by Eva Ashwood
I’ll probably be a little sore tomorrow morning as my body adjusts to being put through a hard workout again, but it’ll be worth it if it helps me clear my head.
I’m blind and deaf to anything but my hands, the bag, the sound of my harsh breathing, and the thud-thud-thud of my fists impacting the bag again and again, so when a voice breaks into my trance-like state, it takes me completely by surprise.
“You’ve got good form. A little stiff around the shoulders though.”
I curse as I nearly have a heart attack, whirling around to see Rory standing near the door with his arms folded.
I’m panting like I ran a marathon, and I can feel sweat running down my back as I stare at him. He just stares right back, a little smile playing at his lips.
He’s dressed in just a wife beater and gym shorts, so he clearly came down to work out himself, and I have to suck in a breath at the way he looks. Once again, his tatted arms are on display, the full sleeves winding up over his shoulders and down to his wrists. With his arms folded, his biceps bulge, and I remember that Scarlett told me he fights sometimes.
It’s clear in his build that he’s good at it, and fuck, that’s hot.
My mouth feels dry, and my heart is still racing, but I try to chalk that up to the exercise, not his appearance.
Realizing I’ve probably been staring at him for longer than can be blamed on surprise, I scowl a little. After the encounter I just had with Sloan, I probably shouldn’t be talking to any of these guys, but Rory started it this time.
“I don’t need your tips,” I say. “I’m doing fine without them.”
Rory shrugs and then walks over to the wall where the equipment is kept. He grabs a pair of pads and slips them onto his hands before coming over to the open center of the room and taking a defensive posture.
“Show me what you’ve got then, princess.”
His tone is teasing, but I can tell he’s serious. Something about his blasé attitude and the nickname riles me up, and my competitive nature takes over, which is kind of a relief since it works as a distraction from taking in how goddamned hot he is.
I’ll take whatever I can get at this point.
“Fine.” I purse my lips, accepting his challenge and striding over to square off with him.
He’s bigger than me by a lot, but I’ve been training with my dad for years, which means I’ve fought a lot of guys. I take down bigger opponents all the time. I roll my neck and shift into a better stance and then lash out, hitting the pads with the same force and rhythm that I was using on the bag.
Rory takes each hit, eyes intent as he braces himself, letting me go for a bit before he smirks and then swipes out with one arm, making me duck under the blow.
“Keep your weight balanced better so you can avoid a punch after throwing your own,” he tells me.
I make a face, but I have to admit it’s actually a useful note. But I’ll be damned if I ever say those words out loud, so I just nod, letting out a breath and moving back into position.
My focus narrows again, and Rory keeps up with me easily, blocking each hit and forcing me to stay on my toes. He trades off between giving me blows to dodge and making me move around, getting my footwork into it as well.
I’m breathing hard, sweat dripping down my temples, and he seems cool as a fucking cucumber, calling out teasing quips as we continue.
“Ooh, there was some fire in that one,” he says when I land a particularly hard punch.
“I was imagining it was your face,” I snap back, and he laughs and pushes me back a bit.
“Aw, you’re going to hurt my feelings,” he teases. “Here I am trying to be helpful, and you’re thinking about hitting me.” He cocks a brow. “But between you and me, I don’t think punching would be the first thing you’d want to do with my face.”
I glare at him and lash out harder, but he blocks each hit easily.
“Think whatever you want,” I grunt. “Doesn’t change the truth.”
He’s a good fighter, I have to give him that. He’s not as polished as someone who does it all the time, like my dad, but he’s got really good instincts and natural balance and a sort of grace that carries over from the easygoing way he is in life, I guess.
He makes each block look effortless, and I have to work hard to take him by surprise. It’s a good thing for my training, and I have to grudgingly admit that I’m enjoying myself.
Of course, there comes a point when he gets too cocky. He’s laughing, dancing back a bit and making me come to him, holding his hands up higher so I have to reach up to hit them.
“What would you do if you had to fight a guy so much taller than you?” he taunts, eyes bright with amusement.
I’m not even short, and his constant joking is grating enough that I decide to take him down a peg.
“I’d aim for his balls,” I reply. Then, instead of kicking him right in the dick like I’d really like to, I drop a little and sweep his leg out from under him, sending him sprawling to the floor in a heap. I go down with him in a smooth motion, taking advantage of his vulnerable position and straddling him in a full mount.
He looks surprised at the takedown but not upset about it, and I spare a second to wonder what it takes to really get under this guy’s skin.
“Whoa, Hurricane. That move definitely isn’t regulation.” He chuckles, grinning crookedly.
“So? I fight dirty. What’re you gonna do about it?” I shoot back, staring him right in the face, daring him to make a big deal about getting his ass kicked by a girl.
His grin grows, and he bucks his hips, shifting his weight so he can flip us over in one fluid motion that leaves me surprised and breathless, flat on my back. I end up pinned under him, one of his legs between mine, his face just inches away as he holds himself up above me.
“I do everything dirty,” he says, his voice dipping down into a lower tone that pulls a shiver up my spine.
He’s close enough that I can smell him, sweat mixed with something fresh and clean under it. And I can feel him against me, hot and getting hard, either from the sparring or the proximity or both.
Shit. This was a bad idea.
I’m still emotionally on edge from my fight with Sloan and everything else that’s happened over the past week. A restless sort of energy is creeping under my skin, and it has to get out some way.
It needs some sort of fucking release.
I lick my lips, feeling my own body responding to his obvious arousal. My nipples are hard, pressing against the thin material of my sports bra, and there’s a throbbing ache between my legs. It’s a struggle not to push up and rub against the sturdy thigh that’s wedged between mine, but I’m trying to keep my distance, trying to ignore the thrumming, pulsing heat inside me that’s calling me to grind against him and give in to the pleasure I want to feel.
Rory’s eyes widen a little. His gaze lingers on my face for a second before it drops down to my mouth, and I don’t know which of us moves first, but the thread of tension that’s been growing this whole time finally snaps.
We’re kissing a second later, his mouth hard and hot against mine, demanding and unyielding. I arch up with a soft gasp into his mouth, hands going to his shoulders, holding on to him like I need an anchor.
Whatever I’m hoping to save myself from by clinging to him, it doesn’t work. The searing heat between us just grows, and Rory laughs under his breath, pressing me harder against the floor as he slips his tongue into my mouth.
I definitely don’t mind the tongue, or the aggressive moves. No one’s ever accused me of being passive when it comes to shit like this. I’m not some soft girl who needs to be wooed and coddled, and I prove that by shifting under him until I have enough leverage to roll us over once more, feeling triumphant when I end up on top of him.
Of course Rory kisses like he does everything else, playful and teasing, but with a hard edge to it. He licks into my mouth, coaxing my tongue to tangle and slide with his, and then runs his hands down my
back to land at my hips. They rest there for a second, and he drags me in closer, letting me feel how hard he is as we kiss.
I can hear myself moaning into his mouth, and if I were in my right fucking mind right now, I’d tell myself to shut up. To not let him know that he’s getting under my skin. To not let him hear how much I like this.
But I’m very much not in my right mind, so all I do is press down harder, rubbing against him and enjoying the hard slide of our bodies together before he flips us one more time, reclaiming the top spot.
It’s almost like sparring, the way we keep shifting the upper hand, mouths clashing together. There’s nothing timid or gentle about it, and that makes it even better. Even harder to resist.
Rory chuckles into my mouth and bites down on my lower lip, and that sends a jolt of pleasure through me so strong that it’s enough to snap me out of the haze I’ve been in. I blink my eyes open and push at his chest, breaking the kiss.
“Get off me,” I manage, and I hate how raspy my voice sounds.
He smirks but does it, pushing off of me and getting to his feet easily. He holds a hand out for me to take, but I ignore it, rolling to my feet without his help.
We’re both flushed, chests heaving as we fight for air, and it’s not from the sparring. Looking down, I can see the hard line of Rory’s cock through his gym shorts, and I know my nipples are probably still very visible in my sports bra.
True to form, the fucker is still grinning. His hair is tousled, and it’s clear he enjoyed himself.
“I’ll spar with you any time, Hurricane,” he says, and I fight the urge to punch him.
“You should be so lucky.”
I bite the words out, and I’ve barely finished speaking before I step around him to head for the door. I have to get out of there. Just the smell of him, still so close, is enough to make me want to lean back in and pick up where we left off, but it would be a fucking mistake. That’s not what I’m here for.
That’s the opposite of what I’m here for.
As I pass him, he reaches out and slaps my ass, the sound echoing around us. It’s not a hard slap, but it’s hard enough. The small sting of pain is followed by a flush of warmth that seems to melt my lower belly into a molten pool.
My jaw clenches as I shove down every emotion inside me but the anger. I flip him off over my shoulder and let the door close behind me, pausing for just a second to take a deep breath.
Shit. Where the hell did that come from?
It’s one thing to spar with the guy, but I should never have let it turn into anything else.
In some ways, it’s not hard to see why it did though. Fighting and sex are two of my favorite things, especially when they’re combined, and it’s not hard to imagine Rory being good at both. His cocky confidence is well-earned, even if it is a pain in the ass to deal with.
Literally.
11
All day Friday, I have a harder time than usual focusing in class.
To be honest, it’s the same distraction I spent the rest of last night dealing with, replaying the make-out session with Rory over and over again in my head until I can’t think about anything else.
I remember the hard lines of his body against mine, and even the way he moved when we were sparring. His form. His stance. The way he moved in time with me to block my punches and keep me on my toes, almost like we were dancing together.
Half of it is how skilled he is, and being impressed with him for that, but the rest is all me being wrapped up in my horribly ill-advised attraction to him.
Even after a long, mostly cold shower last night, I wasn’t able to shake the mental images floating around in my head. I crawled into bed and was one second away from giving in to the need that was riding me, making me wet between my legs. It would have been so easy to slip a couple of fingers into my pussy and rub at my clit with the other hand so I could get myself off to thoughts of what might have happened if I hadn’t come to my senses on the gym floor.
But I held out somehow, reminding myself over and over again that I couldn’t give in to the temptation.
So what if they’re sexy as fuck? They’re also assholes, and that matters more than anything else.
There are a million sexy guys out there, and when this is all said and done, I can go find one of them to work off some of the frustration settling under my skin from living with these guys.
Of course, when I came down this morning to make myself some toast and coffee, Rory was already in the kitchen, making his own cup of coffee and winking at me when he saw me. It was pretty clear from his expression that he’d been thinking about what we did too, and it was only the fact that Sloan called him into the living room that saved me from whatever teasing shit he probably wanted to say.
But the damage was already done. I spent the whole ride to campus with Levi staring out the window, wondering what Rory’s dick looks like.
Fuck.
At least Sloan has gone back to ignoring me, pretending our encounter outside the house never even happened.
I can only hope my dad is able to do whatever it is he has to do to fulfill his part of this bargain soon, because I’m losing my fucking mind living with these guys.
It’s hard for me to keep my head on straight around them. But I need to focus up if I’m going to accomplish what I set out to do before my dad comes back and gets me out of this hellish living arrangement.
There’s definitely something up with the Black Rose gang. Something more than the usual shit they get up to, I mean. Sloan’s refusal to talk about it yesterday only makes me more certain that I’m right.
I want to know what it is and how my dad fits into it, and more than that, I need to get something I can use against them to keep them from fucking with me or Dad ever again.
Professor Kennings drones on and on up at the front of the room, talking about symbolism and character growth or something like that, and it’s easy to let myself daydream instead. Usually, I’m more attentive in class than this. I at least try to be anyway, but today I really can’t help it.
Instead of English literature, my thoughts are back at the house, jumping back and forth between memories of my confrontation with Sloan and rolling around on the floor with Rory.
“Ms. DeLeon?”
I nearly jump when I hear my name and finally come back to focus to see the professor looking right at me, one eyebrow raised expectantly.
The rest of the class is silent and watching, half of them looking at me, and half of them watching Kennings. I get the feeling he’s asked me a question that I definitely did not hear, and he’s waiting for an answer.
“Well?” he adds. “I’m sure you have some input here.”
For a second I stare at him, trying to remember anything about what he was just talking about so I can put together some kind of answer, but it’s mostly a blank. The last thing I can remember him saying was something about the countryside, but I can’t actually tell how long ago that was. The lecture could have moved on to anything by this point, and unless he’s been lecturing about the way Rory’s collar bones look in a tank top, I’ve got nothing.
There’s a hiss from my left, and I glance over to see one of the guys in the class looking at me. He smiles and then leans in a little, the fact that we’re close to the back of the room hiding the motion.
“Heathcliff,” he whispers to me, then grins.
Sure, okay. It’s not like I have anything to lose, and I’m willing to bet that saying something is better than staring like an idiot and saying nothing at all.
“Heathcliff,” I repeat, raising my voice a little.
Professor Kennings narrows his eyes at me, looking like he’s been deprived of a moment of joy. But instead of saying anything or calling me out again, he just nods and moves on, talking about how sometimes the villain in a story will be represented by the atmosphere or the setting.
As Kennings goes back to rambling and pacing at the front of the room, I breathe a sigh of relief and shoo
t the guy next to me a grateful look. Now that I’m not panicking about being put on the spot, I recognize him. His name is Dean Something-or-Other, I think, and he has at least one other class with me. He’s tall, with dark hair and blue eyes, and the sort of build that makes me think he played sports in high school.
But that’s basically all I know about him. We’ve never really talked, but there’s a sort of camaraderie that comes from us both sitting near the back for the few weeks we’ve been in this class.
Dean smiles back and mouths “no problem,” before going back to his notes while Kennings drones on.
Annoying as it is to be called out like that, it definitely takes me away from the thoughts I don’t want to be having in the first place. Luckily, the class ends soon after that, giving me a break from the stifling air of the classroom and the chance to get up and move around to clear my head. As usual at the end of class, we all stream out of the building and into the sunshine. I’m glancing around to see where Levi’s lurking when I hear someone call my name behind me.
Dean strolls up, smiling, slinging a bag over his shoulder. He looks even better out of the washed out light of the classroom, and I can’t help but smile back.
“Kennings is a dick sometimes, huh?” he asks.
“Oh yeah, definitely. He hasn’t called on me for the whole semester, but the one time I’m not paying attention, he decides to put me on the spot in front of the whole class.” I shake my head and smile back.
“I think he gets off on it sometimes,” Dean says. “He looked so disappointed when he didn’t get to shame you in front of everyone.”
I make a face at that. “I really don’t want to think about what gets Kennings off, actually.”
The man has a face like a toad, and the attitude to match. I’d almost rather go back to thinking about Rory than think about my professor getting any kind of gratification up there in front of us. Almost.
“Thanks for the save though,” I add. “I would have made an idiot of myself without you.”
“My pleasure.” Dean shrugs, giving a little nod. “You seemed like you were thinking about things a lot more important than Wuthering Heights.”
