“…just a few basic defensive techniques,” Nate is saying. “How to break out of an attacker’s hold, how to use your stature to your advantage, things like that.”
“My stature?” My eyes narrow. “Was that a dig at my height? I’ll have you know, I may be petite but I’m agile. Must I remind you of my karate chop skills?” I drop into a crouch, hand-blades extended. “Ninja, remember?”
His lips twitch and he shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweat pants, tugging them further down his hips so a slice of taut flesh appears beneath the hem of his tight black t-shirt. I catch a flash of tan skin and dark hair before I force myself to look away.
Oh boy.
“Yeah, comforting as that is….” He suppresses a laugh. “You’re tiny. You’re never going to overpower a full grown man.” His eyes narrow. “But that won’t matter if you know how to outmaneuver them.”
I stare at him for a long moment, saying nothing.
“You’re uncharacteristically quiet,” he points out, after a minute passes in silence. “I expected more objecting. A temper tantrum. Some whining. A little foot-stomping.”
Well!
“I don’t have temper tantrums,” I mutter. “And I only have one question.”
His eyes are crinkly and warm. “Yeah? What’s that?”
I take a step toward him, eyes never shifting from his face. “Just to be clear… you’re going to teach me defensive techniques.”
He nods, looking at me like I have a few screws loose.
“And to teach me these moves… we’re going to be on those mats.” I gesture at the sparring area.
He nods again, but awareness is creeping into his eyes.
I step closer and drop my voice to a sultry whisper. “Just you and me.”
His mouth parts a little as he watches me move toward him. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little more ragged than usual.
Serves him right, after that temper-tantrum comment.
“You and me, on the mats. Your hands on my body, guiding me into different positions.” My words are breathy as I take the final step, until I’m practically pressed against his chest. I’m barely holding my laughter in check. “Are you going to show me some things I’ve never done before, Nate?”
He swallows, body vibrating with tension as he stares at my mouth. “Fuck.” His eyes drift heavenward, seeking guidance.
I trace a fingertip down his chest — just one, tiny graze — and his entire body rocks back like I’ve punched him in the gut.
“Come on,” I whisper, feeling devious. “Teach me.”
He groans and takes a step away, breathing harder than Gemma at yoga class. Which is really saying something.
“Fuck it.” He grabs my hand and pulls me from the mats, toward the shooting range. “We’ll start with guns instead.”
I laugh.
***
Before I know it, he’s strapped me into a vest, handed me a set of glasses and soundproof earmuffs, and shown me the basics. Now, thirty minutes and one too-brief crash course later, I’m standing at the end of a gun lane with my eyes on a distant target and my hands locked tight around a sleek black handgun.
My veins are thrumming with adrenaline — thanks in part to the gun, but mostly to the man who handed it to me. I thought target practice would be easier to withstand than sparring, since I wouldn’t have to touch Nate as much.
I was wrong.
“Adjust your grip. No, not like that.” His arms wrap around me from behind, bringing his entire front up against my back. His head ducks so his chin rests almost on my shoulder. His hands close over mine, moving my fingers so they fit around the Beretta right. I can feel every muscular contour of his chest.
Crap on pumpernickel with peanut butter.
“That’s it,” he whispers when my hands are positioned correctly, the heat of his body radiating through the back of my sleep shirt. “Just like that.”
I hold myself perfectly still, so I don’t do something stupid. Like squirm against him. Or press back, to see if he’s as affected by our proximity as I am.
One tiny shift of my stance and I could feel his…
Danger!