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I know there's an ulterior meaning to what he's just said, but I'm having such a good time that I don't want to spoil it by being snarky.
I keep going at the bag, and when I'm a little puffed out, sweat dripping down my back, I have a go at teaching Charlie. I don't know why. I just fancy it.
“Everyone can learn, but you should lower the bag a bit,” I say, estimating that it's got to be six feet in the air. “That's quite a fall if you miss and drop on your ass.”
He arches a brow at me. “Are you sure you don't want me to make it higher then?”
Pursing my lips, I hum in a musing fashion. “Second thought, you should make it higher.”
“I knew you'd say that.” He playfully pinches my side, making me squirm.
I kick his feet out from under him and he drops with a heavy thud. I burst out laughing, grabbing my stomach because it aches, hardly containing myself. This is the oddest thing. I've never laughed like this in my life.
Charlie shakes his head at me, and I think he's trying not to laugh too.
“Go on,” I say amid laughing, gesturing out, “form position. You can't kick the punch bag from down there.”
Grinning, he gets up from the floor and stands before the punch bag, rolling back his shoulders. I love watching him do that. Every muscle in his back waves and flexes beneath his t-shirt.
I tell him to warm up with a few axe kicks, that he doesn't need to jump up and kick the bag until he's ready, but he's terrible at taking advice.
“Do as you please then.” I shrug, walking back and forth with crossed arms, observing him.
My face drops when he strikes the bag with a high-air-kick, landing perfectly on his feet. Another kick, and another, every one achieved with focus and refinement.
My mouth hanging open, I glance between him and the punch bag.
“Didn't expect that, did you, little Blaire?” he says, triumphant plastered across his face. He walks into me, playfully slapping my face.
I flick away his hand but he catches my wrist. We start fighting then and we're not even in the ring. We are all legs, trying to knock each other over—I guess because we've been practicing our kicks. I put Charlie down more times than he does me but I have to admit, I underestimated him a little. He's not as good as me, though he's not as bad as I thought either, and he's definitely into more than boxing.
Sweating, Charlie yanks off his t-shirt and flings it at me. The smell that hits me in the face is overwhelming—his clean-sweaty, musky scent.
Jesus...
Before I can toss his t-shirt aside, he runs at me and hooks one arm between my legs, gripping my ass.
“Charlie!” I squeal, grabbing his shoulders, the feeling of him between my legs all too familiar.
He fists the back of my hair with his other hand, yanks me up off the ground, and slams me down on a training mat.
“Aargh!” I groan out, arching.
“Shit!” He crouches over me on all fours, his knees pressing into the mat on either side of my body. “Are you all right?”
“The mats aren't that soft.” I roll onto my side, my face taut with pain.
“Ohhh, Blaire, I'm sorry, baby.” He runs a large hand down my spine, over every curve, kneading out the pain. “I didn't mean to hurt you. The mats are supposed to be quite thick.”
I start to say, “Well they're not,” but then I find myself leaning into his touch like a dog getting petted, my stomach coiling with sinister desire.
Why the fuck is this happening to me? Why can't I go one day without desiring him? What's his poison?
While I'm bathing in his touch, practically humming in delight, he whispers in my ear, “Are you gonna kiss me again so you can beat me? Because I really don't mind.”
I smirk up at him from the side, and I can't help thinking,does he want me as much as I want him?I sense that he does but I can't be one-hundred percent sure that this isn't his agenda—to have me utterly under his spell.
Charlie looks like he's going to kiss me, his face dripping in want as he comes closer to me, his eyes flickering between mine.
