Page 10 of Dominate

He drops onto the couch beside me. The cushion tips. His thigh lands an inch from mine, no more, warm through two layers of denim. The sound guy leans in to clip his mic, and Micah tilts his chin up to give him room, and a scent rolls off him that I have no defense against.

My mouth waters.

Focus.

“Ten seconds,” someone calls.

“You look tense,” Micah murmurs.

“I look like this all the time.”

“Yeah?” His mouth twitches. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Three, two.” A finger drops. A red light blinks on the camera.

Jill crosses her legs and beams at the lens. “Welcome back. I’m here with the two men who will meet in eight weeks for the world welterweight championship, and I have to say, the tension in this room is something else. Zane, let’s start with you. This week, Micah Rivera has been called a lot of things. What is he to you?”

“An obstacle.”

“Just an obstacle?”

“The kind I’ve cleared before.”

“Twenty-three of them,” Jill says. “Micah, does that number scare you?”

“Nah.” He sinks back into the leather and drapes an arm along the top of the couch. Not behind me, exactly. Close enough that I feel his sleeve stir the hair at my nape. “Twenty-three’s a good number. He hasn’t met me yet, so it’s still just a number.”

“We met,” I say. “Tuesday.”

“Not in the ring. Different thing.” He finally turns his head, and those dark eyes drift over my jaw and shoulders, then slowly back up. “You’ve never faced anyone like me.”

“You don’t know what I’ve faced.”

“Then show me.”

The words hang in the air like a dropped glass.

Jill’s eyebrows climb. She glances at her producer off-camera, back at us, and I swear her whole face lights up like a slot machine.

I feel it in the base of my spine. A tug, low and mean.

“You’ll have your chance,” I say. My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. “Fight night. The cage door closes, and we find out how much of that talk you can back up.”

“I back up everything.” His knee drifts sideways. Touches mine. He doesn’t move it. “Ask anybody.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Then here’s your answer. I’m not gonna hold anything back on you, Butler. You’ll feel every bit.”

Christ.

Jill leans forward, elbows on her knees, glasses sliding down her hair. “Zane, you’ve been vocal about Oath MMA. Some people say you’re threatened by what Micah represents.”

“I don’t get threatened.”

“He gets nervous,” Micah offers. “Watch his hands.”

I look down. My fingers grip my own knee hard enough to blanch the knuckles. I peel them off one at a time.