Lisa
"Sophia Wang shoe style sells out after post-jail Jennie Kim steps out in them"
"Flawless board scrambles to save IPO"
"So you broke into her house and pulled the old Say Hello to My Little Friend?"
A meaty fist swung at me. I dodged and landed a blow on the behemoth's jaw.
JK Jeon was the size of a small country. The running joke was that his massive biceps should be registered as weapons. We'd been sparring together since before hangovers lasted three days and closing down clubs and strutting into work with lipstick and glitter on our collars got old.
"Had to get her attention," I grunted, absorbing the blow to my gut.
This was a friendly match in our favorite dingy gym in Miami. The warehouse hadn't been so much converted as two boxing rings had been erected in the middle of cracked concrete floors. Racks of weights and heavy bags took up the rest of the space. The brick walls were papered with yellowed newspaper articles about old fights.
It was dirty. Gritty. It smelled like sweat and testosterone. And it reminded me fondly of my youth. Always looking for a fight, a challenge.
"You got balls, dude. She could have had her security shoot you," JK said, ignoring my feint to the left.
That was the problem with knowing someone so damn well. Poker and boxing became more like a choreographed dance than a competition.
"I get the feeling that Ms. Kim would prefer to shoot me herself," I said.
"A little fire under all that ice?" He was a man of few words. Ex-military. A vault about his history. But our friendship didn't require encyclopedic knowledge of each other's pasts. We both enjoyed a good challenge and ice-cold beers after a fair fight.
We exchanged rapid-fire blows to the torsos.
"I believe there might be—" I ducked when he took a swing at my head and threw an uppercut. "A dragon under that very proper exterior." That kiss we'd shared had been anything but cold and civil.
Sweat sheened my torso and dampened my hair. My muscles were warm. I loved shedding the civility of a suit and stepping into the barbaric energy of the ring.
In the next ring, the local female featherweight champion was training with her coach. The sound of blows reverberated off the concrete.
Not wanting to be left out, we put on our own show of fast feet and lightning strikes.
"Manoban!" The voice was sharp and authoritative. And decidedly feminine.
"Uh-oh. Your dragon's here," JK said, in the clinch.
Action around the gym came to a halt.
Already amped from sparring, I felt the quickening of my pulse. There was something very appealing about Jennie Kim, and it went far beyond her billions. We broke apart, and I strolled to the ropes, breathing heavily.
She stood out. Surrounded by men and women in the throes of beating out their aggressions into canvas and flesh, Jennie stood coolly in heels, tight cropped pants, and a short-sleeved sweater in graphite that managed to be both demure and sexy. Everything about her was decidedly feminine, even the power, the temper, that radiated from her.
Her arms were crossed, and that razor-edged line of her jaw was tight. And I remembered in vivid detail just how those lips tasted.
"Jennie, what a lovely surprise." I was curious how she'd found me.
"Bullshit," she said succinctly. "You booked me for Christopher Bang's beach party."
Christopher Bang was an entrepreneur of questionable reputation. But his soirees were wildly famous. Attendees were in the news for days after a party and usually included the A-list of Miami's residents. It would be considerable controllable press for our tarnished billionaire.
"I did," I said, picking up my water bottle.
"You're in trouble," JK whisper-sang behind me.
I reached behind my head and flipped him off.
"I'm not going," Jennie said.
"Oh, really?" I asked, fascinated.
"Hey, man, I gotta roll. Meeting a client in an hour," JK said. He was a reluctant one-man security outfit and couldn't seem to stop getting business thrown his way.
"Thanks for the rounds," I said, deliberately turning away from the woman who was ready to breathe fire.
"You bet. Beer next week?" he offered, scooping up his gym bag.
"In the books." We hugged it out, one-armed man style.
When I turned my attention back to Jennie, she was stepping through the ropes into the ring, her $1,200 shoes neatly tucked in the corner.
"Are you coming to fight me?" I asked.
"I am if you think I'm going to that asshole's party."
"Fallen CEOs can't be choosers," I reminded her.
The action around the gym had picked back up, leaving the two of us in the ring.
"My job is to paint a new picture for the public. And the only way I can do that is by putting you out there."
"The man grabbed my VP of finance's ass and called me a stupid whore at a fundraiser for clean water in sub-Saharan Africa."
Asshole. "An open bar, I presume?"
"I'm not going. Which brings me to the most important agenda item: I now require approval on every event you're adding to my calendar."
"Forget the party. You stabbing Bang with a Jimmy Choo wouldn't do much to repair your reputation. But you are going to have to do things you don't want to do if we're going to clean this up."
She took a step forward and lifted that aristocratic chin. "All I do are things I don't want to," she shot back.
Her lips curled in on themselves as if she was trying to take the words back.
"Tell me," I pressed.
But the walls were back up. The temper banked down.
We were standing too close. She was in my space, and I could smell whatever delicate perfume she wore, feel the energy crackling off her. If anyone needed to go a few rounds, it was the wounded, frustrated Jennie Kim.
"I want vetoes," she said.
"Fight me for them."
Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." I tapped my gloves together. "Fight me for them. We'll go a round."
I expected her to scoff at the suggestion. To toss her hair over her shoulder and storm out. To fire me.
"I'll change," she said with a brisk nod.
My client was full of surprises.
I should have known I was in trouble when she returned to the ring in short shorts, a sports bra, and her own headgear and gloves in hand.
But I was a human. A stupid, stupid human.
I was too distracted by that lithe, athletic form. Her breasts were small and firm. Her abs were spectacular. Those long, long legs were strong and lean. Her skin had that Miami sun-kissed glow. Who knew an athlete existed under all those designer clothes?
"I'll go easy on you," I promised.
The dragon stirred behind those cool brown eyes. It was my last warning.
She decked me in the jaw, threw a body shot, and dropped to the mat to sweep my legs out from under me.
I went down like the big, dumb asshole I was.
She rolled, sliding her body over and around mine. My flight or fight system couldn't decide whether to be incredibly turned on or terrified. By the time I realized the danger, she'd locked her legs around me from behind and wrapped an exquisite arm around my throat.
There were hoots and chuckles coming from every corner of the gym.
I was no slouch in the ring. But I'd underestimated my opponent.
"I want vetoes," she enunciated in my ear.
She squeezed tighter, and my vision grayed a bit around the edges.
"You're not even sweating," I gasped out. My fingers were working at her arm around my throat.
"I kickbox for fun," she said evilly. "Now, about those vetoes."
I didn't have much at my disposal against her Muay Thai, but I'd be damned if I let her win that easily. Digging my heels into the mat, I worked myself into a bridge and forced all of my weight onto her chest. She could strangle me, but I could suffocate her.
I found the pressure point on her wrist and shamelessly stabbed it. Her grip loosened, and I rolled, mounting her on the mat.
There was nothing cool in those eyes of hers now. The dragon was awake and possibly even enjoying herself.
She hitched her hips and wrapped her legs around my waist, locking them behind my back. And then she realized her mistake. Those eyes widened again.
Biology reared its head. JK and I didn't throw blows below the belt. There was no need to wear a cup when I sparred with him.
There was also no danger of me getting a hard-on in the ring with him.
We lay locked together and sweating, our breathing heavy. My weight was pressing her into the mat, my cock hardening to concrete between her open legs where I had her pinned. I could feel the heat from her core through the spandex of her shorts and the mesh of mine.
Her legs never lessened their pressure.
She bucked against me once, perhaps to dislodge me, perhaps to feel the shallow thrust against her sex.
I was gritting my teeth. I was on top, but I sure as hell wasn't the one in control.
The feel of her beneath me was toying with the part of my brain that wasn't fully civilized. I wanted to close a hand over her throat and thrust like an animal. To feel her let go. I wanted to dominate her. Submit to her. Please her.
Her left hand fluttered on the mat, and I glanced in that direction. I never saw the right that she plowed into my face. It was enough to shift my balance, and then we were rolling and grappling again.
This time she won the top.
I outweighed her by almost a hundred pounds. I could throw her off. Probably. But she was straddling me, her thighs squeezing my hips like a boa constrictor.
Her chest was heaving with effort.
I'd taken a respectable number of women to bed. I thoroughly enjoyed sex. But never in all of my life had I seen anything as sexy as Jennie Kim, sweaty and victorious on top of me.
"One veto," I offered.
She squeezed me with those magic thighs, and my dick rubbed against her enthusiastically. The breath she let out was shaky. "Five," she countered.
I gave one small, testing thrust. I was a beast. An animal. I was seconds away from seeing exactly how far she would let me go.
Her eyes were unreadable.
Disgusted with myself, I tried to lift her off me, but her thighs tightened again. Dear God. This woman was going to kill me. I only hoped she'd let me make her come before she did.
"Not until we have a deal." Her voice was raspy, breath hot on my chin.
"Three vetoes. Final offer," I said.
This time, it was she who gave the shallow little thrust. Even fully clothed, I was the Ponce de León of female anatomy. I knew that my cock was coasting through her open folds. There were people in easy view of this tableau. Witnesses who could watch me dry fuck my client into oblivion.
"Fuck," I breathed. Where was that control I was so proud of?
"You must have left it in your other pants," Jennie whispered.
And now I was speaking my inner thoughts out loud. The woman was a witch. An enchanting temptress.
"What are you doing?" I gritted out the words.
She dipped lower until we were nose to nose. "Winning."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"Love, three vetoes or I'm not going to be able to control myself, and I'll do something that will go a long way in ruining not just your reputation but your ability to enjoy other men in bed."
She arched an eyebrow.
I groaned at the friction against my cock.
"Someone's cocky," Jennie whispered.
"Is that a pun?" I gritted the question out.
"Three vetoes and allow me to restate that there will be no physical relationship between the two of us. You're not my type."
The woman was a manipulative liar, and I was already half in love with her. I just needed to be patient, give her enough time with my smoldering sexiness before her resolve shattered.
"A physical relationship with you is the last thing on my mind," I groaned. My cock twitched painfully against her at my lie.
"Good. We have a deal," she said. And then the great and powerful billionaire CEO kissed me playfully on the nose before hopping to her feet.
I lay there on my back, staring up at the fluorescent lights that hung from the twenty-foot ceiling. What the hell had just happened to me?
A peek at the real Jennie Kim. That's what.
--
Me: Revenge favor.
Seulgi: My fave. Who?
Me: Christopher Bang.
Seulgi: Level of revenge?
Me: General douchebag. Make it sting. Make sure he knows it's me.
Seulgi: Lemme see what we've got…
Seulgi: Seems Mr. Douchebag has been bidding on a particular piece of art that the artist isn't keen on selling. Female artist. Takes offense to his hot mic comments regarding the "blow job lips" of the journalist interviewing him. He's got a hard-on for the painting and keeps raising his bid.
Me: Buy it and send him a thank you note for making the artist so amenable to my offer.