I bring my hand up in a controlled strike, stopping just short of actual contact. His free hand catches my wrist, guiding the motion.
"Good angle. More force next time." He doesn't let go. "A broken nose won't stop a determined attacker, but it'll blind them long enough for you to run."
"And if they don't let go?"
"Then you escalate." His grip tightens on my wrist, demonstrating. "Groin strike. Hard as you can. Don't hesitate, don't hold back. A man who's grabbed you isn't going to show you mercy. You don't owe him any."
I look up at him. His face is inches from mine, jaw tight, eyes intense.
"Show me."
"Mara..."
"Show me. I want to know I can actually do this if I have to."
For a moment, he doesn't move. Then he shifts position, wrapping one arm around my torso from behind, pinning my arms to my sides. His other hand comes up to my throat, not squeezing but present. Controlling.
"This is a worst case scenario," he says, his voice low against my ear. "Attacker has you from behind, restricting movement and airway. What do you do?"
My heart is pounding. Not from fear. From the feel of his body pressed against mine, hard and warm and overwhelming.
Focus. This is important.
"I... step on his foot?"
"Try it."
I bring my heel down on his instep. He doesn't react, doesn't loosen his grip.
"Harder. Combat boots or heels, go for the arch. Running shoes, aim for the toes."
I stomp again, putting real force behind it. He grunts but holds on.
"Good. Now what?"
"Elbow to the ribs?"
"Show me."
I drive my elbow back, connecting with his midsection. He exhales sharply, his grip loosening slightly.
"Again. Don't stop until you're free."
I elbow him again, harder. At the same time, I drop my weight, turning into his body the way he taught me. His arm slides from my throat as I duck, and I bring my knee up toward his groin in a controlled strike that stops just short of contact.
We freeze.
I'm pressed against his chest, one hand braced on his shoulder, my knee between his legs. His hands have moved to my hips, steadying me. Our faces are close enough that I can see the individual flecks of darker blue in his eyes.
Neither of us moves.
"Good," he says roughly. "That was... good."
"Thanks for not actually choking me."
"Thanks for not actually kneeing me in the balls."
My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
