Burn for You (Flirting with Forever Book 3) Page 3

My gaze flickers up to his as he edges in close, his lips not two inches from mine. If I’d thought my heart had been pounding before, I was wrong; that was child’s play. It’s beating so hard right now, I swear it’s going to burst free from my chest and race right out of the closet, outing us hiding in here.

  His breath fans over my face, warm and minty. I just barely resist the urge to inhale his air. He’s not at all gross, damn him.

  A deep laugh reverberates through his chest. “Let the suck-up war begin.”

  My eyes flare, lips pursing. “Bring it.”

  Chapter 4

  Damon

  Breathe deeply. Focus. Frank comes at me with an elbow just like I’d taught him to do. I block and kick at his knee with my shin. He jabs, I feint with my left, strike right. Around and around the mat we go.

  Frank is eighteen and has dreams of being an MMA fighter. When he came to me a few months ago, I’d suggested we start him with Muay Thai training to see just what he was capable of. I wasn’t sure if he’d stick with it, but once he got a taste for sparring, all bets were off. And the kid is good. Better than good, really. He’s going to be amazing. We go back and forth trading jabs, kicks, and elbows one for one, giving him a chance to learn to strike, then defend.

  Soon, we move onto two for two and three for three so he can learn different combinations, and understand how to defend himself against whatever body part I decide to hit him with next.

  To be clear, none of this is at all easy for me. Let’s face it, I’m twenty-nine and no longer have the endurance of a teenager. I just happen to have experience on my side.

  There’s plenty of noise in the gym today—a bunch of rowdy men over at the weight equipment; the feet of a half-dozen runners pound off to our right on the treadmills; the constant whir of the treadmill belts never letting up for more than a few seconds as members take turns on them. There was a spin class going earlier, but that’s just stopped, thank goodness. The woman leading it, Mary, has a shrill-as-hell voice, and I’d felt my muscles tense up every time she’d shouted an instruction at her class. Speed up, spin warriors! Faster! Faster, now! Push hard! You can do it!

  I shake my head and give Frank my attention again. Jab, block, jab, block, front kick, block. We circle each other. Knee, block, jab, block, cross, block. Sweat trickles down my chest.

  The front door of the gym creaks loudly as it opens and the sound of several feminine voices drift to us. I glance once, catching sight of a couple women out of the corner of my eye. A few more join, and the whole group heads toward the classroom at the back where a barre class is scheduled this afternoon.

  Ballerinas. I chuckle to myself, though I know I shouldn’t laugh. I know I shouldn’t. That shit is way harder than it looks.

  That’s when it happens. The one voice I wasn’t expecting to invade my safe place catches my attention. Has my focus faltering. Makes me turn my head because surely it can’t be who I think it is. My arms drop to my sides, defensive stance abandoned.

  And I catch a glove to my jaw.

  I blink. Piper. What the hell is she doing here?

  I blink again and shake my head. We’re only sparring at about fifty to sixty percent since Frank has a fight coming up, but damn, that still hurt.

  “Sorry, man.” Frank stops, wincing.

  “No worries, that was my fault. Give me just a second.” I shuffle on my feet, looking around the gym, trying to pinpoint where Piper is because I know that was her voice. I hear it all day long like a tiny bee buzzing in my ear. It was definitely her.

  My gaze sweeps around the gym until it gets to the back. Ah. She’s in the class. That figures. With Piper are two other women I recognize from school. I know Madison works in the library, and the other woman is Quinn—I remember because I’d thought it was a cool name for a woman—and I seem to recall she’s a science teacher of some sort. She works with Heath, who I’ve grabbed a beer with a couple of times after work.

  For reasons I can’t begin to comprehend, no matter how many women enter the classroom, my eyes can’t seem to steer clear of Piper’s luscious curves. It’s like my eyes are strangely magnetized and just keep getting pulled right back to her.

  I give my head a vicious shake, clearing it, and raise my fists just as I tell Frank to come at me again.

  I finish running Frank through the rest of his sparring training, then send him off to recover in an ice bath. Lord knows I should probably do the same, but right now I’m more interested in the conversation the women in the barre class are having. They’ve propped the door open, and are working through a cooldown, treating it as a mini gab session. Snippets of their words float through the air once again.

  They seem to be in a sharing mood, as I hear one lady say she thinks her arms are too flabby, and another bemoans her it looks like I’m still pregnant stomach. None of this really interests me until Piper joins in on the conversation.

  “It’s funny you said that about your stomach, because I can’t wait until I have a stomach to match my wide-ass child-bearing hips.” She groans, and the other women groan right along with her, laughing good-naturedly. She looks around, amusement clear on her face. “What? That’s what my mom always called them.”

  An older woman chuckles. “Might be true, though most women of all shapes and sizes have children just fine.” She laughs. “Your mama just wants you to believe you were built for it so you’ll give her some grandbabies someday, honey. Nothing wrong with that.”

  What is it about women that they talk so freely about their bodies? You sure as fuck wouldn’t hear a dude in the locker room discussing his flat butt or moobs with anyone. And we’re definitely not analyzing how we feel about our baby-making equipment. I shake my head. I’m slightly disturbed by the whole conversation, wondering if it’s a good thing for women that they are able to share like this or if it’s just detrimental given half of them end up comparing themselves.

  I scan over Piper’s body. She’s concerned about her wide hips? I think back to yesterday afternoon when I had my hand on her, steadying her. When she started to weave and rock in her heels right in front of me as we were listening at the door of the supply room, I’d thought she was on the verge of passing out. Instinctually, I’d reached out, holding onto her. She’d felt feminine and just right in my hand, the curve of her hip fitting perfectly. Now I wish I’d put my other hand on her, too, felt for myself the span of those “child-bearing hips.” Her waist is tiny, and she’s definitely shaped like a goddamn hourglass. There’s no way to forget the way her long hair drapes down over her chest, partially hiding her breasts. I like the way she looks dressed for work, but she might even look too damn perfect—always so put together. I’ve got to say, I prefer the way she looks right now. And I’m betting I’d probably like her a whole hell of a lot more if I got a chance to muss her up a bit.

  Where. The fuck. Did that come from? I huff out a frustrated breath.

  Ah, hell. I really can’t start looking at her like this, thinking about her like this. For one, if there’s anything my mother and sisters have taught me, it’s that women are not objects to be ogled. And, two, this one grabs my attention and I don’t want her to—fuck, I don’t know why she does. She’s a pain in my ass most of the time, always so damn argumentative.

  So damn argumentative it turns me on, it would seem. Fuck me. I swipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my forearm before I allow myself one last look.

  My gaze slides over her body again. She’s got on some sort of leotard and leggings, and her feet are bare. I don’t give a flying fuck what she thinks about her hips. They seem just right to me. With a shrug, my perusal continues up to her long hair, which is wound on top of her head in a messy bun, exposing her graceful neck. I have the fleeting thought that I’d like to touch my tongue to the column of her throat and find out how her skin tastes. I don’t understand what’s gotten into me, but that’s dangerous thinking, especially considering we are in direct competition right now. I can’t afford to let
her distract me. But, Jesus, the way she’s stretching, bending, moving her body …

  Piper glances through the glass door of the classroom, locking eyes with me. Her brows draw together and my cock … twitches. It fucking twitches. And now I’m in need of that ice bath for other reasons entirely.

  Fuck this, I’m out of here. I’m about to make a break for the locker room when she starts heading in my direction with her group of friends.

  “Hey, Damon.” Piper approaches me carefully, wary, as if I’m a wild animal she’s stumbled upon in its natural habitat. “You know Quinn and Madison from school?”

  “Yep. Hi, ladies. Did you enjoy your workout?” I chew on my lip as I pick at the wraps on my hands to give me something to do.

  Quinn grins, glancing between me and Piper, then winks at Madison. I assume her friends are aware of our current battle for the department chair position, hence the non-verbal communication among them. She clears her throat. “Oh, we sure did. It’s a fun class.” She hesitates for a second, tilting her head and studying the side of my jaw. She points to it. “We, uh, saw you fighting that guy.”

  Great. I guess it was too much to hope for that it’d gone unnoticed when I took that hit.

  “What was that? Kickboxing?” Madison glances over at the mats where Frank and I had been practicing.

  “It’s Muay Thai. We were sparring. He has a fight coming up.”

  They all nod like they know what I’m talking about, so I don’t elaborate, even though I catch a confused look passing among them.

  I look back to Piper and nod toward the classroom as I begin to remove the hand wraps. “Was that your first time doing a barre class?”

  Piper frowns. “Yes, it was.” She practically shoos the question away with her hand, her eyes roving over the side of my face where I’d taken the hit. “Did we or did we not see you get clocked a few minutes ago? Is that supposed to happen during practice?”

  I drop my head, chin to chest, chuckling as I run a hand over my jaw. I wouldn’t have thought she’d be concerned. I’ve actually thought there were a few times this past week where she’d like to hit me herself. I look back up and nod. “Yeah, I did. My concentration slipped for a second.” I shrug. “It’s all good. Frank needs to see that happen so he’s aware of how fast you can screw up. One little mistake and you lose.”

  Piper’s lips twist into a tiny, knowing smirk. “Well, let’s hope you don’t get distracted like that at school. Won’t be much fun if you let me win because you’re off your game, your attention diverted somewhere it shouldn’t be.”

  She shoots me a wink. With a quiet chuckle, she links arms with her friends and saunters away, throwing over her shoulder, “See you at school, Damon.”

  And damned if my traitorous eyes don’t follow the sway of her hips all the way across the gym and out the door.

  After Piper and her friends leave, I hit the locker room. I spend some time in an ice bath, as my muscles are screaming at me, then loosen things up in a steaming hot shower. That little minx … I don’t doubt she knows what caused my concentration to slip. She thinks she has an advantage. Well, if she thinks that’s the case, she’s got another thing coming. I shake my head, trying to get her out of my thoughts, out of my system. But damn, the way she’d taunted me right before they’d left makes me want to teach her a lesson she’ll never forget. I grab my phone, pulling up the Tryst app. One surefire way to get my mind off of Piper and her antics would be to have a good, healthy argument with Sherlock4Love. A tiny red dot blinks next to her name, indicating that she’s left me a message.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: I’m in a mood, Moriarty, just itching for a good argument. What do you have for me?

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: Well, good evening to you, too.

  I snort. She doesn’t mince words. I like it. A lot. Oh, and it looks like she’s logged into the app right now, too.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: Ha-ha. Come on. I know we haven’t exhausted all the discussions we could possibly have.

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: Okay, fine. If that guy, Jeremy Brett, does your favorite portrayal of Sherlock, who does your least favorite?

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: And don’t you dare fucking say Cumberbatch.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: I’d never. That new show is awful—the one with the female Watson? Anyway, the whole Sherlock/Watson dynamic is just weird. And I really think they are messing too much with a classic.

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: Well, surprisingly, I respect that opinion. Mostly because I’d assumed you’d like her just because she’s a woman.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: Not a chance in hell. It was not nearly as good as it could have been. And putting a woman in there just messes with the sexual ambiguity of Sherlock’s character. The classic take will always be better.

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: My least fave is the latest movie. Too much comedy.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: Aw, see, I kind of liked that.

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: But that’s the reason I like Cumberbatch. He’s funny without trying.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: Okay. I’ll concede that point.

  I fucking love the debates I have with this woman. She instantly puts me in a better mood, and I can’t even pinpoint why. She’s quick and witty yet sensible, and she always has excellent reasoning to back up whatever her standpoint is. And I’ll readily admit all that, even though I don’t always agree with her. She has a way of making me see her point of view and at the very least, understand where she’s coming from. It excites me. My only fear is what she’d be like in person. What if I get to know her, really start to like her, hell, become attached to who I think she is, only to find out she’s different in real life? Or what if she’s the same, but there’s no physical spark at all? Is the intellectual connection between us enough?

  I blow out a hard breath. But then I think about that conversation we had about what would happen if we’d met. It’d been hot. We haven’t really gone there since, but maybe we should … and soon.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: Why does talking to you get me all hot and bothered?

  Apparently, soon is now.

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: Don’t tease me, baby.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: I’m no tease. I told you I’m in a mood tonight.

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: And I get to benefit from it?

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: Depends. Can you handle me?

  I smirk as I look at my phone. Can I handle her? I can handle most anyone. The real question is can she handle me?

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: I can take anything you dish out. Go ahead. Shock me. Tell me your darkest desire.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: I’d like to suck your long, hard cock until you come in my mouth.

  I blink. Well, all right.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: Of course, in order to do that we’d have to meet, and I would actually have to like you.

  I smile. Filthy mouth, cautious mind. Interesting combo. A little bit of backpedaling from her, but my guess is she’s nervous she was taking things a little far. It makes me wonder for about the thousandth time in the last few weeks just who this person is. I have to know. Sooner rather than later.

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: Sherlock, I think you just might be my kind of woman.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: Ah, but are you my kind of man? How will we ever determine that?

  Prof.M. to Sherlock4Love: There’s really only one way. :)

  I’m just about to suggest we meet when she responds.

  Sherlock4Love to Prof.M.: Maybe someday.

  It feels like a shutdown. It also feels like I’m about to spend another night alone with only my hand for company. Excellent.

  Chapter 5

  Piper

  “No, Dad. It hasn’t been decided yet.” I drop my phone to my desk with a thud and hit the speaker button so I can keep grading while I listen, yet again, to why it’s “simply impossible” that someone else might also be good enough for the
department chair position. I glance behind me, assuring myself I’m alone in the workroom. I can just sense what’s coming next because for my mom and dad, it’s all about image and status and what their little girl can achieve. Not that I’m little anymore, but this is how it’s always been. Can she ace the test? Win the debate? Beat out the other students for the award? Earn the scholarship? Land the job? Be named for the department chair position? My throat goes dry and my chest squeezes tight as the immense pressure weighs down on me the way it always has. I should be used to this by now.

  But I’m not.

  Mom’s voice is close to shrill. “You just need to make sure you’re the one selected. You’re the best choice, hands down. Don’t they know that? This is a small town. Everyone will talk if the daughter of two of the department chairs from Hawthorne Academy doesn’t get selected for the department chair position at the local public high school.” She says it like it’s less than. Like I’ve settled, and for the love of all that’s holy, I’d better get this position or I’ll be a failure. That’s the message I get when I read between the lines.

  They’d have loved for me to take a position at the academy with them, but, oh my God, can you imagine how that would have gone? I’d gladly taken the job here, knowing I didn’t want them breathing down my neck day in and day out. But still, they seem to be doing all right in that regard, even from their posh little offices at the academy.

  “You’ve been groomed for that spot since the minute you walked in the door and accepted the teaching position. You have the qualifications to do it well,” Dad’s voice rumbles through the phone.

  “I know. But I’m not the only one who does. I’m trying, believe me.”