Page 11 of A Touch Wicked
James needed to hit something.
“Christ,” Richard said, backing away in the ring.
They were at their boxing club at the usual time on Thursday — which had the unfortunate designation of being five days after the Masquerade.
Five.
Days.
And James was so bloody agitated he felt as if he were going to crawl out of his skin. Two days left.
Two days.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Selene, and there was no cure for it, except to hit something. His brother, preferably, since Richard was the most convenient. There was a reason many among thetonregarded pugilism as ungentlemanly, it being the sport of two men pummeling each other.
“Stop retreating, Richard,” James said.
“I’ll stop retreating,” Richard said, “when you stop looking at me like you’re going to murder me with your damn fists.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” James advanced, and Richard tried to get in with a jab, but James was too fast. He buried his fist in his brother’s gut.
Richard staggered back. “No more.” The words were laced with pain.
“You’re not even on the ground—”
His brother threw up a warning hand and said, “We’ve been here for two hours. My knuckles are bleeding, and I would like to return home in something resembling a single piece. I’m finished.” Then, as if he couldn’t resist: “And you look like hell. When was the last time you slept?”
“If I wanted to talk, I wouldn’t have asked you to meet me here.”
James knew what he must look like: disheveled, exhausted, halfway to madness.
The first night after the Masquerade, he’d slept more soundly than he ever had in his life. But by the second night . . . he was restless. Aching. And damned hard all the time just thinking about Selene.
He could barely focus on his duties without picturing her naked, her hips moving as she rode him. Without hearing her whisper in that breathy French purr of hers.
Why don’t I fuckyou?
He needed to punch something again. Punish his body until he was so exhausted, he couldn’t even think about her. Even now, he was sweating, panting, bruised and in pain, and it did nothing.
It barely fazed him.
Richard must have seen something change in James's expression, because he backed away. “No. You’ve got that look again, and I’ve no intention of encouraging it. Find someone else to hit.” He strode out of the ring.
“Shit,” James muttered.
He grabbed for one of the provided towels and followed his brother into the change room. Thank god it was empty; he didn’t want anyone to be around to witness them argue.
“Richard—”
His brother shot James a look that shut him up. “Alexandra said you’ve been brooding all week, like some hero from one of her trite Gothic romances.”
“Alexandra gossips too much,” James snapped. “I ought to feel sorry for the poor bastard who eventually weds her.”
“Don’t change the subject.” Richard roughly removed his shirt and wiped the sweat from his face. “I thought you went to the Masquerade and found some willing woman to have you.” He nodded to James’s neck. “Unless you bityourselfthere.”
James sat down on the stool. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“I’m not being an idiot; you’re being unreasonable.” Richard had the rest of his clothes off and he slipped on a robe for the baths. “So the question remains: did you scare her off with your glare, or was she a terrible shag?”
