Page 88 of All Twerk, No Play

In only 12 hours, I’d grown accustomed to his touch on every square inch of my skin. Even after we left the bedroom, his arms around my waist grounded me as I shared secrets I hadn’t unearthed in a decade.

But his terms were clear: sex last night and this morning, then my ‘night’ was over. I wonder how often he’d pried women off his body when they expected a relationship he didn't want. He’d set the rules for a reason, and after last night, I understood why he created those boundaries. His touch, his words, his sheer presence was addictive … and I craved another hit.

But I couldn't. I was just his client now. Touching him would have to wait until next weekend, when we would fake our feelings in front of my family.

Without touch, he guided me past the boxing ring, weaving between heavy bags and passing the Brazilian jiu jitsu grappling area. He gestured down a cardio lane, where men flipped tires and pushed weighted sleds.

He stopped at a supply closet, picking up boxing gauze. I held out my hand, eager for his touch, and lost track of his smooth, precise movement—three wraps around the wrist, once around the thumb, three around the knuckles, wrist then pinky.

“You ready,Cobrecita?” he asked, securing the wrap around my wrist and holding up boxing gloves. That nickname, combined with a playful smile, reminded me of his admiration for my coldblooded drive. Just like he set the pace for our morning runs to challenge me without overexertion, he expected me to go hard.

“Right leg back, jab left, cross right.” He secured the gloves and released my hands to pick up focus mitts. “Exhale fast through your mouth on contact. Good, but in a real match, a hit to the chin could break your jaw if your mouth is open.” He tapped my neck gently with the pad. “The sharp exhale engages your core. Let me hear your hiss,Cobrecita.”

He was a complete natural at coaching, with his clear expectations and soft patience. As I punched, I felt a familiar tug in my gut, and realized the desire flowing through me wasn’t purely sexual. My blood pumped withambition.

He shouldn’t be sneaking me into someone else's MMA gym to train me. He should have his own space: his face on the wall, his merchandise for sale, his signature method being licensed or franchised.

After a hard left cross, I asked: “Why don’t you have a gym yet?”

He reset for my jab. “Twist more, use your core.”

My right hook connected as I imagined a vinyl decal on the wall, watching over the trainings. He’d stand with arms crossed to show off those tattoo-covered biceps and that sexy smirk on his face, welcoming people to come in, challenging them to push hard.

After joining me in the Hamptons next weekend, he would deserve a discounted rent, like I’d done for Mallory. Maybe I should look into purchasing another building. “Is it about commercial space?”

“Focus. You’re distracted. It’s impacting your form.” He hissed, tapping the pad on my cheek. “Protect the moneymaker.”

I chuckled, lifting my fists and tightening my core. Alexander and I had made that entire business plan for him, starting with the YouTube channel, then adding in a brick and mortar. What was holding him back?

“Because if it’s about money—”

“Water break,” he stepped back, pulling off the contact pads.

Annoyed at his dismissal, I didn’t budge.

After a long sip, he repeated, “I said water break.”

“I don’t need it,” I snapped, tapping my gloved hands on my arm.

He held out my water bottle. When I didn’t move, he tilted it to my chest and a cold drop teased my collarbone.

“Listen, Blackstone,” he said, dropping his voice low and stepping closer to hover—damn sneakers left me shorter than him. “You can be a brat in your bedroom and you know I’ll give you what you need. But when we train, you follow my rules. When I say water break, you drink. You hear me?”

Our eyes locked in a standoff. He angled the bottle more, condensation trailing into my sports bra.Heat flashed in his eyes.

I tore off the boxing glove to snatch the water bottle. “Turns out I’m thirsty.”

“Good, because we’re just getting started,” he said, rifling in his backpack. “While you drink, let’s play. Tina Turner. Go.”

I sighed, letting it go for now. “'What’s Love Got to Do With It?'”

“'Private Dancer,'” he said, pulling out his headphone case.

“'Simply The Best.'”

“Technically, it’s just 'The Best,' but I’ll give it to you,” he said, twisting in a headphone. “'River Deep, Mountain High.'”

“I … I don’t know anymore,” I admitted, annoyed that he’d won, yet again.

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