Page 12 of Pay the Piper

“Not that I’m questioning your methods, but why the hell do I have to close my eyes? Last I checked, I’ll be allowed to watch where I’m going while I skate. In fact, I think my coach is going to insist on it.”

“Here.” I chuckle, holding out my hands as he assumes his position on the ball again. “I’ll give you a helping hand for this first round, then I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. Focus, and I’ll answer your question while you work.”

It’s been years since I’ve taught anyone to skate, and Misha is a very different pupil compared to the elementary-aged girls who were my primary clientele back in the day. He’s incredibly athletic and agile, and I think with a little balance work, everything will click for him on skates in no time. Although he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who has to take orders very often, he complies, putting his huge, calloused hands into mine and re-attempting the pistol squat that just sent him to the floor. At his touch, I’m forced to suppress a shiver. I’ve never seen hands this size, and, unbidden, I think that one of his hands could likely span the width of my neck. Instead of feeling terror at the thought as I should have, especially given the number of times Conor’s choked me unconscious, I have to ignore the spike of lust that surges through me, imagining Misha holding me against a wall by the neck with one hand.

What the hell? When was the last time I felt…lust? Especially at such a violent visual.

“You have incredible lower-body strength at baseline,” I begin, as he slowly lowers himself with his right leg extended, gripping my hands tighter for stability. “And you’re more agile than I would expect for a man your size.” The corner of his mouth turns up, just a bit, and it stretches the skin of one of his scars taut, for just a moment, reminding me of my first impression. Dangerous. But he hasn’t given me a reason to feel anything but safe with him today, and I really need to stop judging books by their covers. “But,” I continue, “your balance needs work.”

“I can balance just fine. It’s this ball that’s the problem when my damn eyes are closed!”

“Mm-hmm. You’re doing much better now, if you’ve noticed. That was your eighth rep on this side. Switch.”

He does as I say, grumbling again, and I can tell this quad is a little weaker. Maybe an old injury that never quite healed, or he favors the other for another reason. His range of motion isn’t as wide as the other side, which is another thing we’ll have to work on.

“Your balance with your eyes closed isn’t just a party trick I’m wasting your time on. It’ll serve you when you skate because you don’t need to have balance, you need to be balance. If you’re on the ice worrying about which side of your skate blade you need to adjust your body weight to, then you’re already behind the eight ball. Your skating can’t be reactive. You have to predict where you need to shift and do it before you fall on your ass on the ice like you fell off this ball.”

His eyes pop open, and he struggles through the last rep on his weak side before dropping my hands and moving to grab his water bottle. As he lifts his shirt to wipe his face, I’m rewarded with a view of a solid torso, muscular in a way that I’ve never seen on a man. It looks like he lives in a gym, but it’s clear his strength isn’t just aesthetic. Growing up in the countryside like I did, I know the difference between muscles that are for show and the ones that are earned through hard work. His are definitely the latter.

I’m also treated to a glimpse of swirling black tattoos. They suit him, as dark as his messy curls and carving a path toward his shoulders. It’s impossible to tell the exact design from here, but the effect is that of a rolling storm cloud or a rogue wave on a path of destruction. None of Conor’s friends had tattoos, at least none of the ones who bothered to take their shirts off while they used me. But Misha…Misha seems to be covered in them. More than likely, the ink covers his arms as well, but his athletic shirt is long-sleeved, so I can’t be certain. I can see that they cover a large portion of his obliques, trailing all the way past his waistband, curling toward the trail of dark hair leading straight to…

“What’s next?”

Shit, what’s wrong with me? There’s no way I feel attracted to this guy. Men are my enemy and have been for a decade now. Keep your eye on the prize, or Conor will kill you. Or worse.

“I think I’ve seen enough for today. You’ve got a great base, obviously. Your gym regimen has you in tiptop shape. You’re also more flexible than I anticipated, which will make my job a lot easier. We’re really looking at small stabilizer deficiencies, so make friends with the BOSU ball.”

“Ugh, the devil ball?”

“You mean your best friend, the devil ball? Yes. We need to strengthen your peroneal muscles, the longus and brevis. They originate on the fibula, become tendons, and then insert on the foot. They’re the key to your ankle stabilization and arch support, as well as your ability to evert your foot.”

“Do what with my foot?”

Kneeling before him, I press on the outside of his shoe to show roughly where I’m talking about. “See, it’s all in here, for when you want to cross over. Then up here above your ankle—”

A rough exhale stops me in my tracks, my hand around Misha’s ankle touching the sliver of skin between his joggers and his socks. Slowly raising my eyes to see what startled him, I force myself not to gasp at what I find. If I thought there was a flash of something in his eyes earlier, there’s no denying it now. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s huge and I’m not, especially not kneeling at his feet. Or perhaps it’s the angle that’s making everything seem harsher than it really is.

But…

He looks like a predator who has his prey right where he wants it. As if he hasn’t eaten in ages, and nothing about his meal will be refined. He’s going to tear into what he’s caught like an animal, stopping only when he’s gnawing marrow from bones.

I should be frightened. When any of Conor’s friends looked at me with lust in their eyes, the only thing I felt was nausea roiling in my gut and the familiar warmth of dissociation beckoning. Now, though, starting at Misha’s fiery eyes promising worlds more than just lust, I don’t feel fear. I should. I really should, given his size, demeanor, tattoos, scars…Whatever qualifies him to be a security guard for giant professional athletes…I should be very, very afraid.

Instead, I want nothing more than to stay here, curled up at his feet. The urge to present my neck to him ludicrously flickers across my consciousness, as if he could bite and claim me and all would be right in the world. There’s no fear in my heart, as vulnerable as I am in this position. All I feel is his warmth from the tiny patch of skin I’m touching and safety.

Finally, he quietly breaks the silence as I stand. “I’ll need lessons every day. Especially if you want me to work my perianal—”

“Peroneal—”

“Muscles. I have to get better quickly, or…let’s just say my life will become much more difficult.”

“I have a job at the library, you know. I’m not sure how—”

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and sighs. “I can pay you double what you make at the library, or triple. Whatever it takes. I need as accelerated a program as you can come up with.”

Well, Ellie isn’t at the library all the time. And technically, since Misha’s her friend, he might be another way in. “I might be able to make something work.”

I don’t budge as he stares at me and finally realizes that that’s my final say on the matter for now. Grabbing his bag, he turns to me and nods toward the door. “Can I walk you to your car?”