Page 8 of Charmed

Pleased with herself, she went into the dressing room and slipped into her two-piece yellow and pink yoga outfit, then secured her hair into a high ponytail. Shutting the locker, she made her way back into the gym and cranked the stereo to angry rock. She glanced around, but the machines held little interest. Then, she eyed the red punching bag suspended from the ceiling near the weights.

Perfect. As much satisfaction as she got from verbal foreplay with Riley, it always left her with a fervent need to release tension. Since sex wasn't an option, nor would it ever be with him, she'd beat the crap out of the bag instead.

Fifteen minutes in, she'd worked up a decent sweat, her arms begged for mercy, and she'd extradited most of the frustration from her system. She panted, catching the bag mid-swing, and wiped her brow with her forearm.

Feet shuffled behind her and she turned. Riley stalked toward her, black hair damp from his swim. He'd changed into navy nylon shorts and a red tee that emphasized his lean frame. Concern wrenched his brows as he rushed past her. His mouth was moving, but she couldn't hear over the drumbeat and strum of electric guitars.

He cursed and switched off the music, coming right for her. "What did you do? Jesus, your hands are wrecked." Lifting them, he examined her fingers. "You're supposed to wrap them first."

She hadn't noticed the injuries, but a significant amount of blood seeped from several cuts over her knuckles. They really didn't hurt, so she shrugged. "No biggie."

He obviously disagreed because he dragged her to the sink and wrenched on the faucet. Plastered behind her, he held her hands under the cool spray, wiping blood away with his thumbs. His body was tense as concrete and he had her trapped between two solid arms, but his ministrations were gentle. Careful. He smelled like chlorine from the pool, but his warm breath against her neck held a trace of cinnamon.

"Damn, Fi. You split the skin to the bone on some of these." His voice wavered, belying his distress, and it froze her immobile.

Acutely aware of every inch of him in contact with her, she struggled to draw oxygen. He had such big hands compared to hers, his olive tone just shades darker. Stubble grazed her cheek as he dipped his head closer to get a better look. The muscles on his forearms coiled and veins popped while he...took care of her.

No one had ever done that before. Even as a child, she'd been fiercely self-sufficient. Dependency was a weakness, and she was typically the one who did the healing. She had a knack for potions and remedies, and it often fell on her to mend scrapes or bruises in her family.

Unsure what to make of this development, or why she was letting him fuss, she tried to get control over the heat furling in her belly and the way her nerve endings were sizzling at his touch. Attraction be damned, but she couldn't permit herself to step away from their banter and into his arms.

He shut off the faucet and dried her hands with a paper towel. "Watch your head." Pressing his palm to her forehead, he urged her to recline on his shoulder while he reached above them to the cabinet. "I think I still have some of that ointment you made." He rummaged around and brought down the jar she'd brought over for injuries, along with a white bandage roll.

Turning her around, he dabbed at her knuckles, applied the cream, and wrapped the area with gauze. Afterward, he held her hands in his, thumbs stroking her wrists, gaze solemn. "That should do it. It seems to have quit bleeding. You..." His gaze met hers and he reared. "Are you okay? You're pale."

No, she wasn't okay. Not only had he pulled a papa bear moment on her, but she'd allowed it. Worse, she was pretty sure she'd liked it. A lot.

She stepped onto the mat, creating distance, and raised her palms. "Come on. Let's spar while we wait for the others."

His jaw dropped. "Hell no. You're hurt."

"I'll be healed in under two hours." Her potion was that good and he knew it. She'd used it on all of them the past couple months. "Scared?"

"Of you?" He set his hands on his hips. "Duh. And I'm serious. I'm not going one-on-one after I just caught you bleeding all over the floor."

She glanced at the punching bag and the crimson drops on the mat under it. "That's barely enough for a DNA sample."

Eyeing the ceiling as if seeking guidance, he walked closer, stopping in front of her. "Not happening."

His defiance was not hot as sin. It wasn't.

Drawing a pull of magick, she sent a weak blast of air at him. Just enough to have him stumble back a step and frown. "I'm fine. Let's go. You know you want to." Another blast, another small step. "Man up."

"Man up?" he roared. And there. There was the fight in him. Those amazing green eyes flashed with annoyance and bordered on feral. "Exactly what kind of man would that make me if I went at you now?"

She grinned. Flicking her fingers, she pushed a gust at him until he fell on his rearend.

"You rely entirely too much on your magick." Seething, he rocked to his feet. "There might come a situation someday where you aren't in a position to use it. Then what? Are you gonna bat those long lashes and seduce your way out of trouble?"

A tilt of her head, and she considered his idea. "Sounds plausible to me."

He laughed without mirth and erased the distance until they were toe-to-toe. "It wouldn't work on everyone, babe. Brady, for instance..." He jerked upright, dawning in his eyes. "You don't use your powers on the others. Not my brothers or your sisters when we train." His gaze narrowed. "But you do on me. Every time I get close to one-upping you or have you trapped, you blast me with magick. Why is that?"

Shoot, he'd noticed. "You're delusional."

"Not on this, I'm not." He studied her, and she fought the urge to squirm. "You're scared to be near me, aren't you?"

Crap buckets. "I'm not afraid of anything."

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