“Yeah, let me get Raven set up and I’ll be right there.”
“Cool.” Blake’s eyes move from Jonah to me. He shakes his head. “You’re something else, baby girl.” Walking away, I hear him mumble something that sounds like lucky bastard.
Jonah’s body tenses at my side, drawing my eyes to him. He looks down at me, and I watch the tension leave his face. “You all right?”
“Of course.” Thanks to him.
“Blake’s not so funny anymore, is he?”
I shrug, slide my arms around Jonah’s middle and rest my cheek against his chest. “No, he’s still funny.”
He chuckles and tugs me to move. “Come on. Let’s find you somewhere to sit.”
We walk to a row of chairs, and he tells me to take a seat. A firm kiss on the lips, then one to the side of my neck, and he moves to meet Blake and Owen in the octagon.
Taking in my surroundings, I notice gigantic posters on the walls, each depicting a different fighter. I make my way past each one, studying the fighters I recognize until I land on Jonah’s.
His poster is by far the most enticing. The photo was taken at an angle, his head turned to face the camera. His eyebrows are dropped low making his eyes look black, and I’m transfixed by the fierceness of his face. No dimples or sexy grin, just pure focus. His lethal arms, posed in punching position, look huge as the vibrant colors of his tattoos intensify the cuts of his muscles. A shiver runs through my body and I turn away to find my seat.
I take a chair up close and set my attention to Jonah in the octagon. It doesn’t take long before I’m gasping for air with my hand covering my mouth to keep from crying out. Watching Jonah in action is terrifyingly beautiful. He moves like a predator, graceful yet powerful. His punches and kicks are controlled as he commands his body. On the mat, as he rolls in a tangle of arms and legs, there’s no doubt he was born for this.
“Baby! Come here.” Jonah’s command is terse with loss of breath.
I look up in horror and point to my chest. Who me?
He smiles, nods, and waves me over.
“This is going to be embarrassing,” I say to no one in particular as I push myself up and head his way.
“I’m going to teach you an arm bar.”
Owen leaves the octagon, giving me a sweet smile. “Good luck, princess.”
My eyes find Blake who is covering his mouth, but his eyes give away his amusement. Oh, real nice.
Jonah and Blake demonstrate a few times, both of them explaining each step in detail with the clarity of professional fighters. I hang on every word, determined to get it right and not make a complete idiot out of myself.
Their instruction complete, they call me over to try. Lying with my back to the mat, I do exactly what I’m shown. After a few minor adjustments, I have Jonah’s forearm in my hands. His arm runs the length of my body down through my legs. His shoulder rests between my thighs and my calves are locked around his torso. I thrust my hips forward.
“Fuck.” He makes a pained grunt, but I continue to hold him in place. “You got it.”
“I did it!” I could break the arm of a man at least twice my size by a thrust of my hips.
Power surges through me and I’m suddenly flipped. Jonah has his huge body wrapped around me like a boa constrictor, his mouth at my ear.
“Yeah, baby. You did it. I’m proud of you.” He whispers before nuzzling my neck and dropping lingering kisses on my earlobe.
I shiver.
“That’s my girl.” He releases me and pulls me to my feet.
Blake is off to the side of the mat. “This,” he indicates by waving his hand back and forth between me and Jonah, “is freaking me the hell out.” He waves us off then stalks away.
I shrug my shoulders and look to Jonah who has both dimples out in full force.
“You’re not the only one,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Eleven
Jonah
“Still with the same girl. Gotta say, brother, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Owen and I are in the kitchen at the training center, shooting the shit and powering down protein shakes.
“I wasn’t sure I had it in me either, but here I am, one full week.” Pride warms my chest every time I think about the longest and only relationship I’ve ever had. It isn’t at all like I thought it’d be. She doesn’t bug me to buy her shit, ask me to get her into the most exclusive clubs, or fill my bathroom with her girlie crap. I can’t even get her to leave clothes at my house. She’s always tossing clothes in and out of her backpack.
After that first night, she put up a fight about staying over the next two. Until I told her that I’d personally go and feed Dog every morning if it meant having her warm body in my bed every night. And every night since, she tries to leave again, only agreeing to stay once I kiss her until she surrenders.
“You still haven’t slept with her.”