Big Boxer by Cassie Mint

Six

Beck

It’s only been two days, and Lucas is wearing another black polo with dark green sweatpants, but he looks different somehow. More tired, maybe, or just harsher. His eyes are tight and his jaw is clenched.

Spark report: no sparks found.

I don’t say that out loud. I’m not an idiot.

“I want to apologize.” My words are so quiet, swallowed up by the cool air. I clear my throat, and force myself to speak louder. He deserves to hear this. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Lucas sounds almost bored, his frown fixed on my skirt. I shift my weight, but don’t reach for the hem.

“For… messing up,” I finish vaguely. I don’t know how else to explain it. All I know is I missed a really important cue back in my apartment, and when I did, I screwed everything up.

Lucas grunts. It’s not good enough.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and raises an arm. Gestures to the door.

“It was all new, you know?” I speak quicker now. I don’t want to leave yet. “I’ve never done that before. Any of it. And I know I reacted wrong, but it wasn’t—I didn’t mean anything by it.” I draw a deep breath into my lungs and hold it for two beats. Then gust out my confession: “I loved what we did. I mean, really loved it.”

Lucas looks at me, finally. His hard gaze has softened, but his jaw is still clenched, shadowed with stubble. He seems almost regretful as he takes in my white sweater, my loose hair, my nervous stance.

“That’s okay, Beck.” His words are a relief and a disappointment, all in one. “It was a hook-up, that’s all. You didn’t have to come here.”

“No.”

I can’t stand that idea. This can’t be—this can’t be it.

He’s Lucas Scott. The man I’ve been dreaming of, yearning for, all these years. And the worst part is, he’s nothing like how I imagined.

He’s so much better. Gentle as well as strong.

And for a crazy second there, I actually had him. Before I screwed it all up, anyway. But you don’t grow up loving boxing unless you love the rush of a challenge. So I pull together the last threads of my courage, draw myself up to my full height, and meet his shocking blue gaze head on.

“I don’t want it to be over yet.”

Silence.

Stillness.

Lucas rolls his head on his neck, watching me. Is this how prey animals feel? My heart flutters beneath my sweater, beating a mile a minute. He seems to get bigger, somehow, muscles swelling under his clothes, and the air shivers between us.

“So what do you want?” His words are gravel. Scraped from his chest.

“To return the favor,” I whisper.

But—no. His mouth twists, and I’ve said the wrong thing. Gone wrong again. He sits back, disappointed, and all that primal intensity is gone. Drained away like it was never here, was never mine.

“It wasn’t a favor,” he clips out. “There’s nothing owed.” He gestures for the door again, and this time he really wants me to leave. There’s a nerve ticking in his jaw.

I stumble forward, but not towards the exit. Towards the desk where Lucas leans, the table holding up heroically under his bulk.

“That—that came out wrong.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s watching me come closer. “Aren’t you a writer?”

“A sports writer,” I huff. “That’s not much help right now.” His feet slide apart as I approach, letting me stand between his legs, and that’s how I know there’s still a chance. Fierce joy courses through me, but I fight to keep my face clear.

My palms hover over his thighs. Not quite touching, but close enough to share heat. He watches me, face close to mine, his breath stirring a few of my hairs, and the faint sound of bass and boxing floats up through the floor.

“I want to do this.” It’s a hushed confession. Just for us. “I’ve wanted to for ages. Not just this week, but for—for years.”

He jolts, surprised. And okay, I probably sound crazy, but now that I’ve started my confession, I can’t stop. Lucas probably has a right to know about my crush. I know I’d want to know. So I swing my backpack around one shoulder, unzipping it clumsily and digging in its depths.

Lucas frowns, watching my hand rooting around beneath the canvas.

“Here.” I draw the square of folded, shiny paper out with a flourish, slapping it down into his huge palm. “That used to hang on my bedroom wall.”

He unfolds the poster gingerly, and winces down at his younger, cocky face. “This one? Really?”

I snort, because seriously? That’s his takeaway? And he laughs too, shaking his head, because this is nuts. So messed up, and so wonderful and weird. Lucas leans back and places the poster carefully on his desk. Like it symbolizes something precious.

When he turns to me again, his palms cup my elbows. His minty scent surrounds me. And I’m reminded again how big he is—how I’m swallowed up in his grip, how I’m dwarfed between his thick thighs, how even leaning against the desk, he’s taller than me, his belly brushing against mine.

Lucas Scott was right. He could hold me up in one palm.

He could pin me to the ground as easily as breathing.

“You’re blushing.” His voice is so much lighter now. Deep and rumbling still, but without the earlier strain. “Are you embarrassed, Beck Winters?”

“Obviously.” I flick his massive chest. “You’re not supposed to admit to a years-long crush.”

He tilts his head. “Why did you?”

“So you’d believe me.” My palms settle on his thighs, touching him for real this time. He tenses under my touch, but in a good way. Like he’s readying for something. “So you’d believe I want to do this.” I grin at him, unable to keep it in anymore. “I really want to suck your cock, Lucas Scott.”

He tosses his head back and laughs, the noise bouncing around the room. And he groans when I add: “But you’ll need to teach me how.”

“Ah, fuck.” He scrubs a hand down his face, but he’s smiling. He throws a glance at the closed office door. “A good man wouldn’t let you do this.”

I sink onto my knees. “Lucky for me you’re a big, rough boxer.”

He grunts, and then blunt, callused fingers spear into my hair. Comb through the strands, and scratch my scalp like a cat. And I practically purr, sitting back on my heels and butting into his touch.

“Sweetheart.” He’s strained again. “Are you sure? Some girls don’t like it.”

I smooth my palms up his thighs and pluck at his waistband. “Only one way to find out.”

He takes the hint, tugging his sweatpants down a few inches and drawing out his cock. He fists the hard length in front of me, squeezing the base of the shaft, and I fight the urge to bounce on my heels like a lunatic.

Is it weird to say a dick looks delicious? Because his really does. The skin is smooth, the shaft thick, the head ruddy with arousal. Arousal for me.

“Shit.” He slides one hand into my hair again. “You can’t look at me like that, Beck. I’ll be finished before you even start.”

I wet my lips, ignoring him, and he groans. He sounds broken.

But it’s nothing to the noises he makes when I kneel forward and lick a stripe up his cock.

Salt and soap and the faint hint of musk. Lucas is clean and delicious, and I inhale deeply as I lick and kiss my way up and down his shaft. There’s a bead of moisture gathered at the tip, and I lick that off too, grinning as his grip tightens in my hair.

Yes.

I want him rough.

I want him undone. Made primal by my mouth on his body.

The desk creaks as his hips shift, thrusting forward. Not by much—just an inch. But I take the message, sucking the head of his cock past my lips. I stare up at him as I hollow my cheeks, as I swirl my tongue, and he stares back at me like some kind of miracle.

“Teach me,” I rasp when I pull my head back. “Show me what you like.”

He growls, and then his hand tightens in my hair. Guides my head down until he plunges into my mouth.

He sets a steady pace. Bobs my head in his lap, fingers carding through my hair and scratching until I moan. The vibrations make him suck in a loud breath, make him bob my head faster, and I love it. I love it.

I relax my jaw, and surrender control.

If another man did this, it might feel like he was using me. But not Lucas. I’ve never felt so freaking treasured in my whole damn life. He keeps up a constant stream of praise, the thrust of his hips and the jerk of his cock against my tongue testament to the truth of his words. And when a tear gathers at the corner of my eye, he catches it on his thumb.

I stare up at him, chest raw, as he sucks my tear into his mouth.

“Beck,” he mutters, thumb shiny as it plunges back into my hair. I swirl my aching tongue over his cock. “Sweetheart. Fuck.”

“Mmph,” I agree.

When he tenses a few minutes later, swelling impossibly harder on my tongue, Lucas taps at my shoulder. Gives me fair warning. And I sit back on my heels, breathless and gasping, as he clamps a fist over the head of his cock and comes with a guttural sigh. His chest heaves beneath his shirt, and the tendons stand out on his forearm.

He’s powerful.

So manly and satisfied.

I beam up at him like he hung the freaking moon.

But as the heat in the room fades, the moment over, my smile slips a fraction. Lucas is businesslike, stepping around me and crossing to an en suite bathroom to wash his hands, the drum of the faucet loud in the silence. I push to my feet, smoothing down my skirt as I wait for him.

My knees throb. My jaw aches.

If he wants revenge, if he wants to make me feel as crappy as he did, now is his chance.

My throat is so dry.

“Here.” Lucas holds up a bottle of water as he comes back into the room, before tossing it to me gently. I catch it, hands clumsy, and crack the lid. The water is cool, soothing against my raw throat, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Like he’s smiling without moving his mouth. “You’re good at that. A natural.”

I snort, startled into a grin. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

“Then… thank you?” We smile at each other, and if it’s awkward, at least it’s friendly, too. So different to all our other interactions up until now, when we’ve been circling each other like spitting cats.

The truth is, I do want to be good at that. A natural. But only for Lucas, not for anyone else. And I want him to say it—to draw that line. To tell me I’m his.

“I have that class,” he says. My stomach drops, and he speaks quickly. “I’m not kicking you out, sweetheart. I always had that class.”

“Right,” I rasp, because it’s unreasonable to be upset about this.

Unreasonable… but I can’t help the pinch in my chest.

“Come to my fight tomorrow,” he says suddenly. “It’s not far from here.” His long legs eat up the room in two strides, and then he’s tucking my hair behind an ear, his fingertips lingering over my jaw. His mouth quirks. “Maybe I’ll find that spark if you’re watching.”

“Okay.” I swallow. “Yeah, maybe.”

We both hover for a moment longer. My throat is tight with words unsaid, and I’m breathing in minty lungfuls of him. Like I can fill myself up with him—long enough to tide me over. But then the music changes downstairs, and we’re jolted from the spell. I step back, raising one hand in a wave.

“I’ll, um. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes.” His pale eyes glitter. “Yes, Beck, you will.”