“Not really. Couldn’t stop thinking.” She hovers near the wall, gripping her elbows. “About the other night. About…everything.”
I study her for a minute. She’s been so damn stubborn recently, I almost forgot how innocent and vulnerable she was before I got ahold of her.
“You wanna talk about it?”
She shakes her head quickly.
“No. I want to do something about it.” She meets my eyes finally, and there’s something in her stare I don’t quite recognize. “Teach me.”
It takes me a second to process.
“Teach you what?”
She walks forward, close enough that I can smell her. It takes everything in me to hold back the groan when her sweet scent envelopes me.
“To fight,” she says. “I don’t want to be helpless anymore. I want to know how to protect myself if I have to.”
The words hit me hard because why the fuck didn’t I think of that? I stare at her, unsure if she’s joking. Her hands are clenched tightly and the look on her face tells me that she’s dead serious.
“You sure?” I ask. “It’s not exactly…”
“Yes,” she says, cutting me off quickly.
I grin despite myself.
“Alright, princess. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She watches as I clear a space in the center of the room on the mats. She doesn’t hesitate when I toss her a pair of grappling gloves. She pulls them on, flexing her hands experimentally, and I’m hit with a flash of something like pride…or maybe it’s lust. Hard to tell the difference at this point. My dick has been hard since she walked in.
I run her through the basics. Different stances to take up, how to guard herself and how to throw a proper punch without damaging herself in the process. She learns fast…almost too fast. She’s so fucking eager, it almost makes teaching her that much more enjoyable. Every time I correct her form, she adjusts, absorbing everything I say. I walk her through a wrist grab, and she flips my grip with barely any coaching like she’s done it before.
“Who taught you that?” I ask, genuinely impressed.
She gives a tiny, bitter smile.
“My cousin Andre. He used to practice with me when I was much younger, back before…” She stops and shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Before what?” I ask, curiously.
“Before my uncle decided I needed to be trained to be the proper wife, not to protect myself.” She blows out a breath and rolls her eyes. “A wife is to be seen and not heard. She is to obey her husband at all times.” She says it with such disdain that I laugh out loud making her head snap towards me.
“Someone should let the Italians know that their wifely training sucks because you don’t obey for shit, Datura.”
She doesn’t respond but I see the ghost of a smile slide over her lips before she schools her features and we continue grappling.
For an hour, we drill. She gets more and more into it, her body loosening and her punches harder with every set. I watch as sweat beads on her collarbone, her thighs flexing with every move. I can’t stop my eyes from tracing every inch over her body as I adjust her stance, my hand on her lower back. I feel her shiver, but doesn’t pull away from my touch.
“You’re doing good,” I say, my voice coming out rough. “But you tense up right before you strike. Try to relax so you don’t give yourself away.”
“Okay.” She’s out of breath and her cheeks are flushed. “Show me something else.”
So I do. I teach her a few holds. How to break out of a choke and how to reverse a takedown. Every time our bodies collide, the tension in the room gets heavier. I pin her to the mat, showing her how to roll me off, and she manages to throw me on her second try.
She sits up, grinning, breathless and fucking beautiful.
“Again.”
I can’t help but laugh at her determination.
