Dirty English
Page 41

OF COURSE HE was teasing me.
He chuckled. “You can close your mouth. I meant that you don’t want to ruin—or rip—your jeans.” He pointed to the back of the gym where the lockers and restrooms were. “Come on. I’ve got some extra pants for you to change into.”
Ten minutes later I came out of the ladies locker room barefooted in a pair of extra-small white karate pants.
I walked back to the mat and did a little pirouette, liking the way it made his eyes gleam with laughter.
He waited for me dressed in the same pants. His feet were bare and spread apart in a cocky stance, and even though I’d never been one of those people who got a thrill from odd body parts, his feet were sexy.
But it was his naked chest that made my heart do a loop-de-loop. My tongue wanted to lick it, but I settled for deep breathing. I recalled how wonderful it had felt to press myself against his skin the nights we’d slept together. But that was then and this was now, and it seemed as if we were slowly progressing toward more.
Keep your tongue in your mouth, Elizabeth, I told myself.
To distract myself, my eyes traced the dragonfly tattoo on his neck, my fingers itching to draw it. The tattoo seemed so incongruous with the tough guy he was, yet it fit him. He had a softness to him, and I think I’d sensed it from the first moment we’d met.
“Come here,” he said. Silkily.
I went without hesitation. “What?” I asked.
He reached out and gathered the bottom material of my shirt and tied it in a knot that rested on my tummy. Tingles went over me at the brush of his fingers against my skin. “Now, you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, looking down at the peek of my tummy that showed through. I suddenly felt alive. Wired.
He nodded as he bent down to readjust the sparring mat, and I saw the scars on his back again.
“What happened to your back?”
He stood back up and faced me, his face like stone.
I saw the distance growing in him, as if he didn’t want to talk about it.
“If—if you ever wanted to tell me about it, I’d listen …” My voice petered out.
“I don’t.”
Sadness filled me. There was so much more to him than just being the hot guy with the sexy accent. “I won’t judge you, Declan. I have my own scars.”
He exhaled, studying me. “I got into a scuffle with my father and went through a plate glass window when I was fourteen. My back took the worst of it.”
“That sounds awful.”
“I spent that whole summer sleeping on my stomach, waiting for the stitches to heal.” He looked at my wrist. “What happened?”
Images of the hotel zipped through my head, and I opened my mouth to tell him, I mean really tell him what had happened to me, but I didn’t. Old habits die hard.
I looked away. Swallowed. “I can count the number of people on one hand who know why I slit my wrists. I—I’m not ready to tell you.”
“Blake knows?”
I heard the jealousy in his voice.
“Yes.”
He tightened his lips. “Right then. Let’s get to work.”
I nodded, relieved he was letting it go.
“When we get down to direct man-on-man sparring, I’ll ask you to wear protective gear and wrap your hands, but for today, we’re just going to talk about stance and some basic moves to get you comfortable. Okay?”
I nodded, and that seemed to be all he needed to go into full-on teaching mode. He had a beautiful voice for it, clear and low, yet commanding. I could see the appeal in taking a class from him. I bet the women hung on his every word.
“You don’t want to give your opponent any leeway. Be cognizant of your environment and if you can get help. If you can’t, then be prepared to put up a hell of a fight. Most importantly, be aggressive and do whatever it takes to defend yourself. Punches, kicks, elbow strikes, knees, and even biting and scratching. Just don’t freeze up like you did the night Colby showed up.”
I smirked. “Sounds like a cat fight I saw once on the quad freshman year.”
He smiled as he adjusted my shoulders and stance. “This kind of fighting is much more premeditated. Just keep your strong leg in front of you. Put your hands up in front of your face just below eye level. Your hips, eyes, and lead shoulder should always face your opponent.”
I followed his instruction, my heart thundering at our closeness.
He had me shifting my weight around on my legs to get comfortable.
Back and forth. Again. And then again.
He demonstrated an uppercut elbow punch for me, positioning his body next to mine as he rotated his hips and shuffled forward at an imaginary attacker. He moved like lightning strikes in the sky. Fast. Brilliant. Too hot to hold. I repeated his kicks and punches again and again until I began to feel a tight burning in my thighs and arms and buttocks.
“You’ll need to exercise to get stronger muscles,” he told me later as I failed miserably at a good front kick. “The thing to remember about a kick is you go for his twigs and berries. If you can’t, aim for a knee or his neck or nose. Just get the kick in and get out.”
I grunted and wiped sweat from my face.
“Tired?” He paused in demonstrating the kick once again.
I shook my head. Liar, liar. But watching him move his powerful body around was invigorating.
Who needed Gatorade when I had a hot dude showing me his moves?
A few minutes later, we faced off on the mat. “Come at me with some heat. See if you can sneak in my circle and land a tap on my arm.”