Page 15 of Tricked By Jack
“You’re not my keeper,” I dutifully point out, but his sharp grin says he’d enjoy proving otherwise.
“Tonight I am.” His grin is all teeth and hunger. “I better go.” With those parting words, he disappears through the curtain.
I exhale, forcing my composure back into place. I press closer, slipping between two thick-necked spectators until I reach the front where I’m close enough I can touch the ring.
The crowd shifts. A bell rings. And then the first fight begins.
If I’d paid money to be here, I would demand a refund after the first fight. It’s so tame that people start pulling out their phones, mindlessly scrolling instead of paying attention. The people here want carnage, not whatever that was.
The second fight is better, but it’s the third fight that really gets me shouting and cheering with the rest of the audience. As the fight ends, I make my way to the corner where a few guys sell cheap, lukewarm beer.
It’s not my favorite, but it’ll do. While I drink my beer, I keep my gaze fixed on the ring. Caleb hasn’t emerged yet, but I feel him coming. The low thrum at the base of my spine starts to pulse harder, a hunger coiling like smoke in my gut.
“Hi doll. Are you—”
“Out of your league?” I quip, interrupting the guy who moved closer when I wasn’t paying attention. “Yeah, I’m afraid I am.” I turn my back to him and buy a second beer before returning to the front.
A sharp whistle cuts through the murmurs, and the next two names are called. Caleb steps into the ring like he owns it. The crowd responds differently this time—everyone here chants his name as he holds his arms up in a salute of sorts.
He’s already soaked in aggression. Violence clings to him like cologne, and every step says, you bleed, I win.
While Caleb makes an entire production of removing his hoodie and flexing, my gaze flickers to his opponent, a tough and heavy looking guy with a shaved head and thick neck.
“Get him!” I shout just as the bell sounds.
They collide right away, and the first few blows are fast, clean. But then Caleb shifts—his stance tightening, body lowering—and he starts to hit. His fists find the other guy’s jaw, ribs, gut.
Each punch is punishingly precise, and it doesn’t take long before blood spatters, making the crowd roar. Caleb takes a hit to the temple, staggers half a step, and then laughs—low, mean, like he enjoys it.
He retaliates by driving a knee into the man’s gut and finishes it with a brutal elbow to the face that sends his opponent crumpling to the ground. It’s a clean knockout, and the crowd erupts.
While I join in, I press my thighs together, trying to quell the fire pulsing through me. It’s not just lust—it’s an ache. The sickest part of me gets wet for ruin, for the sight of men breaking each other open.
Caleb doesn’t wait for a towel. Doesn’t even acknowledge the men slapping his back. His eyes lock on mine as he pushes through the crowd, knuckles bloodied, sweat still slick on his brow.
As soon as he reaches me, I drop the half-full plastic cup and throw myself at him. I wind my arms around his neck and yank him down into a bruising kiss. My mouth parts for him without thought, tongue curling around his.
“Caleb,” I moan his name into his mouth as I become slicker with want. “I need you.”
He breaks the kiss abruptly. “Let’s go,” he growls, voice dark and frayed at the edges. His grip on me tightens just enough to make my knees falter. “Now.”
Words are beyond me, so I just nod and let him lead me back to his car. He throws open the door, and I slide in, skin prickling against the cracked leather.
He drives like red lights are a suggestion, and with each one we blow through, my pulse spikes higher. He has one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh. His grip is heavy, possessive. It’s only now, as I study him, that I notice we forgot his hoodie. Oh well.
By the time we hit the long stretch toward Riverdale, I’m pulsing between my legs and squirming in my seat. I reach over, palming his obvious erection. “I can’t wait,” I purr as I dip my hand beneath his waistband.
“Touch me, Doc,” he grunts, and I do. I wrap my fingers around his cock, squeezing at the base. “Fuck.”
“You looked so hot up there,” I admit while I stroke him. “Every woman in there was eye-fucking you—”
“I don’t care about other women,” he growls. “And you better not care about other men.”
“I know,” I say smugly, stroking him harder. “But I love knowing I have what they want.”
Caleb grunts low in his throat, hips lifting slightly off the seat. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to pull over and fuck you in the front seat.”
I consider it for a second. The way he sounds, the heat radiating off him, and the smell of sweat and iron still clinging to his skin is almost enough for me to give in.
