Beautiful, but not perfect. Gorgeous in the imperfections.
Desire, hot and heady, swept through her.
And Mia got pissed.
She might enjoy multitasking, might in some darkly logical portion of her mind be able to attribute juggling attraction with the duties of her job, with the promises she’d made herself as the ultimate form of multitasking. But the heat that had swept through her at the sight of this man in the street, the flames that burst back into life when her gaze met his now, told her that rationalizing the way her body paid attention to this man’s was not going to go well. It undermined. It made her want things she’d carefully boxed up and tucked away.
She dealt in control, not in waves of lust, not in the intense desire this man had invoked in just a few seconds, her body instantly attuned to the beautiful man inches from her, remembering the way he’d felt pressed against her, cradling her against the impact, at least until she’d remembered herself.
Because fuck, she needed to get laid.
A slow, hot smile turned up the edges of that luscious mouth, and Mia thought for a second she’d said that aloud. Thankfully, as the silence stretched, as no pithy comment emerged, it seemed she hadn’t. Instead, she watched his smile widen as he traced his gaze from her face—hair now pulled back into a severe ponytail, to her gi, crisp white and tied with her fifth-degree black belt, down to her bare toes.
“Fifth-degree?” he asked, and she barely held back the shiver his voice had sliding down her spine.
Deep. Velvet, with a hint of rasp.
Pure sex.
Stifling the intense heat that flashed through her, that slid between her thighs, that had moisture pooling there, she simply lifted a brow.
Yes, she was fifth-degree, and nearly twenty years of work had gone into that thick band of embroidered black cotton.
She resisted the urge to cross her arms as his gaze dipped down again.
“You look about fourteen,” he muttered.
“I’m twenty-six,” she said. “What about you?” She let her gaze glide deliberately to his temples, to the gray strands threaded there. “Forty?”
Another hot smile that had the hairs on her nape standing up. But this one was paired with a shake of his head, a step forward. “Actually, I started going gray at eighteen,” he said, voice dropping, getting even huskier.
“So, you’re what then?” Mia said, taking a deliberate step backward, moving into the studio, letting go of the door. He caught it before it closed on him, broad fingers wrapping around the metal frame as she came to a stop a couple feet away, both unnerved by this man and confident she’d be able to defend herself if the need arose. “Twenty?”
The man stayed in place, just on the threshold of the door. “Twenty-five.”
So young for such heavy secrets in his soft gray eyes. But then again, Mia knew her own eyes held plenty of secrets, plenty of pain.
Not going there.
She lifted her chin. “Did you have a reason for knocking on my door?”
“Your door?” he asked, lifting his brow but not moving any closer.
“This is my studio,” she said.
“Impressive.”
No. It had begun as an obsession—to not let go of this last tie to her father—then it had broken and reformed into something that was more obligation than connection, and finally . . . it had become part of her. Something she loved and lived for.
“What do you want?” she asked.
A blunt question, but that was Mia.
Sharp and to the point. No fluff. But also the perfect way to keep people at a distance with her off-putting frankness.
The man blinked, face showing surprise with her tone. Yet, he didn’t retreat, didn’t react like most men who approached her did—he certainly didn’t back up, didn’t flee under the intensity of her direct stare.
Instead, his lips curved slightly, the barest bend softening the corners of his mouth, drawing her focus, making her mouth water.
Making her brain struggle to refocus.
Thankfully, she’d had twenty years of training that helped her to concentrate through distractions. Which meant she was able to shove down the attraction and wait him out.
The brow came down, the mouth flattened, seriousness took over mischief.
“I wanted to say thank you,” he said. “I—” Something dark flashed through his expression. “Thank you for rescuing me. You shouldn’t have put your life at risk to save mine.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“No.”
She tilted her head to the side at the sharp tone, surprised it had come from him and not her own mouth.
“It was a huge deal,” he said and then muttered, almost to himself, “I risked a stranger’s life and nearly got myself run over because I couldn’t get out of my head.” His eyes made him seem far away even though they never left hers, and Mia found herself frozen in place. Then he blinked, and he was right there in the present. “I’m sorry.”
Two simple words filled with such intensity.
“You’re welcome.”
She thought she’d surprised him with the reply, but what was she supposed to say? It’s okay? It wasn’t okay. The blasted man nearly had gotten himself flattened on the street. And her, for that matter. Though she only could reasonably blame herself for that.
If she hadn’t pulled him back—
No. Now was not the time to think about losing people, whether it was a stranger or a loved one. Mia straightened her shoulders, snapped, “Well, don’t expect me to do it again.” With that, she turned away and began to lay out the pads, one in each delineated square on the foam mat. She needed to stop chatting and start getting ready for her class. “Keep your head up, check for traffic before you enter a crosswalk, and always be aware of your surroundings.”
She was aware of him shifting, the door closing behind him. “Is that what you tell your kids?”
It was. But he didn’t need to know that.
Her eyes tracked his movements through the mirrors at the front, along the sides of the studio, and so she saw when he took a step forward, shoes mere inches from her mat.
“Freeze,” she snapped, whirling to face him, pointer finger in full force.
Two brown brows lifted, but he dutifully stopped. “Is there a reason I’m playing statue?” he asked dryly after a few seconds.
“Do not take one step onto my mat with those dirty shoes.”
Those brows went higher.
Then he shifted, one foot going behind the other as he toed off one sneaker then the remaining. He made as though to step forward again then stopped, eyes coming to hers. When she didn’t order him to Freeze again, he walked onto the mat and crossed over to her, reaching for the pads in her arms. “I can lay these out for you,” he said.
She resisted the urge to hug them against her chest, not wanting to let this man get close, to touch things that belonged to her, and definitely not wanting his help.
He knew it. One or all three, she couldn’t be sure, but somehow, even though she deliberately flicked her eyes to the mirror, checked her face was set into the blank teacher mask that always got her kids to behave, this man knew she wanted to refuse.
His smile was knowing, his eyes soft. “I’ve made you late,” he cajoled. “Let me help.”