That works for me, then.
I grab her hand before I can second-guess my motives and lead her over to the edge of the room, backing her up and kissing her again, leaning in till all her softness is pressed against me. I grasp her waist, my hands familiar enough by now with her dips and curves that it feels natural to touch her like this. Outside her apartment door, in the lab, now here at Element.
How many other places can I touch her too?
I mentally shake my head to rid myself of the thought. I don’t need to be thinking of the future. Only the here and now. With a warm and willing Mia in my arms.
No, just a woman. It wouldn’t matter who it was. It doesn’t mean anything that it’s her specifically. Even as she tilts her hips so my dick nestles right in that perfect spot, my own hips thrusting automatically in response.
Her nails dig into my skin, just how I wanted it before, and the kiss turns rougher, until I’m ravishing her mouth, past the point of telling where I end and she begins. Who would’ve thought this awkward Hufflepuff from that day of interviews had it in her to match me kiss for kiss in public like this? To rub herself against me? To suck my tongue like that?
I run my palm over her ass and down her thigh, urging her to wrap her leg around my hip, but we’re interrupted by a screech.
“Amelia Bedelia! Get you some, girl!”
We break apart, the same blonde from that day at the library cackling to herself.
“Oh my God,” Mia mutters, stepping away from me.
“Are you this woman’s ride home?” a man standing next to the blonde asks.
“Yes,” she sighs, tugging her sweater down where it’s ridden up while simultaneously attempting to smooth down her hair. “I’m her roommate. What did she do?”
“I’m innocent,” the girl says, putting her arm around Mia’s shoulder and leaning heavily on her.
“She was verbally harassing the bartenders.”
“They wouldn’t serve me. Said I’d had too much.” She brings her face up to Mia’s and lets out a soft burp, then dissolves into giggles.
“I’m so sorry. We’re leaving now,” she says to the man, wrapping an arm around the girl’s waist, attempting to get her to move. “Kelsey, it’s time to go.”
“But I don’t want to,” Kelsey whines, digging her feet in.
“All right.” I’ve had about enough of this. I pluck the blonde’s arm off of Mia and pick her up, dumping her over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Lead the way,” I gesture to Mia, who stares at me slack-jawed. This Kelsey girl must be startled too because she makes no moves of resistance, hanging there limply.
Mia finally springs into action and most people part for us, eyes widening when they spot me. What, like they’ve never seen a guy carry a girl out this way before? Must not be a very exciting club.
We pause at the coat check to get our things and a cold wind hits us immediately upon exiting. Mia picks up the pace, leading me toward her gray Elantra.
I catch sight of her lips, still swollen from my kisses as she opens the passenger door for me to stuff Kelsey into. Her hair is even wilder than usual from my hands running through it, the softness of her curls making my fingers itch to touch them again.
And then there’s that luscious ass, the one I have full view of right now as she bends over to buckle her roommate in. It’s absolutely perfect, despite what her old dancing teacher said.
I bring my eyes up as she straightens and shuts the passenger door, turning back to me. Normally, every emotion is on her face, but the only thing I can make out in the dim light from the streetlamp is regret.
For kissing me? Or for having to stop?
She twists her hands together in front of her, over and over until I’m tempted to reach out and stop her. But I don’t. It’s probably not a good idea to touch her at all again. Things went too far tonight.
“I have to take her home,” she says softly, biting her lip. The action only serves to make me zero in on the area.
I nod. “I guess I’ll see you next week.”
She stares at me for a moment longer. “Right.”
She walks around to the driver’s side, but before she gets in, I ask her, “Why’d she call you Amelia Bedelia?”
She rolls her eyes, some of the nervous energy surrounding her dissipating. “I’ll tell you Tuesday.”
And with that enigmatic statement, she drives off, leaving me with more questions than I came here with.
Chapter Eight
Mia
“You didn’t look over any of the problems I left?”
My tutoring student, Matthew, looks at me sullenly, his chin propped on his hand. “I told you, my dad will get me into any school I want. I don’t need to study.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, already annoyed and I haven’t been here five minutes yet. “That’s not an actual strategy. Even if he can pull strings, you still have to take a standardized test as part of the admissions process. Either this or the ACT. And it’ll seem awfully suspicious if your scores are lower than what they normally accept.”
“I’ll score fine,” he insists.
I try a different tack, softening my voice. “Your mom said you already took it once and didn’t do well.”
“I had a cold that time. I couldn’t concentrate.”
Wow, he has an excuse for everything. “Well, your parents hired me to help you get a better score. I’m trying to do that, but you have to meet me halfway.”
He kicks at his chair leg, avoiding my gaze.
“Tell me the grammar rules we went over from the last time we met,” I try, attempting to engage him in some way.
“I don’t remember,” he mumbles.
Are you freaking kidding me? This is the fourth week in a row he’s forgotten them.
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Mrs. Yang is lingering in the doorway, a disapproving frown on her face.
I release a breath, gathering myself before replying, “Let’s go over them again.” If I lost my cool in front of her, I’d be fired for sure.
He’s easily one of the most frustrating students I’ve ever tutored, testing my patience at every turn. How does he think he’ll score well if he won’t study? And this is only the verbal section. Who knows what he’s doing for math and writing. If he doesn’t start showing improvement soon, I fear the Yangs will fire me. I have other students, but they don’t pay as much.
I gather my things at the end of the hour, not sure if I made any progress with him, but collect my check anyway.
“Do you think we should have him meet with you twice a week?” Mrs. Yang asks as she walks me out, glancing worriedly at her son, still moping at the dining room table.
The kid’s hopeless. If he doesn’t do the work on his own, it doesn’t matter how often you meet.
For once, I agree with my inner critic, but I keep it to myself. “If you think it’ll help.”
More sessions means more money for me. Oh God, I’m becoming a mercenary. Tyler’s Slytherin tendencies are rubbing off on me.
I exit and quickly bundle myself in the car and out of the biting cold, blasting the heater. Restlessness still courses through me as I drive home, wishing I could have really spoken my mind to Matthew. I park in front of my building, but stay in my seat, not wanting to go in just yet.
I pull out my phone and type out a text to Tyler before I can second-guess myself.
Me: Hey, where’d you say that boxing gym was?
Maybe I can punch out this agitation. That’s what he does, right?
Tyler: You want to box?
Me: Yeah, so I don’t murder my tutoring client.
Tyler: Meet me at Fourth and Roosevelt in twenty minutes.
Is he serious? I race inside and change into workout clothing, throwing my coat back on, and type in the address on Google Maps. It takes me to a nondescript building with a sign that reads Boxing and an arrow pointing down a set of stairs. Yeah, that’s the way girls
like me get murdered.
I stay in my car till Tyler’s Camry pulls in next to me, then get out, snuggling into my coat in the chilly air. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
“I was coming anyway,” he says gruffly, passing by me to head down the steps.
Okay, then.
The bell over the door jingles as we walk in, not a soul in sight. The large basement is one huge open area, all dark corners, exposed beams, and a gritty, masculine feel. I might as well be in a Frank Miller film right now.
A few steps in, the smell hits me, like dirty gym socks times a thousand. I immediately cover my nose. “What is that?”
“You get used to it.” Tyler shrugs, taking off his jacket, revealing a black muscle tee that shows off the breadth of his shoulders, the definition in his biceps. Yum. I find myself staring and quickly avert my eyes. I don’t need him calling me out on ogling him.
He hangs his jacket on an empty rack by the door, continuing, “It’s a boxing gym where a bunch of sweaty guys hang out. What do you expect?”
I take my own coat off and hang it beside his, attempting to breathe through my mouth to mitigate the smell.
An office door opens at the far end of the gym, and a man in his fifties steps out of it and sizes us up, squinting. “Oh, it’s you,” he says to Tyler. His eyes seem to skip right over me.
“Where is everyone?”
“Johnson’s bachelor party.”
“Oh, right,” Tyler mutters.
“You need help training tonight?” His gaze finally meets mine. Am I supposed to answer?
“I’m just showing her the ropes,” Tyler calls out.
“Holler if you need it,” the guy says, turning around and heading back into his office.
“That’s it?” I whisper. “I don’t need to sign paperwork or pay money or anything?”
“Marty only cares if you’re actually training. And I’ve been coming here long enough for him to trust me.”
Tyler goes to grab some equipment and I wander over to a wall plastered with newspaper clippings of boxing tournaments, some yellowed with age dating back to the nineties. It seems like they’re all local. One of the oldest articles shows a guy in his twenties with his arms raised in victory. The caption names him as Martin Farrell. “Is this him?” I ask as Tyler returns with an armful of stuff.
“Yeah,” he says, indicating for me to give him my hand. I place it in his, shivering slightly at his touch. He wraps it in a long strip of stretchy cloth as he continues, “He was big on the boxing scene in his twenties, then became a coach when he got too old. Opened this gym about ten years ago.”
“So he’s like the real deal?”
“Yeah.” He smiles, wrapping up my other hand, his fingers somehow warm despite the frigid temperatures outside.
I flex the fingers of my finished hand. “Will this keep it from breaking?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What?” I look up sharply to find him smirking.
“It provides support. Secures all your joints and bones and distributes the shock across your whole hand. The gloves will cushion it too. But you still have to be careful. Don’t think just because you have it on that you can’t hurt yourself.”
I nod at his seriousness as he hands me a pair of boxing gloves next.
“We’ll start with some punching mitts. Just hit my hands.” He slips protective mitts over his hands and I happily punch them, imagining Matthew’s face… and Kelsey’s. Oh, and my Classical Mythology professor too. I’m already not a fan of his.
The silence between us is comfortable, but there’s still an unspoken tension lingering.
“Are we going to talk about what happened the other night?” I ask, unable to bear it any longer.
He glances up at me, at first serious, then smirks. “You mean why you’re Amelia Bedelia?”
I huff out a laugh unwillingly. “You’re still on that?”
“I looked it up. She’s like a maid from these kids’ books? I don’t get it.”
“How about if I answer that, you answer my actual question?”
“You already said you’d tell me. Now you’re adding stipulations?”
“That’s the deal.” I shrug, jabbing his hand with extra force.
His eyes gleam with approval at my punch and he takes a second to shake out his hand. “Okay, why?”
“My name is actually Amelia. But when I was younger, kids would always make these stupid jokes about Amelia Earhart or Amelia Bedelia. They weren’t even good jokes, but you know how kids are.” He nods like he understands. What did other children ever say about him growing up? “So I started going by Mia. But Kelsey still thinks it’s funny to call me it when she’s drunk. Especially because I cook and clean at our place.”
“Why’d you ever even tell her about the Amelia Bedelia thing? And why are you friends with her? I’ve met her twice and she’s been jerky to you both times.”
I pause, the muscles in my arms on fire. “We’ve known each other since birth. Literally. Our moms met each other during some birthing class when they were both pregnant and became friends. We’ve just always been together.”
“If you were to meet her right now, would you be friends with her?”
I bite my lip. “She’s fine. I’m used to it.”
He makes a hmm noise in the back of his throat that has me wanting to explain myself further.
“She lets me borrow her clothes. And she does my hair sometimes…” I trail off, realizing how lame I sound.
“A glowing endorsement,” he says dryly.
“We’ve just… always been together. It’s normal.”
“But do you like it?”
I stare at him. “This is the problem with psychology students. They’re constantly psychoanalyzing others.” I poke his chest softly. “And by the way, you’re distracting me. You never answered my original question.”
He smirks. “Took you long enough.”
I fight to hide a smile.
He shrugs his shoulders, rolling them back, calling attention to their size. “Like you said, it was just a kiss. We were having fun.”
Now it’s my turn to make a hmm sound. I mean, it’s not like I expected him to declare his undying love or anything, but a little more meaning assigned to it would have been nice. It was the hottest kiss I’d ever had.
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not going to be weird about it, are you?”
“Who, me?” Why is my voice so squeaky? I clear it quickly until it’s back in normal range. “No, that was like a regular Friday night for me,” I lie.
“I thought you said you hadn’t slept with anyone in over a year.”
He actually remembered that? “Kissing someone is a lot different than sleeping with them.” Warmth spreads over my cheeks. This has to be the weirdest conversation I’ve had… in the middle of a boxing ring… with a guy I made out with the other night and thought didn’t even like me a few weeks ago.
He nods and gets back into position. “Break’s over,” he declares. “Hit me.”
“But you don’t have the mitts on your hands,” I point out.
“We’re graduating to the next stage. Try to hit me.”
Uh… I take a step forward and he takes one back. I try again and he backs away, moving smoothly around the ring.
“How am I supposed to hit you if I can’t get near?”
“That’s the challenge.”
“So what do I do?”
“Figure it out.” He does that trademark smirk of his, which I suddenly find infuriating.
I blow out a breath and center myself, approaching him with determination this time. Something like approval flickers in his eyes and he lets me close.
I awkwardly swing at him and he easily dodges it. I try again and same thing. The third time, though, after he ducks he brings his own fist at me, stopping it before it gets too close, but I freeze all the same.
“You’re supposed to dodge it.”
I nod, my hea
rt pounding. His movements had been controlled, but the look in his eyes had been… primal. Leaving civilized and entering wild territory. If I’d seen his eyes that night at Element while kissing him, would they have looked the same way? As he’d invaded my mouth with his tongue? As he’d palmed my ass?
“I wasn’t actually going to hit you,” he says, more concerned now.
“I know,” I whisper, still seized by that flash of barely leashed strength. “It just, um, caught me off guard.”
“Have you ever been hit?” he asks carefully, taking a step closer. His fists clench tight, making the muscles in his forearms flex. Wow, do forearms normally look that good? I glance down at my own, my skin even paler under these fluorescent lights. Not at all like the bronze of his…
“Mia?”
I shake my head, clearing away all other thoughts. “No, I haven’t. That wasn’t some traumatic reaction. You really did just catch me unaware.”
“Okay,” he says more easily. “Do you want to spar again?”
“Yeah.”
We go into our boxing stances again, and after a minute, I ask, “Do you normally spar with a partner?”
He nods. “My buddy Ethan. Or I use the punching bag.”
I eye the set of punching bags hanging over on the east side of the gym. “Can we try that?”
“Sure.” He holds the ropes open for me to climb through. He looks graceful as he does it, but I’m this close to getting tangled up and flipping over before I finally make it through.
“Do you use the gloves on the bag?”
“For you, yes.” He grabs my hand, slipping off the boxing glove to examine my knuckles. His fingers are warm and sure in their grip on mine. I hope he doesn’t notice how sweaty I am. “You’d tear your hands up trying to punch without protection.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve built up enough callouses.” He approaches a bag and gives it a one-two punch, the heavy thud of his fist hitting it along with the quick movement startling me. He grins. “Give it a try.”
I slip my glove back on and mirror his posture, then strike it.
“Here.” He comes up next to me and takes hold of my arm. “Hand, wrist, and forearm should all be straight.” He touches each place on me as he speaks, a wave of shivers racing over my skin. “Imagine it’s one solid line, like it’s going through the bag.”
Under Pressure (Lessons Learned Book 1) Page 7