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She flows through the punches as best she can, and pride fills my veins. She’s a fighter, Callie Thompson. Even if she is a fucking reporter.
“Just going to ogle me?” she asks sweetly and I choke on my saliva. That’s exactly what I’m doing.
“Keep going,” I say darkly. “Fifteen more minutes of shadowboxing for you. And no more sass, or I really will punish you.”
As I duck under the rope and head for the heavy bag, I swear I hear her say, “Do you promise?”
25
Callie
Two days later, Jonah still won’t let me punch him.
“Come on,” I wheedle. He’s in black pants again, leaning against the wall while I shadowbox to warm up. No shirt, which is unfortunate for my focus. Yesterday, he was just in low slung shorts, and I kept getting distracted. He’s a symphony of muscle when he boxes. Graceful and brutal all at once. The lethal edge to him only makes it sexier.
His gaze flicks over me as I move. After three days of this, I’m starting to get into a rhythm, my muscles and nerves following the beginning of a what I know for Jonah is a well-worn path.
“No,” he grunts.
“I just think it would be satisfying to land a facer.” I picture my fist landing on his face. “You deserve it.”
“I do.” His lips twist. I stop and stare.“If you tell anyone I admitted that, I’ll deny it. But I do deserve it.”
I shiver at his words, at the way he’s baring himself to me. Raw honesty and acres of naked skin. Is there anything hotter than a man willing to admit when he was wrong? Probably not.
“One facer,” he says. “But I have to show you how to punch properly first. Okay?”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
“Now keep going. Faster. Work some defense in there too.”
I roll my eyes but speed up, trying to snap out my hands the way he does.
“Stop.”
I stop, my breath coming short. Shadowboxing is harder than it looks. He’s frowning as he grabs my arm. Oh no. His hands wrap around bare skin. He never touches me. He’s kept a careful distance since day two, when he made the mistake of asking me to kneel between his legs during an ab workout. Our nearness needs to be carefully prescribed. My knees on his sneakers for sit-ups, my hand brushing his when I pass him something to sign. Never this. Warm, rough skin on mine, his long fingers totally engulfing my forearm. Focus, Cal.
“You’re twisting your arm too much when you jab,” he says. “You’re doing this.” He manipulates my arm and I can’t concentrate on the motion, because he’s close, so close. He smells good, like a rainy day, fresh earth, citrus, and oh, hell. I’m so dumb and so wanting. “You should be doing this.” He moves my arm again, fingers stroking over my skin, making nerves jump inside me.
“I see.” My voice sounds high and breathy. I think. I can’t tell.
“Do you see?” He angles his head. He doesn’t let go of my arm. He’s running his fingers over the inside of it now. Wrist to elbow. It feels like he’s stroking more intimate parts of me, and I shiver with want.
“You seem distracted.”
I nearly choke on a laugh. “I just need to warm up more.” He lets go of me and steps away, still watching. “Don’t you need to work out?” I drop onto the mat, refusing to meet his eyes, and start the routine of bodyweight exercises he has me do each morning.
“Yep.” He rustles around and drops onto the mat next to me. Don’t look. Don’t look. I keep my eyes on my feet. “I’m very behind in my workouts, actually.” I can practically hear him frowning with annoyance. “You’re learning fast, though. You won’t need my supervision soon. You can practice on your own.”
“Great. Great,” I mutter. He’s doing push-ups next to me, and I so badly want to look. I take a peek from under my lashes. The hard planes of his body look like they were created to tempt women to sin. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and I can barely breathe. Hair made to tug on, arms strong enough to carry you to bed, a back with muscles for you to dig your nails into.
The proverbial you. Not me. Of course.
I can’t have him. He’s my boss. He hates me. He wants to destroy me. But does he? He wants me to learn self-defense. He apologizes when he’s wrong. He meets an old woman for coffee every morning.
The woman. I forgot about the woman.
“So are you going to tell me about your breakfast date this week?”
