He just lives for the drama.
“We need to shower for dinner,” Vanessa calls to Nate. Her eyes are sayingleave them alone. I can tell he wants to object, but after second thought, he sighs and follows Vanessa like the puppy he is.
Leo whistles and follows them, leaving me alone in the basement with my husband.
I squint at Maxim. I might be projecting, but he looks tired, too. His jaw is unshaven and his eyes are a dead giveaway to his lack of rest last night. We’re like a mirror in that way.
“Spar with me,” I say again. “I’ll forgive you for being an ass if you do.”
The tension is his shoulders releases as if he’s giving up the fight against this, and then he shrugs off his suit coat. I try not to look as delighted as I feel. It feels like bees buzz in my stomach, and something really must be wrong with me because the thought of hand-to-hand combat with my husband makes me more excited than any expensive date he’s had to take me on in the last few months.
He tosses his coat over the arm of a treadmill, pockets his cufflinks, and rolls up his sleeves revealing that snake tattoo that I sometimes have to resist outlining with my fingertips. His forearms are thick and my hands tingle remembering just how warm and sturdy they are.
He rolls his shoulders back as he approaches the mat. He’s much larger than me; in my sneakers I’m almost a whole foot shorter than him and I’ve seen him naked—the man is jacked. Even still, I could probably take him, I think. I’ve fought many large men and more often than not, I have something they lack: cunning.
Or speed. Sometimes both. Big guys are sometimes absurdly slow.
Maxim is smarter than any of the men I fight at Leroy’s though. It’s so obvious in his assessing stare, in the way he speaks. I wouldn’t have married him if he was stupid.
“Did you have a good day?” he asks once he’s got the gloves on.
“Peachy,” I lie. I was tired and irritable the whole day, a real joy to have around according to Leo who was sick of my attitude before lunch. “You?”
“No,” he says simply. “Shall we get on with it?”
I smirk at his honesty then get into my fighting stance, knees bent, feet light, fists up in front of my face. He lowers into one of his own and I thrill to see him poised as he is instead of his usual, stiff, businessman posture.
He nods, I nod back, and then we begin circling one another, slow steps on the mat. He’s wary of fighting me, trepidation so clear in his blue eyes. I take the opportunity to strike, jumping forward and punching straight for his face. He huffs and blocks, but leaves his side open, so I kick his abdomen, which is pure fucking muscle.
I knew it was, but feeling it with my bare hands on our wedding night is not the same as in a fight. An image of me sliding palms up his torso, down his ribs, down further fills my mind unbidden, and it distracts me enough that I almost let Maxim trip me.
I right myself and attack with a flurry of blows—none hard enough to actually hurt him, but hard and quick enough to keep him from being able to do anything but block.
When I finally let up and jump back, he throws a half-hearted punch in my direction and I duck from it easily.
“Stop holding back,” I spit.
“I’m not.”
I punch his right side, harder this time; he grunts and lets out an incredulous laugh. “I’m not going tohityou, Mary.”
“Mary now?” I taunt before I kick him, this time a good hit on his thigh that might bruise if I’m lucky. He deserves it for treating me like I’m a delicate thing. “Good to know the full name is reserved for when you deem I’m being a good girl.”
He drops his stance in surprise and I take the opportunity to kick him again. He groans this time, and shuffles back a few steps to recover, but I don’t let him. I run combination after combination at him until we’re both panting and there’s sweat dripping down my back.
“Comeon,” I yell again.
He shakes his head. “Fuck it.”
Maxim surprises me when he lunges. He’s faster than I gave him credit for and as fast as I can blink, he grabs around my waist and takes me down to the mat with a loud thud. The breath isn’t totally knocked out of me, but I’m startled enough that I can’t get free before he pins my legs under his. He uses his forearm to press my wrists above my head before I can really retaliate.
In less than a minute, I’m completely pinned. His face is so close to mine, that Maxim’s panting breath mixes with my own.
“You can’t help but be a brat, can you?” he asks. “I want to protect you and you act like I’m a misogynistic devil.”
He pushes my arms harder into the mat, and I glare at him. He uses his teeth to undo the velcro on his right glove and pulls it off to free one of his hands.
“You might be. Jury is still out on that,” I bite.
