I’m dressed in yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt, clothes meant to protect against the biting cold while still allowing easy mobility. My hands are taped up, gloved, and ready to get some vengeance.
Donovan, on the other hand, looks exactly the same, only shirtless…because he’s Donovan.
I’m so going to kick his ass. With my magic lessons, I have a few more tricks up my sleeve. He has no tricks because he has no sleeves!
Smiling over my dumb thoughts, I shout while walking over, “You’re going to train in that? Don’t you have gym clothes or something in your truck?”
“Need to start training in street clothes,” he answers with his arms crossed over his chest, seemingly impervious to the cold. “Besides, you’re practicing punches and kicks. I’m not going to do a lot of moving around.”
“And ‘street clothes’ of course means shirtless,” I state, my tone drenched in sarcasm.
A cocky grin takes over his expression, and while motioning down his chest, he proclaims, “No. This is all for your enjoyment, Angel.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I can see brain matter.
“You might want to grab something padded for me to hit,” I suggest, knowing I look like such a girly girl with my ponytail swinging as I walk. “I’ve been practicing and now I pack quite a punch.”
I didn’t say what I was practicing.
He gives me an up and down look, his smirk firmly in place. “Glad to hear it, but I think I’ll take my chances.”
“Oookay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I sing, as the little devil on my shoulder rubs its handsgleefully together.
The whole point of training was to learn to defend myself. Well, I’ll defend myself, alright…along with some payback for the teasing and pillow battle.
Maybe it’s because of Donovan’s more forward flirting mixed with not being brave enough to call his bluff. Maybe it’s because I’ve had heavy make out sessions with three of my best friends and a sex dream about all of them. Maybe I just want to have fun and have an hour where nothing feels like it’s falling apart. Whatever the reason, I let the little devil on my shoulder have some fun while we warm up. I highlight my excellent flexibility—showcasing how I can palm the grass even with gloves on—while flashing Donovan innocent doe-eyes and an evil smirk.
Because, damn it, I can be sexy too! I am female. Hear me roar and all that.
Problem is, Donovan doesn’t play along. At least not the way I’d hoped. I wanted him flustered. A little thrown off of his machismo game. Instead, he makes it no secret that he’s looking, and he winks at me when I catch him checking out my ass. There’s not even a hint of awkward distraction, damn him!
Ugh. I suck at sexy vixen.
Once we’re all warmed up, I’m so ready to knock him on his ass. Just once, I want to surprise him with something other than my ability to destroy mass quantities of the local flora.
“Okay, Angel. Show me what you got,” Donovan challenges, holding his hands up palms out. “Since you’ve been practicing, let’s make it harder. Now, not only do you have to try and land hits, but you have to dodge or block them when they come at you.”
He illustrates without warning by quickly tapping my shoulder with his open hand. It doesn’t hurt, but the speed of the strike is shocking. All the more determined, I nod and adjust my body into the position he taught me. Hips straight. Arms at ninety-degree angles. My weight shifting between my feet.
Since Donovan is literally a foot taller than me, he points out the best body shot locations to punch, then stands in a defensive stance, ready to knock my fists out of the way when I try to hit said targets.So much for him being my human punching bag.
At first I do a couple of warm up jabs, aiming at his solar plexus, but end up with my fists immediately swatted away. He’s very good and very fast. Any time I try to work a jab cross, I get light taps to the side of my head more than I like.
“You keep looking where you’re going to hit before you do it,” Donovan comments, catching my arm when I attempt a hook shot at his kidneys. Amused, he tugs me close, my body smacking against the solid wall of muscle that is his chest. “You’re not going to hit anything if you keep projecting your next move. Keep your eyes on my face. Use your peripheral vision to scope your next attack.”
I’ll show you next attack, I mentally grumble. My gaze shifts to his face, my eyes narrowed with determination.
He’s so much bigger than me, so the only way he’s going down is with a well-placed kick. I stomp on his foot, and he laughs when he sets me loose, his boots protecting him from any real damage.
Getting back into my fighting stance, I fake that I’m going for another punch—except most of my weight is balanced on my back foot. Quickly muttering a spell that focuses the power of wind into my control, I feed my magic into a high side kick aimed dead center at his stomach.
He tries to catch my foot, but the force of the kick shoots him backward. Not on his ass, like I expected, but several feet back into the trunk of a large tree. There’s a loud crack, and Donovan hits the ground.
“Shit. Sorry!” I apologize, walking toward him. “It wasn’t supposed to hit that hard, but hey, the good news is I can take down guys twice my size, right?”
When he doesn’t reply or move to get up, adrenaline fueled terror floods my veins, and I rip off my gloves, then start tearing at the tape on my hands as my walking turns into sprinting.
“Donovan!” I scream, dropping to the ground beside him, the soggy underbrush of grass and fallen leaves soaking my knees.
