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Kage (Kage Trilogy #1)
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My name is Jamie Atwood, and I’m an addict. I never thought I’d say such a thing. Never had a problem being overly-attached to anything in my life. I came from a perfectly middle-class family, made good grades, and had a hot cheerleader girlfriend… but the truth is, nothing ever really moved me. So how did a guy like me become an addict?
I met Michael Kage.
Kage is an MMA fighter. A famous one. I like to think I helped him get that way.
He’s charming as hell, with looks to rival any movie star and talent to back it up. So why did he need to hire me as an intern Publicist? Simple. He has a darkness in him– like a black hole so deep it could swallow him, and me, and everyone we know– and that’s not good for business.
The first time I met him, I felt the pull. I think the addiction began at that very moment. And even if I’d known then what I know now, I would have fallen for him. How could I not?
For me, Kage is everything.
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IRONICALLY, the thing that changed my life was the sound of the radio playing in the background while I was plowing my girlfriend on a Friday afternoon. By all rights, I shouldn’t have even noticed the voice on the radio— because I was balls deep, her head was thrown back, and the headboard was tapping out a cadence of love on the dorm room wall. But I did hear it, and a series of events was set in motion that, like dominoes lined up just so on a gymnasium floor, would not be stopped.
I had swung by Layla’s room after my last class, partly because I wanted to see how she had done on the essay I helped her with, and partly because it had been almost a week since we’d had sex. Okay, I didn’t actually give a damn about the essay. With our busy schedules— Layla’s cheer practice and club meetings, and my heavy class load— it wasn’t easy to carve out time to take care of business. To put it in the simplest of guy terms, I was backed up. So when I knocked on her door that day, I had exactly one thing on my mind: getting laid.
Layla answered the door in a filmy bathrobe, which surprised me because it was the middle of the day. I could see her nipples pushing against the sheer floral fabric, and the shadowy strip of pubic hair at the junction of her thighs— cheerleader thighs that had been perfectly sculpted by years of squats and lunges.
“What if it hadn’t been me at the door?” I asked sternly, giving her revealing attire a suspicious once-over. She just smiled and stepped aside to let me come in, and I pushed past her, catching a whiff of her signature mix of hair products, shower gel and perfume.
Layla was easily one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen— a blond-haired, blue-eyed China doll with delicately arched brows, a plush little mouth, and a body that looked diminutive next to just about anybody. I was nearly her polar opposite in looks. Five-eleven, muscular, dark-haired. I wasn’t extremely tall, especially for a basketball player, but standing next to her I felt enormous. She tweaked my protective instincts like no one ever had.
That is, until she opened her mouth.
You see, Layla’s mother had married a Mexican man when Layla was very young, and she’d grown up on the Latin side of town. Her tough barrio accent opposed her delicate Aryan appearance to a comical extent. She looked like she needed protecting, but she sounded like she might cut you if you rubbed her the wrong way.
We had met at the beginning of the semester when she took the seat in front of me in Western Civ II. About halfway into the first day of class, she turned around, fastened her crystal eyes on me and said in that incongruous barrio accent, “You wanna quit kicking the back of my seat, chulo? I can’t pay attention to the fucking lecture.”
I think my mouth hung open for the rest of class. I just couldn’t believe that hard-boiled voice had come out of the pale waif in front of me. Before I could forget, I had typed the word chulo into my cell phone browser and looked it up, thoroughly expecting it to be the Spanish equivalent to fag or asshole. Instead, I had been pleasantly surprised to discover that what she’d actually called me was… cute.
Our relationship began as a tentative friendship consisting of sharing Western Civ notes and talking after class on our way out of the building. I liked the fact that she was a cheerleader, and she seemed fascinated with my ability to be both good-looking and smart. Within a couple of weeks I’d asked her out on an official date. Our budding romance garnered a lot of dirty looks from the other guys in class, and I ate it up.
Now, after four months, she and I had fallen into a comfortable rhythm. Conversation was easy, sex was easy… just like today. After she let me into her room, we barely spoke to each other. I loosened the tie on her robe and let it fall to the floor, pushed her down onto the bed, and she opened her legs to me.
I always tried to make sure she got hers first, because there was no telling how long I might be in the mood to go. I went down on her until she was a trembling wreck, then climbed on top and pounded her tiny body with long, hard strokes, dragging out the pleasure as much as I could.
Several minutes later, we were interrupted by fate.
“Too hard, Jamie! Owww. ” Layla’s cries punctuated the ends of my thrusts, the breathy little sounds popping out of her throat more like hiccups than actual words. “Slow down, you’re hurting me.”