Because Gage is like a goddamn immovable object.
Especially when it comes to this—to us—because he wants there to be something there and doesn’t seem content to walk away with just having had one decent night together.
Who the fuck are you kidding, Bishop?
It was more than decent.
My pussy throbs at the memory, and it is absolutely the worst time to be thinking about it because that nanosecond of distraction is enough for him to jab me in the ribs.
I wince at the impact, but I know it could’ve been much worse.
He’s holding back, just like Atlas does when we spar, because he has a foot and at least fifty pounds on me. Because we’re not even remotely in the same class. But what Gage has in size and strength, I make up for in speed.
Plus, the fact that he’s holding back only makes me want to fight harder.
I push with combinations that would send most fighters to the mat quickly, but he blocks and ducks and weaves fluidly, dodging my strikes the same way I have been him for days.
This is payback for that.
It certainly seems like it is.
And it starts to feel futile.
I push and push, charging and constantly on the offensive, and he looks like he’s barely breathing hard keeping me at bay. Regrouping, I fake a left jab and manage to slip my right arm around to punch him in the exact same spot where Atlas landed the blow earlier.
That does the trick.
He releases a little oomph noise and backs off with a grimace that only fuels me to move harder and faster. It might be the only opening I get with him to make my point.
I step forward with a combination and feet so fast that he doesn’t have time to regain his, and it sends him sprawling out on his back on the canvas.
He stares up at me with wide blue eyes, as if he didn’t expect me to take advantage of his misstep, but then I see it there…
The corner of his mouth twitching with his suppressed grin.
Because he gave that to me.
It wasn’t a mistake at all.
It was intentional.
“You motherfucker.”
I mumble the words around my mouthguard, and I don’t know if he can make them out or not as he climbs to his feet and circles around me like a goddamn lion on the Serengeti stalking his prey.
He throws a couple light jabs, testing out the distance, watching to see what I’m going to do, waiting for me to act, to move again, because he’s letting me lead. Because he knows I want to be in control of every situation, including this one. I want to control the fight. Force him to make mistakes instead of him intentionally making them to give me some false sense of victory.
Gage did it to rile me up.
Because he loves the push back.
He craves it as much as I love giving it to him.
I motion with my gloves for him to come at me, and his eyes flare with a heat I remember from the other night, one that sends molten lava flowing through my veins.
And I charge.
My flash of punches combined with my duck and weave, the way I circle him, all keep him on his toes. Keep him on the defensive. And even though his reach is far greater than mine, I manage to avoid almost every one of his blows.
