Page 62 of Uncharted

Marisa

When fighting, you have to keep your guard up. Using your hands and fists to protect your face, keeping your elbows tucked. My father taught me all of this when I was young.“While there is strength behind a strong and tight form, you also have to be relaxed enough so you can move around. You need to be able to change direction easily and transition, block your opponent, and protect yourself when they come at you to hit back.”

I heeded my father’s advice as I concentrated on my formation—squared shoulders, bent elbows, and clenched fists raised in the air. Staying on the balls of my feet, making sure the weight was evenly distributed, we exchanged punches, kicks, and blocks.

His breath came out in a whoosh when my fist landed in his midsection. “Too much for you?” I mocked.

“Not at all. Just gauging my opponent. Recon is my specialty.”

“Seems like you’re a little slow getting started.”

“Wow, okay. So, it’s gonna be like that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just haven’t been in the ring like this in a while. No biggie.”

My laugh was haughty and somewhat malicious. “Then, I'll try to be gentle.”

“Nah,” he threw a punch and missed. “I think I'm starting to find my rhythm.”

“You call that rhythm?” I baited him with a wiggle of my hips and a punch back.

He leveled his eyes at me. His gaze dipped to my hips, bouncing back and forth. He shook his head and smirked.

I gave him a coy smile, unable to quell the heat that burned through my core. “See something you like?”

One eyebrow cocked up, and his brilliant teeth flashed in his deeply delicious dimpled smile. “Oh, most definitely.”

I huffed out, blowing imaginary hair off my forehead, and bit my bottom lip. “Well, quit pussy”—his eyes popped wide—“footing around and show me what you got.”

He shook his head, dismissing my flirty bantering. “Okay, then.” He leaped at me with a fast series of punches.

Had I not been ready, he would have gotten me off balance. But I was ready. Ready for anything. For everything.

We were going through the motions, feeling each other out, getting into a groove. These were all practice hits. We both knew this. The goal of all of this was to pin the other to the mat.

I was giving him exactly what he asked for. I wasn’t holding back. I wasn’t going easy on him. He was an equal to me. We might both be vulnerable—for different reasons—but nothing would keep me from giving him all I had.

There was no anger between us. It was passionate as fuck though. To have a man as sexy and sure of himself as Tyler was, I didn’t realize that facing off with him would be as exhilarating or exciting as it was.

I planted my feet, shoulders squared, and bobbed from side to side on the balls of my feet.

Tyler mirrored my bounces. I could tell he was favoring his good leg, almost as if he was balancing on his right.

I was in trouble.

And it wasn’t from fear of losing. It was from fear of Tyler. And what he was doing to my insides. What he was doing to my heart.

As I stepped forward, intending to pick up the pace, he did a quarter turn and ducked.

He was efficient at dodging me.

I stepped back, balancing my weight on my left foot, and threw my right fist out in a curved punch.

Turning to the side, he brought his right forearm up to counter my attack, formed a fist with his left, and threw it at me.

I attacked with a big right overhand punch. Tyler stepped out of range, but before he could bring his hands up to defend, I drove my shoulder into his chest, slamming him backward a few paces, where I started landing solid punches into his wrapped hands.

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