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I sank down as close to a crouch as possible given his hold, then shot up from the soles of my feet, Lo's teachings making it clear that the momentum on the way down could break the hold of someone much stronger than me.
Because they won't anticipate it.
The problem was, this attacker wasn't just any laymen on the street. This was a fellow teacher at a gym that taught Krav Maga.
Of course he knew the move.
Of course he was expecting it.
So his hold loosened slightly, rendering my impact completely useless with his lighter grip.
My feet landed, ricocheting pain up my ankles and knees, and making his arm slide.
It wasn't on my waist any longer.
Oh no.
His whole hand was cradling the underside of my breast, his fingertips splaying the whole side of the admittedly undersized swell.
And everything in me froze.
My heart seized in my chest.
My blood stopped coursing through my veins.
My lungs forgot how to inflate and draw in breath.
In fact, the only parts of me that seemed even remotely capable of functioning were my nipples which hardened almost instantly, straining against the thin ribbed material of the wifebeater, making me, for the first time, curse myself for not wearing a bra. And, well, there was no use trying to feign modesty here, that was never a condition I was ever afflicted with. My pussy tightened hard and a rush of wet met my panties.
Turned on.
Good god, I had never been so turned on so quickly before.
Realizing the inappropriateness, Edison's hand moved. But by moving, it had to graze over the breast again, sending a shiver through me.
And if you were wondering, no, of course it couldn't be the kind of shiver that moved through your insides, stayed a private little secret.
Nope.
If I learned anything about myself over the years, it was Lady Luck did not know how to pronounce my damn name.
This shiver moved through my insides deliciously and worked its way outward, causing my whole body to tremble slightly once.
And thanks to still being plastered against his chest, there was no way in hell he didn't feel it.
Me, well, I was never exactly known for keeping my mouth shut.
I was not the kind of woman who fretted about it silently, giving herself a panic attack over simple shit that could have just as easily been addressed and moved on from.
"Okay, we are going to go ahead and move on, pretending your hand didn't just grab my tit," I told him, for some reason not moving to turn around, staying against his solid chest.
"Yeah?" he asked, his breath warm on my ear, almost enough to send another shiver through me. Almost. "Are we also going to pretend you didn't just tremble from my hand just barely grazing you, love?"
Oh, good god.
The pressure on my lower stomach was becoming positively painful, making me curse myself for not having a preemptive vibrator sesh before hitting the road this morning to meet my hot-as-fuck instructor whose hands I knew were going to be all over me.
Stupid move.
"Yes," I said, finding my voice, forcing my feet to take my weight and turn me to face him. "That is exactly what we are going to do."
He leaned slightly forward, invading my space, stealing my air, his lips pulled up in a hint of a smirk at one side. "See, I think that might be easier said than done."
"Try harder," I suggested, raising a brow. "If you'd show me a pressure point, I could have you writhing in pain, and forgetting all about the shiver."
"Yeah?" he asked, sounding completely unconvinced as his hand rose. "Would that help me forget this too?" he asked, finger moving out to swipe across my still-hardened nipple, making a tremble move through me. This time, luckily, just on the inside.
But when I spoke, there was an airy desire in my tone, even if my words were that of denial. Denial we both knew was bullshit.
"It's cold in here."
"Yeah," he agreed, dropping his hands, taking a step back. "That must be it."
He knew the truth, but thankfully, let it drop.
Then spent the next hour showing me all the ways I could be almost - and several times, definitely - doubled over in pain from one simple, firm press of fingers.
I could take it.
I kept telling myself that each time the pain would sear through me, bringing me down on a knee, making me fold forward, hiss out, curse this man seven ways to fucking Sunday then twice more for good measure.
I could take it.
Until, of course, I simply couldn't.
Maybe the point was a particularly bad one, hitting a more sensitive cluster of nerves. Or, possibly more likely, my body had simply had enough, too much, and couldn't control its reaction anymore.
That was the only explanation.
Because me, yeah, not only was I the cold hard bitch everyone accused me of, but I had tear ducts as dry as goddamn sandpaper.
