Luca
“That girl from yesterday’s here again. Without the Luchadore this time,” Jose says as he pokes his head into the office.
I sit up straight at my desk.
This is a welcome distraction.
Not that I haven’t been thinking about her already.
“You sure?”
He grins. “You think anyone could forget a chica like that?”
I roll my chair to the two-way mirror.
Sure enough, there she is. My eyes are drawn to her right away. And not just for good reasons. Each punch she throws makes me grit my teeth.
Her body might be gorgeous, but her form is fucking terrible.
I don’t care if she’s bouncing, her boxing style is an abomination.
I get up and head out onto the floor.
The only redeeming thing about watching her duke it out with the punching bag are the sexy little grunts she makes each time she throws a punch.
Every bit of strength she has is going into every single punch, and even though she’s hardly doing shit to move the bag, she sounds like she wants to rip it from the chain and beat it into the floor like she’s the Hulk.
If she keeps this up, a hurt wrist is going to be the least of her problems.
“Ease up a bit, tiger,” I call out as I start jogging towards her.
She hardly slows a tick, and it’s not until I’m next to her and actually put a restraining hand on her shoulder that she even slows down.
“Don’t call me tiger,” she says between punches.
The face she makes when she says that is beyond adorable. I can’t let it go.
“Fine, champ. Take it easy or you’re going to blow your wrist out.”
She whirls on me. Her eyes light up in a way that’s fierce and sexy. “What do you want? And don’t call me champ.”
I grin back at her. If a bad nickname gets this kind of reaction out of her, I know exactly what I need to do.
“For starters, I don’t want you to get hurt in my gym again, ok chief?” I say.
“Don’t call me chief. I’m not here to joke around, alright?”
She turns back around and returns to thwacking the punching bag with a vengeance.
I take a second to watch because — goddamn — she looks fantastic from this angle. Just like she does from every other angle.
But I can only watch so much. It physically hurts me to see how bad she is at punching.
I put my hand on her shoulder again.
“Alright, killer, here’s the second thing I want: if you’re going to do this, I want to see you do it right. Pay attention.”
She steps aside and I move in.
Light, easy, smooth. I fire off a jab and my fist glides forward, sending the bag shaking. Then I follow with a jab and a cross. Then a jab-cross-hook combination.
I build it up.
This is real technique.
And it looks fucking good.
The bag shudders and rocks against the chain but I’ve hardly got my heart pumping.
I breathe in, cast a look back over my shoulder at the beauty behind me — her eyes are wide, like she wants to soak it all in — and I exhale as I rip another combination into the bag.
Jab—jab—cross—uppercut—hook.
Then, some more.
Again and again I sink my knuckles into the heavy bag, feeling the force of my fist ripple into the seventy pounds of leather and sand.
Every inch of me moves in unison — my shoulders, my hips, my breath — each one of them powering my bare-knuckle punch.
This is easy shit.
This is basic.
But it’s still a thing of fucking beauty when it’s done right and I am fucking killing it.
I pause.
I look back and grin at her.
“See?”
Eyes wide, lips set, hands at her hips, she looks ready.
That’s what real hunger looks like.
Teaching her is going to be a fucking treat.
“First: don’t call me ‘killer’,” she says. “Second: teach me.”
Those words make me smile the second they pass her lips: teach me. Even though I’d rather she be saying them to me while we’re in bed, with her hips raised high and her innocent eyes shining at me, begging me to teach her just how much fun filthy fucking sex can be..
I get in close and take her gloved hands in mine.
“First rule: you keep your wrist straight. Always. I don’t care if you’re falling sideways or trying to do some fucking kung fu shit. You keep your wrist straight, or you’ll be the one who’s hurting when your punch lands.”
She nods. All business. “Fine. What’s next?”
I get in front her and put my hands on her legs, guiding them until she’s standing in something that looks close to a respectable fighting stance.
“This is how you stand. When you throw a punch, you’re going to put everything into it: your hips, your ass, your shoulders, your core. All of it. Got it?”
I move to stand behind her, her plump ass just inches from me, covered in some hardly-there yoga pants, begging for me to smack it, grab it, fuck it. I put my hands on her hips like we’re dancing.
My mind goes back to those words she uttered just a minute ago: teach me.
I love my job.
“Power is mass times acceleration, right? It’s basic fucking math. So, you’re going to use your hips, your shoulders, your abs, all of your mass, to rotate and accelerate your fist into your opponents face.”
My hands pat each body part as I call it out: her hips, her legs, her sides, her shoulders. Then, I use my hands to guide her in some slow-mo rotation so she can feel what it feels like.
“Got it, sport?”
She nods, again. “I do. But one more thing: sport? Really?”
I grin at her. “Show me then, slugger.”
Stephanie rolls her eyes, sighs, then steps forward and belts the bag like it’s owed her money for years.
It’s not a great punch — the bag barely moves compared to what I know she could do. But it’s better than before.
At least now she doesn’t look like she’s going to snap her wrist.
She takes a step back and looks at me for approval. “How was that?”
“You can do better. Do it again, slugger.”
“Fine. But, seriously, don’t call me slugger. This isn’t some kids t-ball league.”
There’s an edge to her voice. And I don’t blame her, “slugger” is a terrible nickname. Maybe she’s had enough.
“Alright, bella.”
She doesn’t protest that one. She just blushes a little and gets back to work.
I grin.
It takes more than an hour, and when we’re done she’s sweaty, her cheeks are flushed in a distractingly-sexy way, and I’m nearly out of nicknames for her.
Most people, they’d think drilling the same couple punches for an hour is crazy, but this fundamental stuff is important. If you don’t have the basics down, you’re no better than some piss-drunk barfighter.
Besides, there are other benefits: like staying up close and personal with Stephanie while she sweats and grunts and rotates every bit of her white-hot body.
“That’s enough for today,” I say, once I’m sure she’s got the motions down.
She gives me a look — like is that it — and puts her hands on her hips. “I can keep going. Show me some more stuff. Teach me to fight.”
I love that she wants to learn. I love the fire that’s inside her. But somehow I force myself to shake my head.
“Not a good idea,” I say.
And not just because I’ve got so much blood pumping to my cock that, if I try and actually exert myself, I’m one-hundred-percent certain I’ll pass out.
“Why’s that?”
“Look, you’re punching right. Decent, even. Right now. But this is something that you have to drill into your body till you do it without even thinking. And that takes time.”
Her full lips part and I know she’s going to protest but I cut her off.
“Come back tomorrow. Same time, or, hell, whenever you have an hour free. We’ll run some more drills. But we are going to do this right. That means it’s going to take a while.”
Most students accept what I tell them. Even the hard-headed ones. Because anyone who’s spent some time at this gym’s heard the rumors about me and they see my sunken knuckles and my scars, and they know I will fuck them seven ways from Sunday if they give me lip.
Not Stephanie.
Instead, she gets this look in her eyes like she’s got a gun to her head and just heard the hammer cock. “Teach me some more. Please,” she says.
Behind that fire in her eyes, there’s fear.
I know that look.
Hell, I caused that look in plenty of men.
“What’s wrong?”
A shake of the head sends her tied-up hair bobbing. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just teach me some more. Please.”
There’s a thousand other things I know I should be doing.
Hell, Ana Maria’s standing on the other side of the gym right now, staring at me, and I know that means there’s other work to do. Probably something involving a mop or leaky plumbing or any number of other fun things.
But I can’t just walk away from her.
I know I’m no good for her; I’m the kind of guy who breaks things, not fixes them. But I need to know what’s got this woman so afraid that she is so desperate to learn how to cave someone’s face in.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
I try and sound concerned, caring, but I know I’m not any good at it and it probably comes off sounding like I’m mocking her. Concern is not one of those attitudes I’ve had much practice at.
She hesitates, then nods. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. Look, I should get back to work anyways.”
Somehow, her dismissal doesn’t do a damn thing for my disbelief. I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong with Stephanie in a dark and painful way.
And just the thought of someone hurting her makes me want to bust heads.
I need to find out more.
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow.”