I raise an eyebrow. “I spent the day punching men—and women—into the mats and then folding them into pretzels.”
That surprises a laugh out of her. “Okay, fine, maybe not everyone’s average day.” A twinkle of interest appears in her eyes. “Do you really train with both men and women?”
“Of course. Some of the best training partners I have are women.”
Leaning her elbow on the armrest of the couch, she props her head on her fist. It’s the most relaxed pose I’ve seen her in. “Do you have to go easier on them? Since I’m assuming they’re smaller than you?”
“Depends what I’m doing,” I answer, adopting a mirror image of her pose. Even though we’re not talking about her, Ilike that we’retalkingwithout innuendos or hidden agendas. “If we’re sparring, I’m not throwing punches full force at a woman’s head, because that doesn’t help anyone.” I frown. “Although to be fair, I rarely do that with men, either.”
Her lips pull into a small, natural smile. I want to freeze the moment and paint it.
“So then whendoyou go full force?” she asks curiously.
“When we’re doing jiu-jitsu. There’s no striking, so you don’t have to pull any power. It mostly comes down to strategy. It’s like chess.” I cock my head in contemplation. “To be honest, they probably have an advantage in that sense. A lot of men are used to throwing their muscles around in physical sports, but women get to rely on the thing they’ve spent their entire lives sharpening: their brain.” I wave at nothing in particular as I finish the thought. “Plus, they’re quicker, more flexible, and they don’t know what the word tired means.”
When I turn my attention back to Daisy, I find her frozen, staring at me. But I can’t read a single thought in her eyes.
I smile awkwardly. “What? I can admit the truth.”
That somehow makes her eyes go wider.
My gaze narrows on hers as I ask, “What part of that just threw you?”
She shakes her head, as if to clear it. “I just… I’ve never met a feminist before.”
My bark of laughter startles her. “Sorry,” I say with a chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called a feminist.”
Her confusion grows. “Really? What else would you call that?”
“That I consider women in the gym my equals?”
“Well…yeah.”
“Being a decent human? And, to be fair, it’s much harder to argue the fact when I’m smacked in the face with it on the daily.”
Her forehead creases with a frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I get my ass regularly handed to me by women. So I can’t exactly say I’m better than them.”
I haven’t really thought about how sex workers might view men and women. I guess I assumed they would look down on men for having to pay a woman for her company. And it makes sense that they would assume men would think ofthemselvesas superior, simply because of the stereotypes about sex workers.
Leaning back against the couch with a heavy exhale, she says, “I can’t even picture it.”
I only hesitate for a moment before asking, “Want me to show you?”
Her mouth twists with a smirk. “What, do you have videos of women beating you? I figured you liked being told what to do, but I wouldn’t have guessed a masochism kink.”
A flash of heat runs through my body, and before I can stop it, I nearly growl. “I might argue that giving you the power to put your soaked thong in my mouth makes me the opposite of a masochist.”
All amusement drops from her expression, and I watch her pulse pick up speed in her neck.
But before she can make this sexual—that’s not what I’m trying to accomplish with her—I stand from the couch and extend a hand.
“I meant I can show you how to kick my ass.”
She looks at my hand, clearly wanting to take it, but first she says, “Starting to sound like a masochism kink, Nico.”
I throw my head back with a laugh. “Just take my hand, Red.”
