I wondered if we were ever going to talk about the coat closet; the five minutes of stolen affection. It was just my cheek—and it was only a moment—but it had cracked me wide open.
“Do you want to pretend now?” I asked.
Her lips parted, blue eyes dilating. “I don’t…actually, it’s fine. We’re sparring. It’s not weird, right?”
“No, it’s not.” It wasn’t weird at all. In fact, part of me wished it was weirder.
“Let’s get back to it. Your goal is to strike at their vulnerable places.” She touched my forehead. “Their eyes. Their nose.” Her hand landed on my jaw. “Their jaw.” She gripped my throat. “Their throat.”
“Got it,” I said hoarsely.
“And, uh…” She glanced between my legs. “Well, you know about that part.”
In my fantasy, Delilah squeezed my throat, dragged her palm down my chest, over my stomach, down to a cock that had been achingly hard this entire time. I’d be entirely at her bidding, eager to serve.
“Right,” was all that I managed to say.
“Come close, right in front of me.”
I took a big step, crowding into her space.
“A common attack would be someone reaching for your wrists. Trying to pull you into their body to subdue you. So go ahead and make a move toward my wrists.”
I did, completely unaware of what would happen next. Which was Delilah yanking my body forward as she used my body weight to lean back on her leg with the grace of a ballet dancer. Her right leg extended straight up into the air—foot stopping six inches from my face.
“Got ya,” she teased, then let me go.
Those few seconds had been a blur of admiration for her dexterity combined with the sight of her long, muscled leg hovering in the air. An urge to lean forward and kiss her ankle gripped me like a kind of madness.
“You’re so fast.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” She shrugged, like it was an ordinary feat. “Now we’ll do it slow motion.” She nodded at me to go. I grabbed her wrists again.
“It’s about using your attacker’s body weight against them,” she said, our eyes locked together. “As you lean forward to grab me, I’m leaning backwards, bringing your face closer to my body.”
“You want my face on your body?” I asked.
“I’m bringing you into my knee, basically.” She pulled, hard, and as my head lowered, she shot her leg up and out again, this time balancing her foot on my shoulder. “This is one way to do it.”
She wobbled and I grabbed her foot to steady her. My hand wrapped around her ankle.
“You okay?”
She seemed a little dazed. She dropped all the way back. “Yep.” Bouncing on her toes, she wiggled her shoulders. “Try and grab me again.”
I did—three more times, each time adding another layer of sexual torture. It was the force of her yanking me into her body, as if she craved me like a drug. The scent of her lavender shampoo and her full lips curving into a smirk because she liked besting me.
And God help me, it was her leg. Every time she kicked up, all I saw was the flexing muscle of her inner thigh, the curve of her hamstrings, the barest swell of her ass exposed by her tiny running shorts. Delilah’s legs were becoming an erotic film I was forced to watch, over and over. A fourth time. A fifth time.
On the sixth time, she wobbled hard—and instead of her ankle, I grabbed the inside of her leg by mistake, a clumsy meeting of limbs and fingers. Her cheeks blazed red, and we were both panting like marathon runners.
“Still a tough fucking teacher, Barrett,” I said, wincing as I dodged a jab. “How am I doing?”
“It’s too early to tell.” She tsked.
“Liar,” I scoffed. “I’m a natural.”
“You’re something all right.”
I made a tepid move to grab her, and she danced out of my grip. “You’re getting tired, husband.”
“Never,” I said. “You’re my wife. You know I never get tired.”
“You and I both know that’s not true.”
I shook my head. “If only Victoria was here to see this real-life marital banter.”
I made another attempt for her wrists, grabbing them harder than I intended. For a single second, we were locked together, poised for action. She was struggling not to laugh. I was struggling not to lean in and kiss her.
Instead, I moved—jerking her into me with all of my strength. But I’d underestimated the skill of my partner. I pulled, she pulled—and at the exact moment I thought our faces might collide, her leg shot out with the force of a high-speed train and kicked me square in the chest.
“Don’t even try,” she panted. She was balanced on her back leg like a crane, but her ankle was shaking. Eyes locked, both grinning, I made a move for her back leg—with purely comical intent. But she gasped out a “fuck,” grasped my tee-shirt with both hands, and tumbled both of us to the ground.
23
Delilah
Henry and I landed on the mat with a shared groan. I experienced the unsettling sensation of falling backward—and then the incredible paradise of his body landing on mine.
His hands hit the mat on either side of my head, controlling his body weight. For a delicious, delirious thirty seconds, we stared at each other like lovers. He’d taken off his glasses to practice—without the added barrier, his dark brown eyes burned with lust. The knowledge of it felt like a fist tightening in my low belly—my body was eagerly attuned to the call-and-response of his need. My legs were spread, his hips cradled between my thighs like he’d always belonged there.
His cock was an unyielding pressure against my sex. His smoky-cedar scent enveloped me. His full lips, this close, confirmed a thought I’d been secretly coveting the past few days.
Henry’s mouth would wreck me.
I heaved in a breath, knew I should shove him off before I made the exact same mistake I had with Mark: allow my passions to cloud my judgment. But these thirty seconds beat between us like a rapid heartbeat, mimicking the blood roaring in my ears. My hips tilted up of their own volition, seeking completion.
“I guess this means…I won?” he said.
“Or maybe it’s all a trick? To lure you into a false sense of complacency?” I taunted.
His jaw tightened. My arms were still thrown back—what if he reached forward, interlaced our fingers? What if I let my fake husband pin me down, slake his sexual need on my willing body?
“This doesn’t feel like part of the official training manual, Delilah.” His rough voice caressed every syllable of my name.
I shivered, contemplated my next move.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, newbie.” I levered myself up onto my elbows, bringing our faces dangerously close. I could kiss him right now. Thread my fingers into his curls and crush my mouth to his. He’d tear my shorts in two, shred the barrier of my underwear.
“I’m pretty sure I know my wife,” he whispered, almost dipping his mouth down. I could see him considering it: the stakes, the consequences, the fallout. It was in this brief moment of mental distraction that I wrenched my hips up, twisted my left leg up and over.