Chapter 19
Julian
Iknow this drill. Walk softly and give it a wide berth—like encountering a wild animal.
I’ve had lots of practice. It’s just been a hot minute since I’ve seen it up close and personal.
Doesn’t matter how long it’s been. It all comes screaming back in full color.
Ever doesn’t radiate violence though, just coiled wire ready to snap.
And like me, kicking the shit out of something is her remedy of choice.
I keep my mouth shut on the way to Fit and while unlocking the place.
Once inside, I turn to gauge her mood. She won’t make eye contact but heads to the kickboxing room.
I clear my throat and prepare myself for the sass.
I ignore the tingle in my gut because it’s not helping that I like her sass.
The nostalgia it brings equally haunts and enchants me.
She doesn’t look like her at all, but the familiarity is tangible. It’s an essence that I can’t ignore.
“Uh, Ever?” She stops but doesn’t turn, so I continue. “We need to warm up first. Cardio or stretching. You choose.”
“Stretching,” she replies without hesitation. “My legs will thank me.”
“Okay, kickboxing room then.”
She resumes walking as if I hadn’t spoken.
I follow behind her with a smirk.
Wait till she realizes we’ll be touching each other for the warmup. The tingle intensifies. Adjusting the crotch of my sweats, I follow her.
Inside the room, I start with downward dog and move into some side lunges. She mimics me without looking at me directly but at my reflection in the wall of mirrors. When I sit down on the floor and spread my legs in a vee, she watches me, waiting for instructions.
“Mirror me here,” I say, motioning to the space in front of me. She does, still looking every bit as sulky as she did back at the house. I hold my hands out to her.
Without breaking eye contact, she places her hands in mine.
I push the soles of my sock-clad feet against hers and take her hands.
I pull her forward, slowly, until I meet resistance.
As I release the tension and center again, she follows suit and pulls me toward her, never once breaking eye contact.
The room, cool at first, feels warm now.
This warmup feels like the start of a hot yoga class—emphasis on hot.
My eyes are drinking in every detail of her face as we move in sync.
I note the dampness on her upper lip. She feels the heat too.
Although, she’s not the one hiding from this magnetism.
She’s been so open, even as she experienced big firsts last night, unbeknown to me.
I marvel at how I didn’t suspect it. Yeah, she felt deliciously tight, but I sensed no inexperience.
No awkwardness. Maybe a shyness at first, but it was quickly drowned by the hunger and willingness and sweet surrender.
Now that I know, though, I can see the shyness for what it is.
I need to back up, rewind and slow the fuck down.
It’s why I didn’t sleep next to her last night.
I want to take this slow for her. I want these firsts to be amazing for her.
I thought I was doing the right thing. The respectful thing.
I knew if she was lying next to me, wanting me, I wouldn’t be able to not give her what she wants, because I want it too. I want to give her every first.
God, how has she never been kissed? She’s fucking gorgeous.
Maybe her hometown is full of hideous douchebags.
Lucky me. But in trying to do the right thing—staying out of her bed, turning off her alarm to give her more sleep—I’ve completely pissed her off.
I wanna make it right. I’m not sure how when she’s so mad.
And I know this makes me a dick, but damn she’s hot when she’s pissed. Hotter, I mean.
Standing, I pull her up with me. “Ready to hit some shit?” This I ask with a wink, testing the current fury level.
“Yeah. You offering to be my punching bag?” She challenges, one eyebrow raised.
Okay, still at DEFCON 1. Noted. “Let’s start with the bag. If that doesn’t work, I’ll volunteer as tribute.” I wink again. I can’t help playing with fire. If she knew how much her sass turned me on, she really would punch me right now. “But let’s get a few moves down first and practice your form.”
She’s determined, learns quickly, and her form is impressive.
She’s told me repeatedly she’s not an athlete but a bookworm.
But I imagine if she tried . . . anything, she’d be a force.
She’s coordinated, fluid and frankly . .
. breathtaking. Her body is perfect—lithe, graceful, soft but toned.
Once we move to the bag, I call out moves from my beginner routine and quickly switch to intermediate to keep her challenged.
I see the change in her stance and strikes within minutes.
Her moves become intense, the strikes harder, angrier.
She stops listening to the moves I call out, so I stop calling them out.
She’s fighting an invisible demon. Her breathing becomes pants as sweat runs down her temples.
The hair on the nape of her neck curls with perspiration.
Her panting breaths turn to grunts, then groans, then sobs.
I watch, knowing she needs it, until I can’t stand it anymore. Watching the heartbreak that so closely mirrored my own in unspoken ways tears at me. I step between her and the bag as she swings. Catching her fist in my hand, I grab her bicep in my other hand with a little shake.
Storm-cloud gray eyes pin mine. She blinks once, twice, then opens the fist I hold and laces her fingers through mine, gripping until her knuckles go white.
I pull her toward me with the other hand, releasing her arm.
Her chest heaves out and in against mine, her eyes threaten to spill over. She takes a step back as if to pull away from me—the opposite of what her body silently screams.
“Ever—” I start.
“Don’t, Julie. Don’t say anything. And don’t you dare wink at me again, or I will punch you.”
I pull her toward me, wrapping my free arm around her neck, tucking our still clenched hands between us.
She releases her death grip on my hand and snakes her arm around my back.
With her forehead against my chest, her pants of breath heat my skin through my shirt and the tears dampen the thin fabric as her shoulders began to shake.
I’m losing the battle of staying immune to this passionate girl in my arms. How can I?
Her pain is speaking to mine. The tears soaking my shirt are melting the block of ice that stands between her and my heart.
For the first time in three years, I’m scared.
Resting my chin on her head, I hold on to her.
For her sake, I tell myself. One thing I perfected in the last three years is lying to myself.
And since I’m a liar now, I decide to keep breaking the rules.
“Come on. Let’s go be rebels and share a sauna before heading to Brew. ”
That does it. Her face softens. The idea of us teaming up to break the rules tucks the last of her anger away.
“Men’s or ladies’ locker room?” I ask before she changes her mind. She looks at me blankly. “Tick tock, Davis. Before the place opens to the public.”
“Uh . . . women’s?”
“Figures.” I roll my eyes teasingly, grab her hand and lead the way.