| |
“You’ll hurt yourself, hitting the bag that way,” Graham had to say.
He didn’t want to say anything, he wanted to slink out of the staff gym before Alice noticed him. But he couldn’t let her continue to batter at the bag that way, couldn’t bear to think of her in pain if he could do anything to stop it.
Alice was panting and sweaty, and the strong, gorgeous lines of her long body were fierce and graceful. “I suppose you’re some kind of fighter?” she said angrily, giving the heavy bag another furious, flawed hit.
Some kind of fighter, Graham thought.
“You’ll fracture your wrist,” he growled. “Hold it straight, like this, and step back a little, so the force goes all the way up to your shoulder when you make the hit. Those are the big muscles that can take it. Wrists are weak.”
He’d broken enough of them to know, he thought regretfully.
Alice gave the bag another hit, a better hit, and the bag shuddered on its chain. “Hot damn,” she said, pleased. “Thanks.”
Graham turned to go, but Alice stopped him with a word, “Wait...”
Graham stared at the door jamb.
“We’re grownups,” Alice said. “If you want to use the workout room at the same time, we... should be able to do that. If you want to lift, I can spot you. Or, whatever.”
Bench presses, with her curves above him, shining with sweat? Graham wasn’t that stupid.
But the only excuse he could think of to retreat from his workout involved admitting that he didn’t think he’d be able to concentrate with the distraction of having her in the same room. And that sounded weak.
He grunted and went to do sit-ups on the inclined bench.
Predictably, he lost count, listening to Alice continue to punch at the bag, and then start arm curls. After he guessed he’d done a few hundred, he realized in a panic that he should probably switch, or it would look like he was incapable of doing anything else.
Pull-ups on the bars would have been his next stop, but Graham became aware that he probably should only do things that involved sitting; he was irresistibly aroused, and it was going to be obvious if he wasn’t careful.
He made the mistake of glancing over at her, and she was looking away swiftly. Her color was high, but Graham told himself that might have been due to exertion. The day was hot, and the fan in the workout room was not helping much.
What he really wanted to do was punch something, and the heavy bag was tempting. If he put his back to her... Graham was moving before he could reconsider, wrapping his hands with efficient motions to save his knuckles.
Crack.
The hit was always satisfying, and the chains groaned. If Travis hadn’t reinforced the equipment—the whole room—to shifter specifications, it probably would have fallen.
The bag swung back and Graham met it with all of his frustration and a fist; not as hard as the first time, because that kind of hit was sloppy. No opponent would wait around for a fighter to regain their balance after committing all their energy into a punch that way.
He lay into the bag with all of his focus he could muster, dancing on the balls of his feet, feinting, hitting. But he couldn’t shake his awareness of Alice behind him.
She was this tantalizing presence, like a source of heat, like magnetic north to his compass. It took all of his willpower to keep his attention on the bag before him.
Did he draw her that same way? Or did her bear have the same indifference to him that she seemed to? Graham reminded himself that her cool practicality really was the best practice. He didn’t have anything to offer a mate.
A fist slipped, and only shifter reflexes kept Graham from taking the heavy bag in the face. He lowered his hands, forcing his fingers to relax, and only then felt the sweat he’d worked up. The bag slowed in its pendulum motion, and as the creak of the chains and the support beam stilled, he became aware that Alice was silent behind him.
“You’re good,” she said into the quiet, as if she felt compelled to fill it. “I teach wrestling, but it’s a really different sport, of course. All about holds and takedowns and grapples, not so much on the hitting.” She laughed nervously. “You don’t want to teach middle school students how to hit. At that age, all they want to do is strike out already. They’re swimming in a sea of puberty and haven’t quite figured out how not to be self-centered jerks enslaved by their hormones.”
Graham couldn’t speak, too busy picturing what grappling Alice would be like. Those long limbs, that beautiful neck, strong fingers twined with his...
He grunted, unwrapping his hands.
“Graham...” The bench that Alice had been sitting on gave a creak as she stood.
He ought to turn and face her. It would be polite. He willed himself under control, and failed.
She was standing too close; he could feel her right behind him.
“Graham,” she said again.
Graham gritted his teeth and turned. If she wanted to see what she was doing to him, then fine.
“No kissing,” she said, and for a moment, Graham didn’t understand. Then she was tugging his shirt up, and when he helped her get it over his head and throw it across the room, everything was clear and uncomplicated. He bent to her neck... not to kiss, but to bite, gently, then harder as she made a noise that was no part pain.