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“Do you have to be naked to box?”
“No. But if you want me to be—” He tugs at the waistband of his shorts, and I make a horrified sound. He smirks.
“No.” I shake my head. “I want a fighting chance. Which means—” I pull off my own gloves and shirt, until I’m standing before him in the hot pink bra that matches my leggings. “Ready.” I give him a winning smile, but he doesn’t even see it. No, he’s too busy cataloging every part of my body with his eyes. Ha.
“What do I get if I win?” I’m securing my gloves, ready to fight.
His head jerks up, his eyes dark with desire. “You’re not going to win.”
“Give a girl something to fight for.”
He considers me. “Okay. If you can get one punch in, I’ll tell you a secret.” A secret. My very favorite thing. Jonah knows exactly how to tempt me.
“Oh, I like that. And if you win, I’ll tell you one.” I wink at him, before we bump fists and move to the center of the ring.
“Guard up. I’m not going to punch you, but you should be ready for anything. Like a real fight.”
I raise my hands obediently, keeping my knees bent, trying to move like Jonah showed me. I go for a jab, but he dances away.
“Again,” he says. “Use the jab to keep me at arm’s length. Otherwise—” He steps in close and before I can react, kisses my neck. “You’re dead.” His eyes are sparkling when he darts back.
I stick out my tongue, but extend my left arm, using it to keep him away. “Good. Now come in for the cross. Right in the face. Come on.” He’s eager for this, and suddenly I see why he does fight night. He’s alive in the ring, electric in a way he isn’t in meetings. I go for a cross, trying to carry through on my hip, the way he showed me. He pulls back easily, just a quick pop of his hips.
“Come on, Thompson.” He beckons. “You hit like a girl.”
“Ooh. You didn’t.” I narrow my eyes and go for another jab-cross combination. He ducks, and irritation flares.
Twenty minutes later, I still haven’t landed a punch and Jonah is barely breathing hard. I, however, am a sweat-slicked mess. My face is hot, my hair is frizzing out of its bun. Jonah’s skin glistens with a light sheen of sweat, from ducking and dancing away from every punch.
“You’re very annoying,” I say, panting slightly. “Was this your signature move in the ring? Just annoying people to death?”
“You want to see my signature moves?”
“Anything to end the humiliation.”
“Let’s go.” He swings out of the ring and heads to the heavy bag. “Watch. Speed, then power. When I hold my hand out like this—” He demonstrates. “It’s called a post. I have long arms. Not as long as Jason’s friend Andrew, but pretty long. I can keep an opponent at a distance, then use my speed to go in when they least expect it.” His words are matter of fact, not bragging. But then he lifts his hands and lunges at the bag so hard it shudders on its chains.
“Damn,” I breathe.
“Yeah.” Now the look on his face is a little cocky. “Again.”
I’m fired up now from watching him box, but I’m distracted. Sweat is sliding down his body, and it’s practically pornographic. After a particularly inelegant lunge toward him, I bend over to catch my breath. Jonah lounges against the ropes.
“You should box again,” I say between panting breaths.
He doesn’t respond, and when I look up, his face is shuttered. “You should,” I press. “You love it. I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Like what?” he bites out.
He’s not going to like this, but I need to say it anyway. “Alive. You’re so alive. You told me you missed it.”
“Billionaires don’t box,” he says shortly, looking away.
“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes. “Miles has his surfing. Theo has something, I’m sure. Lots of your competitors have hobbies.”
“Rich person hobbies,” he bites out. “When I boxed, it wasn’t pretty. I boxed for money. I boxed in underground fighting rings. Yes, there were sanctioned competitions, but most of the time, there was no glory. Just blood, sweat, and shouting.”
I shiver at the thought of Jonah there amid the dirt and sweat and bodies. The image is primal and terrifying. “I bet you came out on top, though.”
