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I swallow hard, trying not to think about how close he is or how his scent overpowers my senses. He smells like leather and spice, warm and comforting but a major turn-on all at the same time. I want to bury my face in his neck and inhale until the scent is imprinted on my brain.
Taking a deep breath, I swing forward and hit the bag with a thump.
"That's it!" Porter cries, giving me a squeeze. "Perfect, sweetheart. Do it again."
I obey, throwing another punch, this time a little harder.
"Great! You're a natural." He laughs, and it makes me feel warm.
He guides me through the motions, having me repeat the same movement over and over again. Once he's satisfied with my form, he has me throw a few punches towards him while he holds a blocker. I don't have a lot of strength, but I'm pleased with how much better it feels after having the correct instructions.
"Alright, I'm going to leave you to practice that while I grab some weights," he says, turning and walking towards a nearby shelf. I watch him go, admiring the way his shirt hugs his broad shoulders, his waist tapered down, the perfect curve of his?—
"Oh, and Bailey?" Porter calls, not turning around. "You can put your hands down now."
I whip my gaze away, and I can feel the redness creeping over my cheeks. I have no idea how he knew I was watching him, but I'm mortified.
Mortified, but for the first time in a while, feeling so much better about my ex issue. Even if Porter is just my trainer, something about him makes me safe. Safe and alive in ways I've never felt before.
Porter might be trouble, but I think he's the good kind of trouble.
* * *
"You look like you've been run over by a bus."
Renae has been my friend since I moved to Chicago, maybe my only real one in the entire city. I moved here just last year to attend the University of Illinois for sports medicine, and now that school's out for the summer, most of the other students in my dorm are going home.
For me, though, it isn't that easy.
I am the oldest of four. When I was eight, my father left my mother for another woman and we hadn’t seen him since. When I still lived at home, there was barely room for all of us. Now that I've moved out, my youngest sister, who had to share her room with Mom before, finally has her own space. It would break her heart if I moved back and she was forced out of her new room.
So when the guy I had been dating for two months suggested I just stay with him for the summer and go back to the dorms next semester, it seemed like the perfect plan. At first, Ian promised to be a gentleman—he even said he'd sleep on the couch so I could have the bed. But as the day of move-in grew closer, he got weirder and weirder. Pushy, wanting to touch me more than I was comfortable with, the whole nine yards. I was starting to panic about living with him, even for a brief time.
My savior came in the form of Renae, a classmate living in a rental house owned by her family for basically free and who had ample room for me. When I confessed to her that I was starting to really worry about Ian, she immediately offered me a place to stay. I've never felt more relief than at that moment.
It also freed me to break up with Ian, which I immediately did. He didn't take it well, and that was when the stalking began. Which led me to the door of Brooks Boxing Gym and into the arms, literally, of Porter Brooks.
Which then led me to look, apparently, like I'd been hit by a bus.
"It's not that bad," I tell her, sinking on the couch next to Renae and fighting back a wince of pain. I’m going to be so sore tomorrow.
"Uh-huh." She snorts. "Tell me again about how you went in for training and ended up being the star pupil for a tall dark and sexy boxer?"
I roll my eyes. "It's not like that."
"Oh no? So you didn't get a full-body blush when he was standing behind you with his hands on your hips? I can see your face, Bails, and it's a dead giveaway."
She's right. Just the memory of him pressed against me makes my cheeks grow red again.
"He's a good guy. A gentleman."
"Yeah, a gentleman who wants to fuck your brains out."
I choke on my sip of tea, my eyes going wide. "Renae!"
"What?" she asks, shrugging. "You can't tell me that he doesn't. Every little detail you've told me makes it seem like he's a wolf and you're a prime steak."
"He is not!" I cry, setting the mug down and standing.
