Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“And the love of my life.”
“You’re rotten.” She giggles. “A cat?” She shakes her head, getting back into position. “Okay. Hands up, elbows tight. Now what?”
She really does want to learn this. I respect the hell out of that.
We go through the basics—how to stand, position your feet, and to always keep one hand up by your face. She’s a great student, listening intently and trying everything I suggest with maximum effort. Seeing her so interested in the one thing I know how to do is amazing.
“You’re doing great,” I say, encouraging her. “Now, watch me throw a cross.” I extend my arm in slow motion. “See how I’m pushing off my back foot and rotating my hips and shoulders? Your palm should face down once your arm is fully extended. See?” I do it again. “Your left hand stays here, by your face, to guard.”
She watches me and then tries it herself.
“Not bad,” I say, circling her. “Shorten your stance. You want to feel solid on your feet.”
Her ponytail swishes across her shoulder blades. “This doesn’t feel natural.”
I know what would feel natural as fuck.
“Relax your shoulders,” I say, watching her carefully. “A punch should feel natural, not mechanical. Think of your body like a whip. The power starts in the ground, right? You push through your feet, drive through your legs, and turn your hips. The power goes through your torso and shoulders, then down your arm. Your fist is the snap at the end.”
“Thinking of it like a science project doesn’t help much, unfortunately.”
I step closer. She watches me out of the corner of her eye but keeps throwing her cross. My body hums as I make a choice that I hope I don’t regret. Because I promised myself that I wouldn’t touch her tonight, that I’d wait and make sure that we established this first. But I need to touch her to help this lesson … and if I touch her …
I slide behind her. Her scent tugs the ends of my frayed restraint, enveloping me in a warm, slightly floral wave. Heat ripples off her and pummels me. It lures me closer, licking at my resolve.
“We want to rotate as we go forward,” I say through a parched throat. I tap her hip with my fingertip.
“Okay.”
Her voice is breathy, overflowing with the same desire that’s currently threatening to overtake me. Her shoulders relax and her body pulls toward mine like we’re unable to stay apart. It’s the most natural, the most honest attraction I’ve ever had to someone and I’m not quite sure what to do with it.
I brace myself and then wrap my fingers around her hips. She shudders at the contact, and my cock twitches. She fits perfectly into my hands, her curve nestling into my palm like God used me as a mold to create her.
Or, maybe vice versa. Either way, it’s a match.
She moves and I guide her, sinking my fingertips deeper into her soft skin just above the waistband of her sweatpants. Feeling her move beneath my touch—the warmth of her body and the way it slips against my skin—makes me so hard, so painfully hard, that I can barely breathe.
“How’s that?” she asks, glancing at me over her shoulder. She’s not talking about the mechanics and we both know it.
“I’ll be replaying it all night.”
Her ass brushes against my cock and it’s not accidental. I groan, hissing as I try not to dip my hands under her sweats and shove them to the ground.
“Would this be a good moment to tell you exactly what I want?” she asks, turning to face me.
My thumbs are an inch above her pussy. They’re so fucking close that it’s temptation at its worst. She presses her plump lips together, creating the perfect pout, and all I can imagine is my dick slipping by them as she sucks me down her throat.
Fuck.
“Actually,” I say, clearing my throat, “it wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
Her shock is adorable. “I mean, these mats might look clean, but they definitely have MRSA—”
“What?”
“—and ringworm and God knows what else.”
“Oh, my gosh!” She shrieks, jumping off the mats onto the floor. “Why would you bring me here?”
I laugh, walking toward her. “Because it seemed like a neutral space.”
“So was Patsy’s. Or Piper’s. Or … or the middle of the street.” She shivers. “Do I need to go to the doctor? Do I need an antibiotic?”
“No.” I chuckle more. “I’m just saying I won’t have you rolling across them naked and sweaty.”
“You’re giving mixed signals, Brooks.”
Her frustration is printed big and bold across her face, and I’ve never seen something more beautiful.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll pick you up around one o’clock and we’ll go away for a few days.”
“What should I bring?”
“You won’t need lots of clothes.”
We share a smile. It’s heated but also intimate, teasing yet tender.