Chapter 8 #3
She was breathing hard, chest rising and falling against my arm where it crossed her body.
I could feel her pulse racing under my grip, could smell the heat rising from her skin.
This position—her pressed against me, restrained but not hurt, completely under my control—was dangerous.
Too close to what I wanted, what we both wanted but couldn't have yet.
"Let me go," she whispered, but her body said differently, melting back against me instead of fighting.
"Make me," I challenged, curious if she'd retained anything from the lesson.
She went still, thinking. Then she stomped hard on my instep, drove her elbow back into my ribs, and twisted when my grip loosened. Not perfect technique, but effective enough that she broke free, spinning to face me with triumph lighting her features.
"Better," I admitted, rubbing my ribs. She'd actually put force behind that elbow. "But you're still fighting angry instead of smart."
"Maybe angry is all I have." The words came out raw, honest in a way that made my chest tight.
"No," I said firmly. "You have more than that. You have strength and intelligence and instincts that kept you alive when most wouldn't have survived a week. I'm trying to give you technique to match your spirit."
She studied me for a long moment, those fascinating eyes seeing too much.
"Show me again," she said finally. "The stance. I'll listen this time."
"Arms up," I instructed, moving behind her again. "Protect your face."
This time when I adjusted her stance, she stayed pliant, letting me position her correctly. My hands lingered perhaps longer than necessary, feeling the way her muscles shifted under my touch, the way her breathing changed when I pressed closer to adjust her shoulder position.
"Good," I murmured, and felt her shiver at the praise. "Now, palm strike. Slow first, for form."
She moved through it slowly, letting me guide her arm through the motion.
My hand over hers, showing her how to keep her wrist straight, how to drive from the shoulder.
The intimacy of it—teaching her to protect herself, giving her tools to survive without me if necessary—felt more intense than any sexual encounter I'd had.
"Faster now," I said, stepping back. "But maintain form."
She struck out, better this time. Still some wildness there, but controlled, directed. I made her do it again, and again, until sweat darkened the tank top, until her form was almost perfect.
"Good girl," I said without thinking, and watched color flood her face.
We'd been at it for an hour, both of us sweat-soaked and breathing hard, when Eva did something I didn't expect—she learned.
Not just the techniques I'd been drilling into her, but my patterns, my rhythm, the way I shifted my weight before moving.
She'd been cataloguing everything while pretending to struggle, setting me up for what came next.
I was explaining footwork, demonstrating how to pivot without losing balance, when she struck.
One moment I was standing, comfortable in my authority, the next she'd dropped low, hooked my ankle with hers, and shoved hard at my chest with both palms—a perfect street sweep combined with the palm strike I'd just taught her.
I hit the mats hard, air rushing from my lungs in surprise more than pain.
Before I could recover, before I could process that she'd actually taken me down, she was on me.
Knees bracketing my waist, small hands pinning my wrists above my head with surprising strength, using her whole body weight to hold them there.
"Gotcha, Daddy," she said, grinning with pure, triumphant joy.
The word dripped with playful mockery, but there was something else in it too—pride, excitement, the thrill of having bested someone twice her size. Her hair had come completely loose from its ponytail, hanging around us like a curtain, and her face was flushed with exertion and victory.
Christ, she was beautiful like this. Fierce and proud and absolutely glowing with the knowledge that she'd won.
The position didn't help—her weight settled directly over my hips, her thighs gripping my waist, her whole body pressed against mine in a way that had nothing to do with fighting and everything to do with other kinds of physical contact.
My body reacted instantly, viscerally. Blood rushed south so fast I got lightheaded, cock hardening with embarrassing speed. There was no hiding it, not with her positioned exactly where she was, not with only thin workout clothes between us.
Her eyes widened as she felt it, the victory in her expression shifting to something else. Awareness. Curiosity. Heat.
She rolled her hips experimentally, just the smallest movement, but it sent lightning through my entire nervous system. I groaned, couldn't help it, hands clenching into fists under her grip.
"Eva." Her name came out rough, desperate. "Don't."
But she was already scrambling off me, face red for different reasons now.
She retreated to the far side of the mat, knees drawn up, not looking at me.
I sat up slowly, adjusting myself as discreetly as possible, though we both knew there was no discretion in this moment.
The evidence of my arousal was obvious, the air between us thick with want and frustration and everything we couldn't have yet.
"We need the contract first," I said roughly, voice scraped raw with control I was barely maintaining. "Before anything else happens."
She touched her lips, and I knew she was remembering the mountain—my mouth on pussy, the desperate way we'd kissed after.
"But we already—" she started.
"That was different." I cut her off, needing to establish this boundary before we crossed lines we couldn't uncross. "That was discovery. Learning what we were to each other. Now we know, and it needs structure, rules, or someone gets hurt."
"Rules," she repeated, and there was something dangerous in her voice. "Always rules with you."
She moved then, deliberate and predatory, crawling across the mat toward me. Not standing and walking like a normal person would, but on her hands and knees, eyes locked on mine, every movement calculated to destroy my control.
"What if I want to hurt a little?" she asked, voice dropping to something that made my cock throb. "What if I like the way it hurts when you deny us both what we want?"
She was close now, close enough that I could smell her—sweat and want and that wild thing that was essentially Eva. Close enough that she could see how affected I was, how my hands shook slightly with the effort of not reaching for her.
I caught her before she could climb into my lap, hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm's length.
She was right there, willing and wanting, lips parted and pupils blown wide with desire.
It would be so easy to pull her closer, to take what she was offering, to say fuck the contract and the rules and everything except the need burning between us.
"Soon, little one," I said, and then did something I never did, something that betrayed exactly how desperate I was: "Do this right with me. Please."
The 'please' stopped her cold.
I never said please. Never asked, never begged, never showed weakness in any form. But this wasn't weakness—this was strength, the strength to deny what we both wanted in favor of what we both needed.
She sat back on her heels, studying me with those impossible eyes.
"You really want to do this properly," she said, not a question.
"You deserve proper," I replied. "You deserve contracts that protect you, negotiations that give you voice, safe words that give you power. You deserve a Daddy who thinks about your needs before his wants, who plans for your safety before his pleasure."
"And after?" she asked quietly. "After we do the contracts and negotiations and all the proper things?"
"After that," I said, letting her see the hunger I'd been trying to hide, "I'm going to take you apart piece by piece and put you back together.
I'm going to learn every sound you make, every way you need to be touched, every trigger and limit and secret desire.
I'm going to be your Daddy in every way that matters, and you're going to be my little girl whenever you need to be. "
Her breath caught, color flooding her cheeks.
"Soon?" she asked, voice small.
"Soon," I promised, standing and offering her my hand. "But first, showers. Separate showers," I added when she raised an eyebrow.