Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“This is important.”
“You know what other box is important?” My head tilts slightly to one side, black, box frame glasses sliding slightly down my nose. “The penalty box. Which is where your brother spent too much time last night for roughing. Although, I guess it’s better than five for fighting.”
“Wanna know what’s funny?”
Anxious to hear about something that isn’t the mistakes I’m making during this forced self-defense session that came on the heels of the “how to break your restraints” lesson has me eagerly asking, “What?”
“I taught him how to fight.”
The unamusing segue receives a scowl.
“Same as I’m tryin’ to teach you.”
Probably should’ve seen that coming.
Perhaps if my brain weren’t sweating like the rest of me I could’ve.
“Look, protocol-”
“Is such a gross word.” My neon sports bra covered shoulders playfully bounce. “Like the grossest fucking word.”
“Grosser than petunia?”
Dramatically gagging and shuddering is accompanied by a collection of incomprehensible sounds.
“Yeah…that’s what I thought,” Slater lightly chuckles for the first time in hours.
“You know how much I hate that word.”
“And you know how much I hate leavin’ you unprotected.”
“But I will be protected,” I sweetly insist at the same time I sway my frame forward. “There are so many firearms in this penthouse you’d think Liam Neeson used to live here, T has been taking martial arts classes to get ‘in shape’ for the wedding, and while Reynolds may not be in my starting line – or even someone I would’ve drafted – he’s earned his way into being in yours, which means I can trust him,” sliding my hands around his perspire caked lower half occurs between statements, “because you trust him.” Slater melts into my hold the instant my fingers fold together on top of his drenched white t-shirt. “You have gotta loosen the gun holster strings a little bit, Cowboy.”
“You know gun holsters don’t have strings.”
“Straps then.”
He fights the urge to grin and tucks a few strands of damp hair behind my ear. “I just…I don’t wanna repeat of today.”
“Which part of today exactly?” my teasing tone threatens to break through the tension symphony surrounding him. “The part where we made a sticky mess in this room or the part where you made a chaos infested mess in my office?”
“The part where some asshole broke into what should’ve been a secure buildin’ and damn near got away with kidnappin’ you.”
Seeing his seriousness seep back to the surface is what stops me from attempting to lighten the situation further. “But he didn’t. And the next person who tries it – assuming there is a next person – won’t either, Slater. I’m as safe as I can be.”
“You will be once we go over the key moves a few more times.”
“But-”
“I’m not askin’.”
“But-”
“And I’m not arguin’.”
“But-”
“Angel Cake,” both hands lovingly cup my face, “you have no idea how fuckin’ terrified I was that I wouldn’t be there in time today to stop anything from happenin’ to you. And the fact that I can’t be there every minute of every day to protect you from so much as a fuckin’ papercut kills. Me.” His grip sweetly tightens. “But knowin’ I’ve done everything I can to turn you into the most powerful weapon you’ll ever need – whether I’m there or not – is the only thing givin’ me any sort of peace of mind right now. So, please,” soft, shaky blue lettering cascades down past my music note sleep shorts, “let me have this?”
Ugh.
Between the sweetness and tint of his timbre, how am I supposed to deny him?
“Fine.” Quietly conceding is attached to stepping back out of his grasp. “If turning me into Tomb Raider is what you need to make yourself feel better about it then so be it.”
“I was thinkin’ more like Foxy Brown.”
“Because she’s brown?”
“Because she’s foxy.”
Readying myself to a combat stance occurs prior to me good naturedly inquiring, “You telling me you had the hots for classic Pam Grier?”
“You tellin’ me you didn’t?”
“Touche.”
Laughter leaves us both, yet it’s Slater who speaks first afterward, “How about this, Foxy Arley? Each time you successfully execute one of the maneuvers we’ve been workin’ on, I’ll take somethin’ off. And each time you make a mistake, you take somethin’ off.”
Lightly moaning over the idea of where this is finally going can’t be helped. “Like a game of strip poker?”
“I’ll poke whatever you like once one of us is naked.”
“Done, son!”
The tiny sneer I’m flashed receives a light snicker. “What did I say about callin’ me son?”
“That was bro!”
“They’re in the same fuckin’ category.”
“Alright, old man,” I juvenilely taunt, confidence suddenly soaring, “how do you wanna get your ass kicked first?”
“Palm strikes.”
Those are easy.
Almost a little too easy.
I wonder what he’s up to.
With my widened stance and palms upward, fingers together but not locked, I hold my ground upon his short approach. I flex the wrist of my dominant hand, aggressively strike upward near his throat area – making sure to avoid actual contact – and swiftly yank it away which in theory will cause the attacker’s head to snap backward. Slater demonstrates the motion of the action that should occur next prompting me to use both open palms to gently tap his ears – again not actually trying to hurt the man I can’t wait to see naked again – in a follow up hit. Lastly, I lift my foot and gently touch his inner thigh with the tips of my toes to imply a forceful kick to the balls.