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He hums in agreement, glancing down at my mouth, then back up at my eyes. “Where'd you learn to fight?”
“Somewhere you didn't.” I stare down the length of his tall, muscular frame, at the defined muscles in his stomach. “Do you want to go again? Whoa!” I squeal as Charlie grabs my legs and yanks them out from under me, dropping me to the bouncy surface.
He's on top of me, seizing my wild, combatant hands in both of his.
“You're like a feral little cat,” he says through laughing, struggling to get me under control.
Growling and straining, I kick the ring surface, giving myself the strength I need to turn us over, the veins in my eyes almost popping. He's under me now, so I jump to my feet, my thigh muscles burning from the abrupt movement.
Charlie catches me—I didn't even notice him getting up. He wraps his big arms around me from behind, squeezing me against his powerful chest.
I tighten my fists, readying to elbow back, but he whispers in my ear, “You win,” making me shiver because his breath is so warm. “Stop, Blaire. You win.”
I swallow down a mouthful of air. His cock is hard in his joggers, pressing into my spine. My stomach rolls with liquid desire, the memory of having him in my mouth taking over all thoughts. Why do I find it so hot when he dominates me?
“And... and you won't...” I start to say, but I can't concentrate on my vocabulary. I wish he didn't affect me on this level.
“And I won't, what?” he says softly.
“You won't...” I swallow a second time, gripping his hand over my chest, “...touch me likethatanymore?”
He doesn't say or do anything for a moment, just holds me, closing his fingers over my grip on his hand. I relax against his body, his touch melting my will.
“Not if you don't want me to,” he says on my neck, his hot lips making me squirm in his grasp.
“No,” I say, though I hardly sound convincing—my voice comes out too girlish and husky. “I-I don't want you to.”
Silence.
It's not awkward silence. It's... I don't know, and I'm not sure if it's the adrenaline or desire running through my veins but I have a sudden urge to kiss him. How fucked up is that?
“You gave me your word,” I say, peering up at him from over my shoulder, finding his expression is tight with control. His lips aren't far away. I stare at his mouth.
“Yeah, I did.” Charlie lets me go then and jumps out of the boxing ring, his motions fluent and gracefully masculine. He pivots to me, his black hair dripping around his handsome face, framing those stark blue eyes. “You can trust that I'll keep it,” he says, and while I'm weak in my pose, we look at each other.
The silence becomes a living thing; unspoken words and tension—you can trust me on that.
I feel a little lightheaded, falling under his spell, unable to look away from him.
He's the one to break the moment, and I realize I've been holding my breath—that's why I'm lightheaded.
Reaching down, Charlie scoops up his t-shirt from the floor and flings it over his shoulder, nodding at me. He then turns to exit the gym, his back contracting with his movements.
I lean back against the ropes, trying to gather my wits, my chest rising and falling with heaviness.
I'm not too sure how I feel right now. That fight just changed the dynamics of our situation.
16
Night falls while I'm meditating outside in the cold, the dark sky glowing silver with a full moon. I've been meditating since besting Charlie earlier today because my thoughts have been whirling over what the next few months are going to be like. Now I know—or assume—he won't touch me in a sexual manner, I can't help but wonder.
Will he start beating me now? Is that how he plans on getting his kicks? - Because I can't imagine he'd make a deal like this without a backup plan to ensure his appetite is satisfied.
I'm not sure, so I let the energy that is my thoughts course in and out of me with each breath I inhale and exhale; every slow movement I execute.
I go at it for hours, until my stomach howls for food. I haven't eaten all day. I didn't even have breakfast, which isn't me. Breakfast is the most important meal to me—to anyone, really.
Gathering my trainers in my arms, I patter barefoot up to my room where I take a quick shower, washing away the saltiness on my skin. I dress in my usual—black sports trousers and a black long sleeve sweater—still appreciative that Charlie went and got my clothes for me. They make me feel like me, not some cheap whore he bartered.
