Chapter 11 - Dante
I was at the gym already, warming up and trying hard not to look at the clock. Alisa was late for once, and I found myself unable to focus, wondering if she was alright.
Our morning sessions together had become a solid routine, and every single day, I told myself we were only working out and nothing else.
But over the past few days, I hadn’t slept too well.
At night, I found myself waking with dreams I shouldn’t have had.
And now, I wondered if this needed to come to an end.
The truth was, I’d taught her everything I knew. So, why then did I keep returning for these ‘classes’ she didn’t need?
Every morning, I watched her walk into my gym in those skin-tight leggings and loose tank tops. And every morning, I told myself this would be the day I’d cancel our sessions and come up with some excuse about work or meetings.
And once again, I found myself waiting for her anyway.
This entire situation was turning into a case of the classic old, sweet, exquisite torture.
I was stretching out my arms when she walked in. My right arm tensed as I held it back with my left in a stretch too long, and she froze, her eyes locked to mine, before meandering up the swells of my biceps.
“Morning,” she said, her voice still carrying that soft little rasp from sleep.
I put my arm down and felt my mouth go dry.
Was it just me, or did those black little tights seem way too thin?
They looked glued to her legs, and I swear I could see the stretch of skin beneath.
That, paired up with a loose gray tank top slipping off one shoulder, was far too much for me to take.
I dreaded the dreams I’d be having in the night to come.
“Morning.” I forced my eyes back to my shoes and bent down to re-tie my laces, even though there wasn’t any need.
She moved to the bench and set down her water bottle, stretching her arms overhead. I looked up from where I sat on one knee. Her tank top rode up, exposing a sliver of her smooth, taut, and absolutely-fucking-perfect stomach. I looked away, but couldn’t really bring myself to forget.
This was the problem. Every little movement she made looked like more. She had no idea what she did to me, how hard it was to keep my hands to myself when we trained.
Or maybe she did.
I couldn’t forget the kiss we shared. I remembered the pure need in her eyes when I’d pulled back. Maybe I hurt her pride. Maybe she put me through this every morning to take her revenge.
Sometimes I caught her watching me in a way that didn’t scream innocent. But then I’d remember how we found ourselves in this situation, out of desperation and not will, and I’d tell myself I was seeing what I wanted to see.
“Ready?” I asked, jumping up and walking to the center of the mat.
She joined me and we started up with the usual warm-ups. Some light footwork, followed by stretches and some basic jabs to get the blood flowing. I tried to stand away, but couldn’t run far enough from the smell of her shampoo. More than once, I found myself wanting to burrow my nose into her neck.
More than once, I dug into my own hands with my nails to remind myself that taking her would’ve come with complications. I hurt her real bad all those years ago, and something told me she hadn’t really forgiven me.
How could she, when I’d never asked for her forgiveness?
She threw a punch, and that’s when I saw her knee jam out. If she kept this up, she’d have injured herself. That’s when I moved behind her to adjust her stance.
“Remember to pivot on your back foot,” I said, my hand hovering just above her hip. “Use your whole body to generate power.”
She repeated the step. “Like this?”
“Better. But your elbow’s dropping. Keep it up to protect your face.”
I stepped closer, my chest nearly brushing her back as I guided her arm into position. Her skin was warm beneath my fingers, and I felt her breath catch when I touched her.
Fuck. This was killing me.
I stepped back quickly, creating distance. “Try again.”
For the next half hour, we worked through combinations. Her technique was getting better, but it wasn’t her technique I noticed today.
It was the fact that her punches came with more aggression than usual.
“You okay?” I asked after she nearly tore the punching bag off its chain with a particularly vicious hook.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, without stopping. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I raised an eyebrow. “No reason. Just checking.”
She was scaring me… a little. Whatever was on her mind was something heavy, because working out clearly wasn’t helping. If she kept up this pace, she could’ve injured her wrist.
“Let’s try something different,” I suggested. “Let’s work on defense, shall we?”
That way, I’d be the one who punched while she took a break.
I grabbed two focus mitts and slipped them on. “I’ll throw some light punches, and you block or dodge. Sound good?”
She shrugged, like she couldn’t care less.
I threw a slow jab toward her shoulder. She slipped it easily, ducking under my arm. I followed with another, which she blocked with her forearm. We established a rhythm—me attacking, her defending.
But I noticed her frustration growing. Her movements became restless, and she breathed hard, but it wasn’t from the fact that she was tired. It looked like she was having an entire conversation in her head, and whatever it was, it pissed the hell out of her.
“You’re holding back,” she accused suddenly, dropping her hands.
“What?”
“You’re not really trying,” she said in anger. “I can barely feel you. I might as well be defending against myself.”
Okay. What the hell was bothering her, exactly? I tried to keep my tone patient. “It’s practice, Alisa. The point is to learn the technique, not get knocked out.”
“How am I supposed to learn if you’re not giving me a real challenge?” she hissed in anger. “I’m not a child, Dante.”
“I know that,” I snapped. God, did I know that. Every inch of this woman was driving me insane. “Fine. You want more of a challenge? Let’s spar. Light contact only.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Really.” I removed the mitts and adjusted my hand wraps. “But if I say stop, we stop. Deal?”
She nodded eagerly, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
We touched gloves and began circling each other. I threw a few light jabs, which she blocked or evaded. She countered with her own, most of which I deflected easily. But I had to admit, she was getting good. Her form was clean, her movements confident.
“Not bad,” I said, slipping past a hook. “But you’re looking at your target when you put in your right cross. I can see it coming from a mile away.”
She frowned, then threw another combination—jab-jab-cross. I blocked the first two, then caught her right hand mid-punch, holding it.
“See? You drop your shoulder too, which gives it away.”
She yanked her hand free in frustration. “Then show me how to fix it.”
“Keep your shoulders level until the last moment.” I demonstrated the movement in slow motion.
We continued sparring, and I could feel her getting angrier with each move.
“You’re still holding back,” she accused, breathing hard.
“I’m trying not to hurt you!” I admitted.
“Maybe I don’t mind getting hurt,” she shot back without thinking.
Wait. What the hell did that mean?
Before I could process what she said and consider how to ask what was wrong, she threw a wild right hook.
I wasn’t expecting it, and it caught me square on the jaw.
Fuck. I lost my balance from the explosion of pain spreading up my face and fell flat on my ass.
“Shit!” Alisa’s eyes went wide with shock. “Dante, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
I sat there for a moment, stunned.
“I’m fine,” I said, rubbing my jaw. She stood right next to me, bent over herself, her hands waving helplessly around me.
“Oh my god, Dante,” she groaned and touched my shoulder. “I am so, so, so sorry.”
She was really beating herself up. Way too much. She did land me a solid, but there wasn’t any need for so much guilt.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked again, wincing.
I grinned and gave her a wink. “I am, but can’t guarantee you’ll be once I win this round.”
In a playful move, just to get her to stop feeling so bad, I grabbed her wrist and pulled her down. She squealed in surprise as she tumbled onto the mat beside me. Before she could recover, I had her in a loose hold, my arms around her waist.
“Cheater,” she gasped, trying to break free.
“All’s fair in love and war,” I teased, tightening my grip just enough to keep her in place.
She struggled against me, giggling as she tried to escape, and I rolled us over so she was pinned beneath me, my hands on her wrists, my body hovering just above hers.
“You do know, I’ve kind of won now, haven’t I?”
She burst into loud, open laughter.
“Oh my god,” she giggled, her body shaking beneath mine. “Your face when I hit you—priceless! That was all the victory I needed.”
People don’t lie when they say laughter spreads, and soon, I was laughing too. “I can’t believe you actually got me. I think I’m losing my touch.”
“Or I’m just that good,” she shot back, her eyes dancing with mischief.
“Maybe a little of both,” I conceded, releasing her wrists.
But neither of us moved. The laughter died out, but my eyes were too busy noticing the little flecks of black in the honey of her eyes. My hands were still planted on the mat on either side of her, and she made no effort to slide out from under me.
Everything went still. Quiet. Like the dead of winter.
And I felt aware of every inch of my body, and hers; My thighs pressing up against hers, her arms brushing up against my wrists, her chest heaving beneath mine.
Her tank top had ridden up during our little tussle, and from the corner of my eye, I couldn’t focus on anything but that gorgeous midriff.
I couldn’t stop my eyes from trailing down, away from my eyes, to the heart-shaped rise of those juicy pink lips, which parted just as I landed on them.
And that’s when I heard her let out the tiniest gasp, the kind that came with anticipation, and I knew then that it was too late now to walk away. That distance I’d fought for—forgotten.
“Dante?” she whispered so quietly, I barely even heard her because my name came with her hands reaching for my shoulders.
The time that had paused between us suddenly snapped.
My body came alive… for her.
And when she arched up slightly, with her eyes landing on mine, I knew I needed her then and there.
I leaned down too and closed my eyes. The sights, the sounds, they all went dead, but my heart zipped alive the moment I felt her soft, sweet lips against mine.
The first brush was electric, sending shockwaves down my spine. She tasted like salt and sweetness, and her lips were just as warm as I remembered. For a moment, we both froze, suspended in the sensation. Then she made a small, needy sound in the back of her throat, and I was lost.
I groaned and ran my tongue along the seam of her lips, asking her to part, which she did. I entered, tasting, teasing, my tongue tangling with hers in a dance that hit me right beneath the naval.
Her hands flew to my shoulders, fingers curling tight as her nails bit into my skin.
The sting only made me hungrier. I shifted, weight pressing into the mat as I braced myself with one arm, the other slipping beneath her head to cradle it—tilting her face just the way I wanted, so I could kiss her deeper, slower, like I had all day to ruin her.
Her tongue met mine stroke for stroke, pushing back, challenging. She had always kissed like that—giving as good as she got, never passive. It drove me crazy then, and it drives me crazy now.
My hand slid down her side to her hip, squeezing gently, then back up, brushing the side of her breast through her tank top. She whimpered into my mouth, her legs parting slightly, allowing me to settle more fully between them.
And every cell in my body screamed for more, to take this further, to finally have what I’d been denying myself for weeks.