“Get up,” Carrick says, palms up and flapping his fingers toward himself in a taunt.
I growl and push myself up, now engaging my brain a bit more. If this is how Carrick wants to play at hand-to-hand, I’m going to have to be more wily than him because I’ll never be as fast.
It takes only a moment to consider my options, and I rush him to attack. There’s a brief flash of surprise on his face and his hands come up, suspecting I’ll go with a flurry of punches. Instead, a mere two feet from him, I go into a baseball slide across the floor, made possible only by the fact I’m wearing full-length leggings because, otherwise, I’d be leaving strips of skin on the floor, and glide right by Carrick’s left leg.
As he’s turning to see where I went, I pop up, make a mad dash to my duffel bag, and have my whip out in mere seconds. I don’t know where Carrick is—if he’s just watching or rushing to attack me—but I don’t take any chances.
I whirl counterclockwise, fluidly bringing my whip, which has the thong coming across the front of my legs in a gentle whoosh. I then lift my hand above my head, the rest of the whip following almost gracefully. I helicopter it once over my head, finally catching Carrick’s eyes on mine, and slash it down to give a warning crack that comes merely inches from slicing across his chest.
My heart is racing, wondering if this is going to be a fight of whip versus demi-god, but Carrick’s face splits into a wide smile, and there’s pride in his eyes.
“Well done,” he praises.
“I figured I’d never match up to you in hand-to-hand,” I say, explaining myself.
“That was your smartest choice, and it shows me you’re using your best weapon… your brain.”
I have to force myself not to preen because I’m not sure Carrick has ever praised me before.
He nods at the whip. “Go ahead and put it down. You do need to practice hand-to-hand, and I’m going to put myself on human super slo-mo for you so that you can get some repetitive strikes and blocks in.”
I nod, turning to drop the whip in my duffel. This will be helpful because even though we’ll be going at regular human speed, practicing my moves over and over helps to build muscle memory and will quicken my response times.
We go at it for almost half an hour, working in four-minute fast rounds with one-minute breathers in between. Of course, that’s for my benefit, not Carrick’s, who doesn’t get out of breath at all. In fact, he hasn’t even broken a sweat while I’m covered in it.
“Last round,” Carrick says as he presses the button on his watch to reset the timer. I’m still a little wheezy, bent over with my hands on my knees, but I give a resolute nod.
We start again, my arms and legs feeling heavy and weighed down from the prior rounds we’d completed. I spend a little too much time putting space between us, walking in a circle to keep him at my front.
He doesn’t like me taking this extra breather when I just had one, and he comes at me. He volleys several punches, which I’m able to parry only because he’s slowed them down even more in deference to my frail human body being nearly depleted of energy.
An inside-out parry misses his punch and would have connected with my nose had Carrick not pulled it at the last minute.
“Come on, Finley,” he growls. “If you’re fighting a daemon or fae, they’re not going to go easy on you like this. Give me more.”
I go on the offensive, hit him with a one-two, and manage to block a roundhouse punch from him. But I don’t merely block it, I wrap my arm around his, pin it hard to my side, and step into him to give three hard uppercuts to his stomach that’s seemingly made of steel, and I can feel my knuckles bruising.
Carrick easily pulls free, puts his hand on top of my head, and pushes me backward like I’m an annoying kid throwing a tantrum.
It’s humiliating—even more so when he lectures me. “That was pretty pathetic. Come on now. Pull deep.”
Christ, I’m tired, but anger fires my blood up and I get a burst of energy I didn’t expect. I take advantage of it while he’s standing complacently and attack. Except this time, I feign high and then take a page from Titus’ book and crouch low. One foot planted hard on the floor, the other leg extended, I make a twirl like a top and sweep Carrick’s leg out from under him.
He goes down and I start to pop up, intent on bringing my knee down onto his chest and putting an elbow to the bridge of his nose, and then I can see if demi-gods bleed black or red.
But Carrick isn’t about to let me attack him further. His arm shoots out as he falls to the floor, hooks around my thigh, and brings me crashing down with him.
Carrick to his back.
Me coming straight down on top of him, in what might be a bizarre twist of fate, has me perfectly aligned on top of his body. My torso to his torso and my face hovering right above his, my hands on his chest, his on my hips.
I’m breathing hard, not just from the physical exertion but from the fact I’m lying on top of Carrick.
Weirdly, Carrick’s chest is moving a bit more rapidly than his placid, under-exerted self was just moments ago.
And those honeyed eyes of his… glowing again. I know now it’s not a trick of the light, but something otherworldly in him that tells me he’s feeling strong emotion.
There’s no rational thinking or pre-planned speech. I react from my gut and my heart as I advise him in the barest of a whisper. “I’m going to kiss you, and if you don’t want it, you better throw me off now.”
Not a muscle twitches on Carrick’s face so I can read what he might be thinking, but a red haze starts to overtake his pupils. I have no clue what that even means, but the gold in his eyes is still gleaming bright, and the fact he hasn’t thrown me off spurs me on.
I bend my head, tilting it slightly, and press my lips against his as my eyes start to flutter closed.
At first, nothing happens. I don’t feel a thrill of pleasure, and his lips stay firmly locked tight. A flicker of doubt hits me, and I even consider pulling away.
But then a low rumble of a growl emits from Carrick’s chest, and I find myself rolled off his body as he changes our places, coming to rest right on top of me. His hand goes behind my head so it doesn’t hit the hard gym floor.
I get just a flash of Carrick’s eyes, and he doesn’t hold back a single thing that’s running through that gorgeous head of his. He lays it all right out in his expression.
Lust, anger, possessiveness, and even regret.
It’s the lust that wins out because Carrick doesn’t just kiss me. No, he takes my mouth and brands it as his. He kisses me hard and deep, and I become a riot of feelings. My head spins because I never knew a kiss could be like this. Perfectly domineering and yet gentle at the same time, the glide of his tongue on mine is the best thing I’ve ever felt in my life. It’s the first taste of an addictive drug, and I know I’ll never in my lifetime get enough.
I’m not embarrassed by the moan that slips free of my mouth and fills his, nor how my hips try to rise upward to touch him.
Which is a mistake because the minute the soft center between my legs presses against the extremely hard, long, and thick ridge between his, Carrick rears back from me like he’s been electrocuted.
I cry out in despair when his mouth leaves mine, and my heart is crushed as I see his eyes darken and go flat.