by Peggy Jaeger
Dressed in similar sweats to what he’d worn the morning before, his body bathed in gleaming sweat, Ky pummeled one of the suspended bags. His hands were wrapped with white gauze, his arms toned and taunt as he executed each strike with perfect precision and technique.
Gemma stopped on the final riser and watched him batter the bag, fists moving with swift, defined actions, the jabs fast and hard, the recoils even faster.
Shoulders raised, elbows tight, hands balled and up blocking his cheeks and jaw line, he threw a right jab, left, then two rights, all aimed high, and a final forward thrust left, lower on the bag, his knees bending to give him balance.
Gemma wanted to race back to her room, grab her camera and capture the scene before her.
Kyros Pappandreos was the epitome, the very definition of a natural-born fighter. Distinctly male, uniquely the warrior, his body moved with the grace of a panther, the stealth of a tiger stalking its prey, and the accuracy of a cobra striking. There was something so sensual, so primal, so animalistic about him, she knew she had to photograph him just this way.
She’d capture him in slow motion first, his tight fist connecting with his target, the sweat of exertion flying from his forehead. Then, she’d move to rapid fire, the image blurring with the speed of his hits. A pugilist, enigmatic, tough, and hard bodied, the bulging muscles and corded sinew in his arms distended with his action, outlined and bathed in the shiny moisture pouring from him.
Ky repeated the moves in the same series of strikes three more times before dropping his hands to his thighs.
He swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, his breathing hard, but not labored, and turned.
“I’m sorry,” Gemma said as soon as his widened gaze trained on her. “I didn’t know you were down here, and when I realized it, I didn’t want to interrupt you. You looked so…intense. So focused. I’m sorry.”
Good Lord, she never babbled like an idiot. Never. What the hell was it about a simple glance from this man that cranked up her nerves?
“No need to apologize,” Ky said. He began unwrapping one of his hands, tugging at the gauze with his teeth. “This room is as much at your disposal as it is for any of us.”
“I know, but…here, let me help.”
She grabbed the edge of the gauze from him and began twirling it around his hand. Close to him now, she could feel the heat escaping him, the scent of his sweat distinctly male and surprisingly arousing. A hot jab of awareness punched her stomach, almost as if he’d actually been the one to throw it.
Gemma kept her gaze on the wrapping, but from the corner of her eye she watched his substantial chest rise and fall with each breath he took. The T-shirt was plastered to him, his pecs and abdominal muscles defined under the clinging, wet fabric. One lone droplet cascaded down along his jaw to settle in the deep notch at his throat, and in a moment of blinding lust, Gemma experienced such a profound need to run her tongue along the area, knowing she’d savor the taste of salt and man mixed together, she had to bite down on the inside of her bottom lip to avoid doing it and mortifying herself.
When the wrapping was finally off, Ky took his now freed hand and began working on the other one while Gemma held on to the gauze.
“Thanks,” he told her. “It’s always easier and goes quicker when someone else does the first one.”
Gemma nodded and backed up, crossing her hands behind her back.
“You planning on using the treadmill this morning?” he asked.
It took her a moment to answer. She’d been staring at his now naked hands. Had she noticed how long and thin his fingers were before? How dexterous, how exact each movement was? A flash of his fingers moving over her naked flesh popped into her head and she had to will herself not to slam her eyes shut.
“No.” She swallowed and took a breath. “I think I want to practice my weaponry skills today. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to get to a class and I don’t want to get rusty.”
He nailed her with a hard glaze. “Weaponry skills? You study martial arts?”
She nodded. “Kempo. Jujitsu. Some escrima.”
“Really?”
His bald disbelief sailed down her spine, stiffening it. Annoyance killed the sudden lust swimming within her.
“Yes, really.” She fisted her hands on her hips. She’d had her fill of arrogant and superior sounding men over the years condescendingly question her abilities. It had only served to make her more of a devotee of the practices. She wasn’t surprised when Special Agent Pompous sounded skeptical.
“How long?” Ky asked.
“How long what?”
“Have you been studying?”
Gemma shook her head, wondering why he asked. “Eleven years. I started in high school. Kept at it.”
“Dedicated,” he said. “That’s admirable. Why’d you start?”
She couldn’t tell him the real story behind her initial desire to learn how to defend herself. Gemma had never shared what had happened to her in the back seat of that car long ago and wasn’t about to start with the man standing in front of her. So she opted for a half-truth.
“I took a basic karate class as a high school gym elective one year. The teacher told me I had”—she shrugged—“a natural ability for the art and the movements and that I should consider pursuing it. So I did.”
“What’s your rank?”
She never hesitated to tell him, proud of her achievements. “Third-degree black in kempo, second in jujitsu.”
Ky whistled. “Nice.” He glanced over at the weapon wall. “You like working with sticks?”
“They’re my favorite weapons next to nunchakus.”
“Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“What?”
He moved to the storage wall and selected two pair of three-foot fighting sticks, and handed her one set.
“Seriously?” Because it was second nature to her, she weighed the sticks in each hand and found her balance, legs spread hip distance apart and equalized on the balls of her feet, arms and shoulders lifted, the sticks pointed upward. “You know how to stick fight?”
His mouth lifted in a tiny arc on one side. “I’ve been known to hold my own,” he told her, adopting an equal stance. “Drill first to get a feel for one another?”
Gemma nodded. “High, low, then triples?”
The tiny grin he’d tossed her spread into a full-fledged smile that had her mouth watering.
She counted them down.
From the first series of strikes she knew without a doubt he could more than just hold his own. Kyros Pappandreos had some serious skill.
They started slow, each gaging the other’s reaction time, “getting the feel,” as he’d said, for the other’s ability. But in less than a minute the pace jumped. They parried and danced in a circle, each counterbalancing a move made by the other. For every lift of his stick to strike high, Gemma met his move and then changed the angle, first striking low, then lifting her arm. Back and forth, each maneuver challenging the other, the sounds of the sticks striking, wood to wood in a staccato rhythm, bounced off the walls.
At one point they were moving so fast, the sticks blurred in her vision and all she could do was let instinct and training take over her hands and arms, the weapons becoming an extension of her body.
How much time passed, she couldn’t guess, but her arms began to scream with the effort and speed they mounted.
Gemma met him, hit for hit, strike for strike. It was exhilarating, mentally and technically, to work with someone so well-schooled in the art. For many of the past several years, her master had recruited her into helping the less experienced students. When she’d been able to spar and fight with him, his proficiency level had elevated hers, forcing her to defend against moves no novice or amateur could. She’d grown as a fighter, cherishing each time she was able to implement
her abilities.
And every one of those skills was put to the test with Ky as her partner.
Eventually, he slowed them down to where they were simply just tapping their sticks together, high strikes then low. Gemma was breathing hard, but wasn’t winded; she was elated. She wanted to push herself, push him, to see where they could take this.
“Enough,” he said, taking a step back and lowering his sticks to a neutral position.
Gemma mimicked his movement.
“You know what you’re doing,” she told him, measuring his breathing by the pace of his chest rising and falling. It gave her a subtle ego boost to realize he was breathing a little rougher than she was.
“As do you,” he answered. Respect and something deeper filled his gaze as he considered her. Gemma’s toes curled inside her sneakers as those hooded eyes regarded her. “You’ve had top-notch training.”
“My sensei believes if you’re going to learn something, you should master it to understand every nuance, every aspect of it.”
Ky nodded. “A sound practice.” He reached out a hand for her sticks. Mild disappointment flowed through her. She’d wanted to play some more.
“What else can you do?” he asked while he replaced them.
“I’m good at staff technique and knife.”
“How about hand-to-hand?”
Her brows pulled together. “Like sparring or grappling?”
“Either. Both. The disciplines you train in require you to be proficient in all aspects of combat, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“What would you say you need to work on more?”
She lifted her shoulders. “Grappling, probably. I don’t practice it enough. I haven’t done any for a while.”
Ky nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“With you?”
Ky made a show of turning around the room. “I seem to be the only one here, so, yes.”
His mocking tone stood the hair on the back of her neck upright.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”
Pride, anger, and just plain pissed-off-ness broke through her. She lifted her chin and glared at him, realizing a little splash of hurt had mixed in with the other emotions.
“That’s a condescending thing to say.”
“I didn’t mean it to be.” His brows kissed over his eyes. “I was thinking more along the lines of you getting injured by taxing yourself. You’re still only a couple days out with that knee.”
She stayed silent.
“Want protective gear?”
“Protective gear’s for sissies,” she said, automatically. Her pulse shot up when his hooded eyes widened. “I train without gear. Always. My teacher believes it’s the best way to mimic the real world, and I agree.”
Ky nodded.
Gemma couldn’t help herself when she added, “But feel free to wear some if you think you might need it. I wouldn’t want you to hurt…anything.” If her unconscious attempt had been to put him in his place, it backfired.
“Don’t worry about me,” he told her. “You’re sure your knee is up for it?”
“My knee’s fine. I wouldn’t have decided to work out if it weren’t. And having gear on wouldn’t have prevented what happened to me in my apartment,” she said. “I managed to hold my own even though I had a gun pointed at my face.”
It was his turn for silence, his gaze, though, never wavering from hers. The intensity of the scrutiny had her insides squirming.
“Okay,” he said at last. “No gear. But we use the mats. If one of us falls, at least the mats will cushion us.”
“I have no intention of falling,” she told him.
The slight lift of his full lips distracted her for a moment, just enough so that when he moved toward her she wasn’t as quick as she should have been.
In no time at all, he’d grabbed both her forearms, the strength of his hold imprisoning her. His slight height advantage dazed her as he loomed above her, his hands clamped down together.
When the shock of his approach wore off, Gemma’s trained brain kicked in. Most people would instinctively pull backward to try and yank their arms away from an attacker’s hold.
Not Gemma.
She knew the futility of moving back, so she stepped into his space, their bodies so close she could distinguish the cacophony of colors in his eyes, and in one continuous motion rolled her arms inward so her palms were now facing the ceiling, snapped her forearms together—making his knuckles clunk against each other—and then spread them apart again.
The power and swiftness of the combined movements forced Ky’s hands to fall open, freeing her arms.
Gemma wasted no time.
She stepped behind him and wound one hand around his waist, the other under his chin to try and grab the opposite side of his jaw. The purely male aroma of sweat and hot, sexy, man wafted to her. She bit down the longing to slide her nose along his neck and sniff.
Ky tucked his chin to his chest and turned into her hold, an elbow aimed at her stomach. Gemma felt the intent of his move with her body, so she loosened her hold and took two steps back, dragging him with her.
He snaked a hand under the arm secured at his waist, grabbed her thumb and yanked it back. Pain shot through her palm as she released her hold, a tiny grunt escaping through her lips.
Ky spun to face her. A momentary flash of something crossed his face before his hands went to her throat.
He’d barely tightened into the strangle hold on her neck before Gemma took a step back and to her right side, lifted her left arm high and close to her face and then smashed her elbow down on his inner arms, aiming for the inside notch on his own elbows. The moment his hold was broken, her right hand came up to punch him in the jaw.
Gemma was impressed with Ky’s reflexes when he checked the move by slapping her wrist away and spinning her so her back was to him.
Before she could recover her balance he grabbed her around the midsection with his arms locked and lifted her up, her back plastered against his front as he swayed backward with them.
Gemma snapped her head back, clipping him on the jaw, registered the muffled groan he let out, lifted her knees to her chest and began rocking back and forth.
She’d misjudged his strength.
Instead of his hold slackening from her jerking motions, it tightened around her waist, her back now completely molded to his. Her breathing came in spurts from the effort it took to fight him and the tension of his grip on her body.
“Come on,” he said, so close to her ear his breath warmed her neck, the sensation shooting straight down her spinal column. She was beginning to sweat and knew it wasn’t just from all the physical exercise.
Ky’s body was one long, solid, fortress of muscle and power. Imprisoned against him, his every cord and tendon flexing against her back as he held her securely in place, the heat firing off her body was as much from excitement as it was from the exertion of fighting.
“You should be able to get out of this, easily,” he said. “It’s a rookie maneuver. You learned it in self-defense 101.”
Irritation flashed through her.
Damn him!
Gemma closed her eyes and tried to center her anger. He was right. She did know how to get out of a hold like this, and if one way didn’t work, there were others that had been drilled into her. Her mistake had been in being distracted by the incredible feel of his body against hers.
She let her entire body go slack and limp, dropping her knees and legs back down, touching the floor with the tips of her toes. The moment the tension left her, Ky struggled to keep his balance and his hold as tight as he had on her. Gemma took the opportunity of his loosened grip to elbow him in the midsection first with one arm and then rapid-fire with the other, knocking him back.
She whirled around, pushed aga
inst his chest with the flats of her palms and hooked a foot around one of his ankles.
Ky lost his balance and dropped backward to the mat, just as she’d planned. Unfortunately for her, though, Ky’d grabbed her wrists when she pushed against him and hung on. When he landed flat on his back she fell on top of him. Face to face, both their breathing labored and harsh, they stared at one another.
Where did a man get off looking like walking sex, sprawled on his back, drenched in sweat? His golden skin glistened in the daylight shafting through the small windows near the ceiling. Her professional eye traced along his temples, down his jaw, across his neck, and the corded muscles there, wet and pronounced.
He’d photograph like a Greek god and she desperately wanted to film him just this way.
While they stared at one another, Ky’s hands remained wound around her wrists. The second she realized she should snap out of his grip, he lifted his hips and in the time it took to register his intent, Gemma was flipped flat against the mat on her back now, two hundred pounds of hard, solid, able-bodied male on top of her.
He’d imprisoned her arms above her head causing the entire length of his body to cover hers from chest to toe.
Every quickened breath she took had her breasts bumping against his broad torso.
Her nipples tightened and pulled inside her sports bra. When her heaving chest skimmed against his, the scraping pain shooting across the swollen peaks of her breasts was equal parts excruciating and stimulating.
Her abdominal muscles contracted when his hips pressed down against her, his unmistakable arousal settling against her pelvis.
Hypnotized, she stared up at his face, unable to move her gaze away from the swirling colors in his eyes disappearing as his pupils dilated.
A muscle in his cheek quirked, tightened. His lips parted, a warm, soft puff of air pushed through them, and billowed across her face.
When he swallowed, Gemma had to mentally force herself not to lift up and slide her lips against the bulge at his neck.
Never in all the times she’d fought in class or practiced with any male partner had she been so turned on.
