MADS
Anthony is dripping sweat,muttering curses. I don't know why he's in such a bad mood. I'm the one who keeps getting thrown to the ground.
That's a little dramatic, but he’s trying to teach me the basics of self-defense in my empty dining room, and we keep finding ourselves in the middle of multiple arguments. I won the first argument by refusing to take off my jacket, but I lost the second when I got twisted up in it while practicing a simple armbar. Anthony lost the third argument when I turned the thermostat up to eighty degrees.
What? I'm cold.
Well, I was. Now I'm comfy in a long-sleeve cotton shirt and track pants, and he's down to some thin sweatpants and a sweat-stained tank top, which has helpfully spackled itself to his chest and back.
And if I intentionally knocked the thermostat up another degree or two on our last break, that's nobody's business but my own. I've got my fingers crossed for some bare-chest action.
“Again,” he commands. “Remember to fight as hard as you can. Don’t go easy on me.”
I grin, bouncing on my toes. Both of us are barefoot on the hardwood floor, and the little bit of hair on his big toe is giving me life. Based on his closed-off expression and the annoyed set of his mouth, I'm guessing my positive attitude is grating on him.
Ha. Too bad. That's what he gets for banning me from my favorite coffee shop.
Still, when the well-muscled tall-ass man tells you to go again, you go again.
I turn away from him, facing the wall, never fully able to anticipate when he—
“Fuck,” I yelp as his body connects with mine.
He picks me up, dragging me away as I try to remember his instructions. It's something like becoming deadweight, then aiming all your power at the closest critical junctures: ankles, knees, groin. The idea is to stop him or, better yet, get away from him before he reaches the opposite wall.
It’s a big enough room that I should be able to accomplish this, even if I haven’t come close all morning.
I go deadweight and drag my feet along the floor, slowing him down a little. Going for extra points, I tangle one foot around his ankle, which brings us both to the ground.
“Fuck, ouch,” I groan, rolling over as I massage my shoulder. “Should have let me put down some mats or something.”
“A real-world situation won’t have mats, and you’ll have to fight through the pain,” he says, hovering over me, concern etched in his brow. “Are you hurt?”
Sweat drips from his chin to my forehead, and it's all I can do to prevent my eyes from rolling back in ecstasy. Please, Anthony. Take your shirt off and wring it out all over me. Let me lick every drop of sweat from your body. Thankfully, I remember, at the very last moment, that I am both an adult and his boss. And that sweat is fun to look at but not especially tasty.
“Nothing’s hurt, save for my pride. But does this count? Does it count as a stop before the wall?”
He looks behind us, and the wall is only about half a foot away. He rises, powerful, needing no extra support, and tilts his hand back and forth. “It's on the bubble. I can touch the wall from here, but I haven’t made contact.”
“Yes!”I pump my fist. “I’ll take it.”
Despite my triumph, everything aches as I roll to all fours and grab the windowsill, needing all the support I can get to haul myself to standing. Anthony shakes his head, then grabs me in a bridal carry, sprinting toward the other end of the dining room.
“Anthony!” I yell out, taken by surprise.
“What's your next move?” he pants out, ignoring my protest.
Fine.
I go deadweight, but it doesn't slow him down at all. I wriggle around, tickling him, and he drops my legs. Score. Aaand now my back is pressed against his chest as he trips forward, my ass snuggled right up against his junk as his ragged breaths fan across the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
I'm tempted to hand over the win so I can enjoy his body against mine for a bit longer, but I'm a little too competitive for that, so I keep wriggling. He has to stop and adjust so he doesn't drop me, and now I've turned around, my face smashed against his sweaty chest. Not feeling overly motivated to get out of this position, I give it the bare minimum with a slight knee raise, right up against his junk.
That’s a bit more effective than I anticipated, and we go tripping over ourselves to the floor. He executes a combat roll, protecting me from any real damage. When we stop, he opens his arm, letting me tumble away from him as he grabs his man business, bringing his knees up, writhing in pain.
It's my turn to hover over him. “Shit! Anthony! I am so sorry!”
He grunts, shaking his head. “It's exactly what I told you to do. The cup just shifted funny.”