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I shake my head. “Little too late.”
Going rigid, Hunter takes a hard breath through his nose. “Let’s warm up.”
I jog and stretch while he punches the ever-loving shit out of a bag. When he comes back, he’s burned off that flare of rage, trading it for a full-lipped smirk that clenches my thighs. “You going to go all-out for me this time?”
“If you can handle it.” The last time we sparred I didn’t so much phone it in as refuse the call.
I didn’t want him to see the real me.
“Come at me, Killer.” His cocky grin is oil in my veins.
I drop into my stance, circling. Hunter’s posture is easy, but his muscle isn’t just for show–even if the show is good enough to be pay-per-view. His knees stay loose and he angles his hips as I move, not giving me any easy openings.
I dart in, throwing a test punch.
He dodges with a tsk. “Still holding back?”
“I’m better at defense. More practice.”
Hunter’s nostrils flare. “Follow my lead.”
He tosses me a few softball jabs, testing my form. His smile blooms as I match each one, proving my skills and how deeply I’ve been hiding.
Then he really starts to move.
Hunter’s a Muay Thai god, with fast hands and faster feet, and I’ve never fought such quick, lethal kicks. “I thought big guys were slow.”
A hint of feral fire lights his smile. “I’d be dead if I were slow.”
“Same.” I dodge a shoulder chop.
“Knew you could fight.” Sweat drips from his forehead to the corners of his smug smile. “You move like a street fighter.”
“Mostly taught myself.” My style’s a mish-mash. When I wasn’t the instructor’s dummy, I stayed in the back of combat lessons and absorbed it all to practice in the OCC’s after-hours halls.
Punch, dodge, sidestep, kick.
Sparring with Hunter is the same as dancing with a partner who’s a perfect match, and it feels so freaking good to work my body.
I lose track of time, lost in the rush of the back-and-forth, and a little bit hypnotized by the smoky sweet scent of Hunter’s sweat. He offers gentle posture corrections, and a stream of easy compliments that melt me down.
“Nice.”
“Perfect.”
“So good, Lilah.”
Help.
Finally starting to wear out, I miss a block on a punch to the ribs, but Hunter hits like he’s wearing mittens.
He’s not trying to hurt me.
Just like I’m not trying to hurt him.
Only a monster would deliberately harm their meant-to-be mate.
But just because Hunter could be my mate, doesn’t mean I’m pulling punches. When he eases back, wanting to make sure he didn’t add to my bruises, I hook his ankle and score a sweet takedown.
