Page 25 of Possessive Mr. Pen

I scold myself for getting so worked up over what’s most likely nothing.Connor Pen probably doesn’t even know this place exists.He doesn’t personally install our company’s security systems, nor does he oversee every new client.

I strut down the hall as though I own the place—I’ve spent more time here than anywhere else in my life—but hesitate when the person using the punching bag isn’t Mr.Carter.

Declan Buchanan, a man I know only because he’s on the outskirts of our work circle, takes in my wardrobe with a look of disgust, strips off a glove, pours a stream of liquid into his mouth from his fancy sports drink bottle, then puts his glove back on and resumes pounding on the bag.

Well, okay then.That’s the clearestfuck offI’ve ever received.

Too bad for him his opinion doesn’t matter to me.My consciousness brought me here because I need an outlet.

I eye the machines and scowl.Half are new.Even while I understand and am happy Mr.Carter is improving the place, I don’t like the change.It feels threatening.Part of me worries I’ll lose another home, even if this place was never technically mine.

I shake off my musings and decide against cardio, weights, and machines.

I need to hit something.

After kicking off my heels, dropping my purse onto the floor, and kicking both between the stair stepper and the wall, I run through a quick warm-up and stretch before grabbing gloves and squaring off with the speed bag.

I start slow, letting my thoughts and worries drift away with every punch, until the bag blurs as it swings to and fro.Sweat glistens on my brow and my triceps burn, but I change tempo and strike positions, never missing a beat until the world fades away.Nothing exists beyond my gloves and the musical pounding of leather meeting leather.

With my mind blank and lungs on fire, I slow in tiny increments, wanting the euphoria to last as long as possible, until I reach my original pace.I stop the bag’s swing and disinfect it with a wipe before moving to the standing sparring dummy.

Despite the limitations of my dress, I enjoy a few minutes of destroying the training mannequin in as many ways as possible.I break his nose, shatter his knees, bury my fist in his throat, and kick his crotch.By the time my fury fades to a dull roar, no part of him remains unscathed.

“I’d hate to be the guy who pissed her off,” an unfamiliar voice says.

I follow through with a knee to the balls, almost ripping the slit in my dress in the process, before turning around.

Declan sits on the bench beside the locker room door with not quite approval—nor acceptance—in his eyes, but at least the hostile glare is gone.I shrug and rip the hook and loop strap of my right glove open with my teeth.

“A bit overdressed there, eh, missy?”

I fill my lungs until my ribs ache and aim a genuine smile at the only man I trust.Mr.Carter stands between the two nearest treadmills with his perpetual scowl in place and his arms crossed over his chest.

I take a few more deep, centering breaths before responding.

“You’ve seen me in worse, and we don’t always get to choose what we’re wearing in a fight, so why not practice in this?It’s not like I have to pay for dry cleaning and the important bits are covered.”

A rare smirk crosses Mr.Carter’s face.

“Your left hook looks stronger,” he says.

Warmth flows through me at his praise.

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s been a while since we sparred,” he scolds.

Self-defense class is usually Saturday night, but last week’s was canceled for Audrey’s wedding rehearsal, and for several weeks before then, I haven’t stayed after for a sparring session.I don’t know what drives Connor Pen to work so hard, but his crazy schedule drains me.

I tuck my glove under my arm, pull my hand free, and unfasten my other glove.

“You’re right, we haven’t.I’m s—” I stop before I apologize and give a lame excuse.Mr.Carter can sense a lie twenty miles away, and he hates fake apologies.No matter how much I miss our sessions, I know deep down canceling them was the right thing to do at the time.It would’ve been disrespectful to not give him my best.

“I’m not in the right headspace for sparring today.”After the grueling work week and Connor’s… I don’t even know what to call our interaction in the changing room.He didn’t hurt me.There was no violence.My feminine self blissed out at being in his arms even as I fought for freedom.The way he overpowered me so easily had me so worked up I nearly jumped him.Visions of tumbling to the floor and mounting him still half-dressed had me milliseconds away from combusting.

Only for him to deliver the most demeaning and humiliating proposition known to womankind.

Ice still encases my soul, but the burn in my body tempers the pain.