She could have. She saw the pattern—his and her own. If she jabbed with her right, and he blocked with his right, his left hand fell just enough she could have gotten a solid uppercut in.
But she did not take the opportunity.
He had not put on gloves. He would not hit her—even at her invitation. It was a kind of, well, integrity to choose that. To refuse, so instantly and flatly, to return a blow, even in practice.
Perhaps she didn’t have to appreciate it, but she could admire it. And it could undermine her desire to land any kind of blows upon him.
So she went for the clinch, with the thought if she pushed him back to the ropes, she could call it a win without actually hitting him.
She managed to get him close to the ropes. She could have landed a few jabs. She could have done a lot of things, but she could not bring herself to evenkind ofhurt this man. She didn’t understand why. What it meant. Who she was in this strange world of Paris and delicious meals and lovely clothes and…
Him.
He flipped it around in a quick, easy move. Not a boxing move at all. No, it spoke more to some kind of ground fighting. She faced the ropes, he was behind her now, his arms wrapped around hers so that hers were trapped at her sides.
She was breathing heavily from the exertion of bouncing around and from holding herself back. From whatever was assaulting her mind. This strange, confusing waterfall of feelings and doubts—in herself, in her choices, ineverything.
Except him.
“That isn’t a boxing move,” she told him, breathless and probably not from exertion.
He didn’t address that accusation. “Are you losing on purpose, Ari?”
She could feel the long, hard weight of him. The rumble of his voice in her ear. The press and pull of his chest moving against her back. It all shivered through her, sensation and need. But more so when he saidAri.
She had told him to call her that, since no one aside from him used her full name, but here in the moment it had a weight she could not really wade through.
Mostly because all she wanted was to feel him moving inside of her.
“I have never thrown a fight in my life,” she shot back at him, frustrated and emotional in ways she did not understand.
“But this wasn’t a fight, was it?” he said, still low and in her ear. Accusatory. But the accusation felt deeper than words.
All of this feltdeeperthan what they were actually saying, and she hated it. So she strove for some kind of flippancy in her return.
“Would you have rather I bloodied your lip?” she demanded.
She felt his sigh against her cheek. “Perhaps.”
She didn’t know why that had her eyes prickling with tears. Perhaps because it spoke to something deeper inside herself. She would rather feel unencumbered by the idea of landing a blow. She would rather not feel this restless, pounding need inside of her every time he was near.
But she could not be smart enough to eradicate it in any way except one.
“Touch me, Zervou.”
A sound rumbled through him that then rumbled through her. It seemed to touch nerve endings all along her skin, this sound.
“Ask nicely,glikí mou,” he murmured, sliding his mouth down her neck.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought she should be offended. Should hold onto some kind of pride. Why should she ask for anything?
But the “please” was out of her mouth before that dim thought had a chance to take root. She wanted his touch more than she wanted her pride.
It should be a terrifying prospect. It should feel wrong.
It didn’t.
His hands loosened at her sides so that she could free her arms, but she didn’t. Not really. She let them hang there as she leaned back against him, his clever mouth doing arousing things to her neck as his hands moved under her shirt, found the bare skin there. He traced muscle and bone, unclasped her bra with nimble fingers, then pulled both items of clothing from her body.
