Mix it all up and prepare for your worries to melt away. I thought it was important to have a concoction like this because frankly, until I saw VanZant take the dive, I was going to be stressing out about it.

Dennis came over at five o'clock when the prefights started, lesser-ranked MMA fighters hoping for their chance at fame and fortune. This was opportune, because it let me get acquainted with the sport and Dennis and Beck explained things to me as best they could. While both men sneered at my Devil's Brew, once they heard it had champagne in it, they tried it. By the third glass, they were mellow and

happy and waging personal bets on the fighters, yelling at the TV and high-fiving each other when something amazing happened.

I liked hanging with Beck and Dennis. It was fun watching them have a good time, given the heavy nature of the fight that was about to come. I was enjoying everything myself until about 8:30 P.M. when Mariota and VanZant were brought into the cage.

The fighters went at it in an octagonal cage bordered with vinyl-coated chain-link fence, which lent a sinister air to the match. I'd learned quite a bit watching the early fights, including some of the rules. Dennis told me when the Ultimate Fighting Championship was first created, there were very few rules in place to ensure the safety of the combatants. But over time and in an effort to legitimize the sport, rules had been enacted to help prevent serious injury or even death. That didn't mean there still weren't serious injuries though. In the ten preliminary fights before the main event, every fight ended with either a knockout--where one fighter was knocked unconscious--or a technical knockout, where the ref intervened and stopped the fight based on his opinion a fighter could not continue. It's a vicious sport where the blood flows freely. So freely, in fact, that by the time Mariota and VanZant enter the octagon, there's blood smeared over most of the flooring, and I have to wonder what possesses men to get in the ring to do that, especially when the pay isn't all that great for most of them.

"Anyone want a refill on something?" I ask the men before I sit down on the couch beside Beck. They both look at me and shake their heads, eyes going immediately back to the TV screen as the fighters are being announced.

Mariota is shredded, rocking a tattoo-covered eight-pack and a shortly trimmed Mohawk. Most men tonight had closely cropped hair or shaved heads so that their opponents couldn't grip their head that way. VanZant looks slightly bigger than his opponent, as he was in a higher weight class before he dropped down, but he doesn't seem as chiseled. Having watched the other fights, however, I also know this means nothing. In those fights, it seemed to boil down to speed and skill, with many knockouts, technical or otherwise, happening when one opponent went to the mat and the other straddled him, landing a flurry of quick blows to the head, or sometimes just a fast, well-placed kick to the head.

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