Chapter 4 #2
I sink my top teeth into my bottom lip to fight the little moan that wants to come out.
It’s not like Garrett has never touched me.
Playful bumps of my shoulder with his. The warmth of his palm at the small of my back in crowds.
The brush of his fingers as he hands me something.
This is different, though. The way my entire body zings to life with the firm grip of his hands on my hips is a little alarming.
“You always want to face your opponent. It keeps your center of gravity where it needs to be, so you can move when needed or withstand a punch.”
I twist to look at him over my shoulder. His mouth inches from my temple and hot breath kisses along my hairline.
“Should I worry about the bag knocking me on my butt?” My mouth lifts.
“Smartass.” His chuckle is silent, but every quiet beat thrums within me. “Let me take you through the punches.”
With a firm but gentle grip, his fingers press into my flesh, and I try to ignore the charge along my nerves with his touch.
He guides me into the different positions.
The hook. The jab. The uppercut. The cross.
The heat from his body licks along my skin as he guides me through each formation, repeating it several times until he’s satisfied, and I’m left wanting more the moment he releases me. My entire body hums for his touch.
“Ready to hit the bag?”
“Yep,” I say, trying to stamp out the breathy quality of my voice.
If this is supposed to have me channel Feisty Jensen, all it’s doing is coaxing awake Horny Jensen. The one who listens to the deep bass voice actors in my erotic audios, imagining it’s Garrett acting out the scenes painted by their filthy words.
No good will come from getting lost in those daydreams. Shaking away those thoughts with a wiggle of my shoulders, I step back into my fighting stance. With a slap of the bag, he starts to call out the punches.
It takes a bit before I get into a rhythm. The smack of my gloved fists hitting the bag and the melody of his deep bass meld into an almost musical beat. Jab. Thwack. Uppercut. Thwack. Cross. Thwack. Hook. Thwack.
Every muscle in my body burns awake. Despite the gentle ache radiating, this strange sense of joy surges inside me with each strike on the bag.
It’s similar, but different, to when I do yoga with Catherine.
With that, a Zen sensation envelops me. Right now, I am the opposite of Zen.
It’s primal and fierce, as if I’m a fae warrior queen from one of my romantasy novels.
“If Miles were here, what would you say to him?” Garrett asks.
“What?” I blink, stopping my arm mid-swing.
“I didn’t say to stop. Keep going.” He slaps the bag twice.
“Bossy much.” My retort is breathless.
“What would you say to literary fuckboy if he were here?” He slaps the bag again. “Tell the bag.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. This is textbook homespun therapy straight out of a paperback self-help book.” I roll my eyes.
“Maybe Ms. MSW”—he shrugs— “but it works.”
I bark out a disbelieving laugh.
“Prove me wrong then… Tell the bag.”
“Fine.” I move back into my fighting stance and do a quick jab to the bag’s center. “This is stupid. You’re stupid.”
“And literary fuckboy?”
“Is also stupid,” I grit out, my glove thwacking against the side of the bag with a right hook.
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t see me. Not how I should be seen. He doesn’t want me how I should be wanted.” I slam my fists against the bag.
“And how should you be wanted?”
“Like the air someone breathes,” I hiss, punching my fist into the bag in a hard uppercut.
The fire once crackling quietly inside me roars awake every emotion that’s laid unspoken and ignored within me about Miles.
Frustration that he doesn’t want me. Anger with myself for falling for yet another man who doesn’t deserve me.
Sadness that this is just a pathetic waltz I’ll repeat the steps to again with whatever inappropriate man I fall for in the future.
“Fuck you, Miles, and your shitty taste in books. You don’t deserve me!
” Rotating my hips, I put as much of that fireball of emotions into each punch.
“Fuck you, Everett, for making me think the only reason someone would kiss me is on a bet. Fuck you, Chase, for making me feel like I’m just a backup plan…
And fuck me for choosing these men,” I shout with one last cross.
Chest heaving, muscles aching, and sweat dotting my forehead, I step back and drop my arms to my sides. A strange sense of calm folds around me. Nothing is fixed. I’m still hurt, but I don’t hurt. It’s hard to explain, but the emotions roaring inside me are quiet.
“How do you feel?” Garrett releases the bag and steps closer to me.
“Annoyed that you were right,” I pant out.
“Sounds about right.”
“Garrett, who is Jenny Wren?” I tip my head up, meeting his stare that I know, in the way my body pulses, is tethered to mine.
I could look this up myself, but right now I want him to tell me.
Not just because Garrett will never lie to me, even if it means my feelings will be hurt, but out of a need to know that there is one man outside of my family whom I can trust. Even if the dull ache in my heart warns that Garrett is yet another man who will never want me the way I want to be wanted, I know he’ll never hurt me. Not in the way other men have hurt me.
“She’s a disabled woman known for being an inspirational character from Dickens,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact.
“Just as I thought.” I take a deep breath. “Hold the bag, Garrett,” I say, settling into my fighting stance.