Blood, Ash, and Bone - By Tina Whittle Page 0,1
my tongue. I ran one hand up his arm, from wrist to elbow. He didn’t visibly react, but I knew he craved the flare and ignition as much as I did, even if he was better at tamping it down.
I smiled at him. “We’ll take it slow and easy. No sudden moves, no surprises.”
He didn’t budge. I ran one finger down his breastbone, feeling the contraction of each muscle group—first the pecs, then the diaphragm, then the abs. He could make a fortress of his body. He was doing it right in front of me.
He cocked his head. “Tai? What are you doing?”
“Sparring.”
“This isn’t sparring.”
“You sure?”
And then I yanked my knee up within a millimeter of his groin. He froze, and his eyes went ice-blue. And he got calm. Real calm.
I looked him in the eye. “So drop the over-protective routine, Mr. Seaver. I may not be the Krav Maga god that you are, but I can take care of myself.”
He hadn’t moved an inch. “A point.”
I smiled bigger. “In my favor, I do believe.”
And then it happened. Suddenly the world somersaulted—wheel and whirl and reel and tumble—and the back of my skull slammed against the cushioned mat with a thud. I blinked into the overhead fluorescents, flat on my back.
Trey stood at my feet, hands on hips, not even breathing hard. He hadn’t broken eye contact, had simply grabbed my arm and flipped me, one deft move. Close the space, vault, and release.
I squinted up at him. “Omigod, you have to teach me that.”
“What?”
“Seriously. That was awesome.” I held a hand in his direction and wiggled my fingers. “Help me up.”
His natural courtesy almost undid him, and he reached out to take my hand. Fortunately for him, his training kicked in a millisecond later, and he snatched his hand back before I could grab it.
I grinned. “You almost fell for that.”
He glared at me, then headed for the door.
I rolled to my stomach. “And where do you think you’re going, you sneaky son of a bitch?”
He bent over his gym bag and pulled out his gloves. “To get my sparring gear.”
***
He drove me back to Kessesaw the back route, avoiding the interstate, keeping the Ferrari right at the speed limit. I watched Atlanta roll by—steel buildings, gray asphalt, tree branches going bare against a gunmetal November sky. My thighs ached from the last thirty minutes on the mat. He’d been relentless. I hadn’t been able to get in a single punch, much less block anything he’d sent my way, and he’d sent the whirlwind.
“That still wasn’t sparring,” I complained. “That was you teaching me a lesson. You dominated the entire time.”
He turned onto my street, a narrow lane lined with small mom-and-pop stores, of which my gun shop was one. It was fully dark now, the streetlights blooming in the night like nocturnal flowers.
“Of course I dominated. I’m better than you are.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to go full bad ass on me! What happened to the zone of proximal learning, keeping students at the edge of their comfort zone?”
He didn’t reply.
“You used to give me a fighting chance. But tonight, all you did was knock me down over and over. I didn’t learn a damn thing.”
He glanced my way. “Nothing at all?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I frowned. “Is this you being cryptic? Because I’m not used to that.”
He considered his words. “Every offensive move exposes a defensive vulnerability. The same move that put you close enough to attack also put you too close to defend.”
“I couldn’t have defended against a front takedown, you haven’t taught me how!”
“I keep explaining this, and you keep ignoring me—don’t move outside your training. Stick with what you can execute cleanly and effectively.”
“Or get knocked on your ass, I get it.”
“I’m serious.”
“I am too.”
“I’m more serious.”
I laughed at that. “Don’t worry, coach, the next time I seduce you, it will be for real. And then you’ll be in big trouble.”
His mouth quirked in an almost-smile, and I felt a current of relief. Usually I spent post-workout nights at his place in Buckhead, but since I had an appointment with my friendly neighborhood ATF agent in the morning—plus a ton of packing for the upcoming Civil War Expo—we were headed to Kennesaw instead, to drop me off at my apartment above Dexter’s Guns and More.
“Seduction is not the point,” he said.
“What is the point?”
“That one move won’t save you, not in a real fight. Not with a trained fighter.”
“If you’d been a real bad guy, I