“I’m busy,” he says slowly.
“Doing what?” I roll my eyes.
“Not training you.”
I shrug my arm out of his grasp. “You’re doing nothing but plotting the demise of the world. May as well make yourself useful.”
He lets me move into his home. “Most people are more cautious around me.”
I lift a single brow. “You gonna kill me? Hurt me?”
“Maybe,” he grumbles.
“Yeah, right. I don’t expect you to be nice to me,” I tell him honestly. “Quite frankly, you being nice to me would frighten me.”
“Don’t speak while you’re here,” he warns. “I won’t let you slack. You’ll likely vomit the first few times we train.”
“And you think sugar is bad for me. Where’s your gym?”
He points toward the back of his loft. “Let me change. Don’t snoop and don’t fucking touch anything.”
I turn on my heel, moving toward the space he indicated.
The loft is impeccable; sterile in its cleanliness. The smell of bleach and disinfectant decaying my nasal cavity by the second. Not a single item is out of place. It’s austere. No homely touches decorate the walls, save one single photo on the mantel. A worn image of him, Parker, and Lila.
I glance back to where he disappeared to, considering moving closer to it, to take a better look. But he warned me not to snoop.
I’m stupid enough to request Rocco Shay unleash the demons within me, best not destroy our deal before its even started.
I walk toward the home gym leisurely. Tucked at the very back of the loft, it’s impressive. A ceiling to floor mirror is tacked along the wall, two benches, and limitless weights packed neatly into their place. A bright red punching bag hangs from the ceiling at the side, weathered and worn, giving the impression it’s ridden out many a Rocco storm over its lifetime.
His heavy footfalls alert me to his approach and I watch him in the giant mirror. Basketball shorts sitting comfortably on his defined hips, torso and chest completely naked of clothing. He bristles with muscle. The protrusive line of his lower abdomen showy enough to make me stare. The golden tan of his skin stretches purposely over his obvious strength. Molding to every muscle like latex, exposing every curve and sinewy bulge.
Camryn Rein. My dirty, little beauty.
Not today, Satanous libido. Off you fuck, to the land of over-my-own-dead-body.
A burst of fire is drawn over his heart, the delicately designed flames climbing diagonally up his chest to wrap along the right side of his neck. They finish just under the cut line of his jaw, dancing every time he swallows.
Rocco Shay oozes threat, he bleeds power and anyone stupid enough to deny that can sign their one-way ticket to his wrath.
“Problem with clothing?” I test.
He takes a step closer. “Anything that constricts you is working against you. That includes this,” he points to his head, “this,” he taps his heart, “as well as physical restrictions like clothing and lack of training.”
“Well if you expect me to remove my shirt…”
“I’m pretty sure I asked you not to speak,” he groans impatiently. “Your boobs are of no interest to me,” he insults. “They’re another restriction that will inhibit your ability to move as effectively as you need to. Before our next session, invest in a correctly fitted sports bra.”
I frown. “Please stop talking about my boobs,” I mutter.
“Pleasure. Now—” He steps closer, eyes tracking my body up and down in objectivity. “You shit-canned stance, but it’s crucial. If your feet aren’t placed correctly, you can trust you’ll go down like a sack of shit. But if you’re well balanced… you’re much harder to knock down. You right or left handed?”
“Left,” I answer.
“Evil. I knew it,” he teases. “Right shoulder facing me,” he instructs. “Feet shoulder-width apart.”
He watches me move into position, one swift nod of his chin in acknowledgment when I’ve got it right.
“Right foot pointed at me. Bend your knees.”
He kicks at my right foot gently to move it where he wants it. “Not so much with the bend, find your comfort. Good, girl.”
Pussy’s about to cry for me, Rein.
Good God. I shake my head, expelling the alluringly unwelcome thoughts from my brain cavity.
My eyes on my feet, he clicks his fingers in front of my face, forcing my gaze upward. “Eyes always up, understand?”
I nod.
“Tuck your chin in. Not so much.” He smirks. “There. Perfect.”
So fucking beautiful.
I roll my shoulders.
“Loose fists.” He lifts my hands, watching them ball into fists. “Left hand by your chin.” He pushes it into position, holding it there a second to make certain I have it. “Right hand in front of your face to protect the money.”
Rocco takes a step back, assessing my form. “Feel good?”
“A little stiff,” I admit.
He shrugs. “Let’s hope it never feels too comfortable.”
He says it more to himself than to me, and I feel ill at the hint of vulnerability in his tone.
I’m surprised at the patience in his voice as he directs me. I half expected him to set me up in front of a YouTube tutorial and be done with it. Convinced he’d shun me or ridicule me. Instead, he’s almost calm, almost kind, definitely tolerant.
It’s a side of him Parker has always spoken of, one I couldn’t believe would exist.
“Hold the stance,” he directs, moving away to the back corner of the room.
I watch his retreat in the large mirror. The muscles in his back stretch and pull with every movement he makes. I knew he was ripped, but the extent at how ripped has shocked me. I’d bet he has next to zero body fat percentage.
“Do you have cheat days?” I find myself asking his reflection.
His large shoulders lift. “I don’t classify them as cheat days. If I feel like eating pizza, I eat pizza. I just make sure I expend more energy working out that day.”
Moving back toward me, his eyes on mine in the mirror, he shoves his hand into some form of flattened gloves.
“Are we going to fight?”
That makes him laugh, a thick roll of rough laughter skating along my skin in a way I shouldn’t want a repeat of.
“Think you could take me, Rein?”
“I hate you enough to lose myself, maybe kill you,” I offer.
“Which means I’d own you. Don’t let emotion cloud what you know, it only helps your opponent defeat you. They’re punching pads,” he answers my earlier question. “It’s your lucky day, oh-beautiful-enemy-of-mine, you get to hit me.”
I roll my eyes. “I hardly call punching a padded glove sitting on your hand hitting you.”
“Best you’re gonna get.” He shifts his stance in front of me, solidifying his footing.
I wait for instruction, holding my position.
“Elbows in,” he says. “Punch with your right hand first, but rotate your arm as you do.” He demonstrates slowly, his arm sliding forward, rotating slightly as it nears me.
I wait for him to move it back, punching pads held up at the ready.