Page 82 of Blaire
Charlie glances up at me from my hands and holds my burning hot gaze for a few seconds. “You shouldn't stare at people like that, Blaire.”
I give him a funny look, drawing in my eyebrows. Does he know I'm thinking about him being naked?
“Your eyes are haunting...” he says softly, his blue stare flickering all over my features, “possessing...”
I glance away from him then. When he says things like that it's as if he's an incubus talking to my unconscious soul.
“You don't even realize what you're doing, do you?” he whispers, pinching my chin between a finger and a thumb, forcing our gaze to align once more.
“I don't even know what you're talking about.” I tug out of his grasp to break the spell.
“No,” he says under his breath. “I know you don't.” He finishes bandaging me up, then he gives my hand a squeeze, nearly making me moan. “Before we spar,Iwant todo something with you.”
I back up, my stomach contracting with frustrating wishful anxiety.
“Nothing like that.” He laughs, a wide smile dominating his face. “Iwant tosee how high you can kick.”
“Oh...” I blink at him, coming down from that rush of anxiety. I've come to like that rush. I like everything about the way he makes me feel now. “Okay,” I say. “Sure.”
He nods left, so I follow him across the gym, fisting and unfisting my hands to loosen up the bandages. Charlie rustles through the cupboards on the back wall for something, saying that once he's satisfied with seeing how high I can kick, I can show him a few tricks.
“Tricks?” I say in a distracted fashion because he's got a Wing Chun ring on one of the shelves in the cupboard.
“Yeah,” he sounds like he's trying not to laugh, “I'm sure you have many.”
“Why do you have that?” I ask. Picking up the Wing Chun ring, I run my fingers over the smooth bamboo outlay.
He smiles at me. It's his deathly handsome smile that makes me feel all warm and tingly. “I got you some Wing Chun equipment so you can train. Don't want you getting bored now, do we?”
“I was going to say,” I glance up at him, putting the ring back in the cupboard, “you're into boxing, right?”
He nods, smirking at me like he's got a hidden secret.
“You know, you're going to have to learn a different style of fighting if you want to beat me.”
He doesn't look offended by my arrogance. If anything, he looks amused. “Yeah, I'm well aware.”
Grabbing a remote control out of the cupboard, he uses it to move a punch bag up the wall. The bracket hums with electricity as it ascends, until Charlie clicks the stop button, leaving the bag hanging just above my head.
“Is that too high?” he asks, ushering me back across the gym with his hand on the low of my back.
I shake my head, walking with him, training my attention on the bag. I can high-kick around eight feet in the air if I run up to a target.
“All right then,” he says. “But if you want it lowered, just tell me.” Wandering past me, he checks the bag over, grabbing it with both hands and shaking it so vigorously that the wall shudders. I assume he's making sure it's safe to use. He then crosses his arms and moves back to give me the space I need, telling me, “Go on then.”
He's curious to see me do this, I can tell by that fire in his eyes.
I bend over to stretch out, ensuring I have no knots in my muscles. There's nothing worse than getting cramp mid-fight. Charlie is watching me—I can feel his eyes on my ass—but I knew they would be. In fact, I'm taking great pleasure in winding him up, especially when he clears his throat.
My muscles now loose, I jog back for some distance, getting in position by slightly bending my knees. Then, to gain the strength and speed I need, I run up to the punch bag, my muscles easing into my motions. Two feet away, I leap into the air and kick the bottom of the bag. A warm surge of adrenaline shoots through me as I softly land on my feet, my interest centering on my training. I've missed this—the relaxed routine of training in this manner. It reminds me of home.
“Yeah, you're quick,” Charlie says, seeming to be confirming his own thoughts.
I glance at him, smirking with conceit.
“Go again,” he says, gesturing for the bag, his arms still folded over his chest.
Backing up, I pull in a large breath and run up to the punch bag, jumping into the air with an athletic kick when I'm within range. Again and again I attack, each kick executed more brilliantly than the last. I spend the next forty minutes doing this, flashing Charlie the odd smile as he tells me that he could watch me do this all day. “I don't think I've seen a girl so disciplined.”