I’m being sassy, but I do wonder. Do I trust all the wrong people? Will Garrett prove to be just like so many others in my life? Friends who ditch me. People who use me. Men who manipulate me. I am the common denominator in every single one of my heartbreaks. Whether I’m too much or not enough, I’m the one picking these people.
“These are as tight as I can make them. Are they okay?” he asks, tapping the boxing gloves he put on me.
“Yeah.” I wrinkle my brow. “My glasses. Can you take them off? I don’t want to accidentally break them.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Let me…”
His fingers comb into my hair, brushing it behind my ears. For the briefest of seconds, his thumbs rasp against my cheeks before he takes hold of my glasses. I bite the inside of my cheek in hope the twinge will stamp out the impulse to melt into his touch.
“I’ll put these on the weight bench.”
“Yep,” I breathe.
This is not why I am here. I’m not here to indulge in my crush. This isn’t a sappy romance where he kisses me and declares it’s always been you, or whatever foolish story my internal self is writing. I’m not here to get under Garrett.Not that he’d want that.I’m here to get over Miles, and the string of other poor choices I’ve made for my heart.
He guides me into a fighting stance. My left leg forward, and right leg back about half a foot.
“Let me show you.” He moves behind me, his body’s heat awakening my nerves as his strong hands land on my hips.
I sink my top teeth into my bottom lip to fight the little moan that wants to come out. It’s not like Garrett has never touched me. Playful bumps of my shoulder with his. The warmth of his palm at the small of my back in crowds. The brush of his fingers as he hands me something. This is different, though. The way my entire body zings to life with the firm grip of his hands on my hips is a little alarming.
“You always want to face your opponent. It keeps your center of gravity where it needs to be, so you can move when needed or withstand a punch.”
I twist to look at him over my shoulder. His mouth inches from my temple and hot breath kisses along my hairline.
“Should I worry about the bag knocking me on my butt?” My mouth lifts.
“Smartass.” His chuckle is silent, but every quiet beat thrums within me. “Let me take you through the punches.”
With a firm but gentle grip, his fingers press into my flesh, and I try to ignore the charge along my nerves with his touch. He guides me into the different positions. The hook. The jab. The uppercut. The cross. The heat from his body licks along my skin as he guides me through each formation, repeating it several times until he’s satisfied, and I’m left wanting more the moment he releases me. My entire body hums for his touch.
“Ready to hit the bag?”
“Yep,” I say, trying to stamp out the breathy quality of my voice.
If this is supposed to have me channel Feisty Jensen, all it’s doing is coaxing awake Horny Jensen. The one who listens to thedeep bass voice actors in my erotic audios, imagining it’s Garrett acting out the scenes painted by their filthy words.
No good will come from getting lost in those daydreams. Shaking away those thoughts with a wiggle of my shoulders, I step back into my fighting stance. With a slap of the bag, he starts to call out the punches.
It takes a bit before I get into a rhythm. The smack of my gloved fists hitting the bag and the melody of his deep bass meld into an almost musical beat. Jab.Thwack.Uppercut.Thwack.Cross.Thwack.Hook.Thwack.
Every muscle in my body burns awake. Despite the gentle ache radiating, this strange sense of joy surges inside me with each strike on the bag. It’s similar, but different, to when I do yoga with Catherine. With that, a Zen sensation envelops me. Right now, I am the opposite of Zen. It’s primal and fierce, as if I’m a fae warrior queen from one of my romantasy novels.
“If Miles were here, what would you say to him?” Garrett asks.
“What?” I blink, stopping my arm mid-swing.
“I didn’t say to stop. Keep going.” He slaps the bag twice.
“Bossy much.” My retort is breathless.
“What would you say to literary fuckboy if he were here?” He slaps the bag again. “Tell the bag.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. This is textbook homespun therapy straight out of a paperback self-help book.” I roll my eyes.
“Maybe Ms. MSW”—he shrugs— “but it works.”
I bark out a disbelieving laugh.
