Candace moves with that clipped, purposeful energy she always has when she wants to avoid conversation. Her jaw is tight, her eyes sharp. Every movement is a measure of deflection. Controlled and deliberate, composing a melody in silence, each step a beat she can count.
Something has changed, shifted, since our dinner at Maggie and James’ house the other night. She curls up in my arms every night when we go to sleep and brick by brick her walls are coming down around me. The cracks are quiet but widening. They are there in the way she breathes easier when I don’t press, in the way she sometimes hums under her breath when she thinks I’m asleep. Off-key. Raw. Honest. And beautiful.
It’s becoming harder not to touch her the way my soul wants to, but I’m allowing this to go at her pace. Giving her the control she needs since she hasn’t had it the majority of her life. Still, my fingers twitch when she walks past, itching for the slope of her hip, the curve of her back, the soft place behind her knee where vulnerability lives.
Now she stands just a few feet away, shrugging off her hoodie, revealing that tight black sports bra and low-slung shorts that cling with sinful intent. Her blonde curls are piled on top of her head in a messy ponytail, tendrils framing her face. The air thickens, dense with something unspoken. My throat dries. The stretch of her bare abdomen, the glow of sweat already forming along her collarbone.Jesus. I want to sink my teeth into every inch of skin she leaves uncovered.
My jaw clenches. My hands flex. I don’t say anything. Don’t have to. The tension crackles between us, a static charge before the strike.
Coach Tompkins nods at us from his office, too busy with the clipboard he’s staring at to notice the silent war simmering between us. He doesn’t see the battlefield forming in the ring. But I do.
The gym is mostly empty, which is good. I don’t want an audience for this.
This isn’t just a sparring match—it’s a reckoning.
She grabs a roll of wraps off the shelf and starts winding them around her hands.
She does it with mechanical precision, but there’s a rhythm to it. It’s tight, practiced; a song without lyrics. Her thumb taps the edge of the wrap in a beat I recognize now. Four-count. Silent music. Her armor and her outlet.
I know she trained in karate with Coach Tompkins, but I’m sure he trained her in other forms of fighting since he specializes in training MMA fighters. She moves in a way only a woman who knows her own power carries. What kind of damage she can do. And fuck, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Still remember how to throw a punch?” I ask, voice low. Teasing. The sound of my voice makes her shoulder twitch. She’s keyed up, wound tight. Exactly how I want her. Alive and furious.
Her eyes flick up to mine. Cold. Unimpressed. “I remember how to land one.”
Damn. That’s my girl. Even her words land with the force of a strike.
She steps into the ring without waiting for me. No hesitation. No fear.
The bounce in her step—controlled, fluid—sends a ripple of heat through my spine. She’s in her element. And I’m in mine.
Just that fire in her veins, the kind that made men underestimate her right before they hit the mat. Not me. I never underestimated her. I just didn’t know I’d crave the way she burns.
I follow. Let the ropes slap against my back as I slide through. They sting, but not as bad as the ache settling low in my gut.
She’s already bouncing on the balls of her feet, arms loose, with a smirk tugging at her mouth, daring me to take the bait. She’s baiting me. And I want to bite.
“You sure you wanna do this?” I ask.
“I need to hit something.”
“Could’ve picked a bag.”
“I wanted something that hits back.”
I grin. “You always have been a little feral.”
“Still am.” Her voice is a growl, low and throaty, and it sends heat licking down my spine.
Then she comes at me. Fast. Sharp. Her eyes catch fire, two matchheads striking in the dark. Her fist slices the air with control born from pain and practice.
Clean right jab, then a left hook that grazes my jaw before I catch her wrist and twist just enough to throw her off-balance. Her skin is damp beneath my palm. I feel her pulse—fast and furious—racing against my fingers.
She spins out of it, low and fluid, coming back with a kick that makes me stagger.
I laugh. Can’t help it. She’s good. Better than I expected. And fuck me, I’ve never been so turned on by almost getting knocked out.
“Coach Tompkins teach you that?” I ask, circling her, blood thrumming with the deep pulse of bass in my ears.
