Page 48 of Keep Your Guard Up
Most times I went without gloves, my hands usually wrapped or bare-knuckle. Any pain only drove me further, harder, faster.
Movement flickered out of the void to my right, so I pushed harder—shoved everything that was and ever had been intothe black hole and threweverythingI fucking had into the heavy leather bag. My knuckles grazed; small droplets of blood surfaced. The beacon of motion to my right refused to fade into the void, beaming blatantly.
With the force of my entire rotation, I slammed a cutting elbow into the bag before turning over my shoulder.
Sunny stood in denim shorts and a Knock’s tank, stacking gloves into the racks. She rose up on her toes to shove a pair of shiny golden gloves back into place on the top shelf. Even the gloves weren’t as bright as her. Her tank shifted just a smidge away from the thick waist of her shorts.
My legs moved of their own accord, like a moth to a flame, when she stumbled backwards from trying to put Jayden’s stupid fucking gloves away. Her skin was a little moist when my hands found her smooth, still exposed waist. She let out a breathy gasp at the contact before finding her feet.
“T-Thanks,” she croaked.
“I’ve got you,” I replied, withdrawing my hands. My skin, as well as her shoulders, slumped slightly at the loss of contact.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Pussy-whipped, that’s what.
I turned to walk away when her hand gripped mine. She plucked it up towards her and inspected the open wounds I had on my knuckles. Her lips pursed and a crease formed between her eyebrows in concentration.
“Let’s get these cleaned up,” she said quietly and tugged on my hand in request to follow her. I slipped it from her grasp, feeling the cool air replace her warmth immediately.
“I’m fine. I was just finishing up,” I replied, snatching my water bottle from the edge of the mat. I made a show of tipping some of the water over my knuckles and then shut my eyes as I poured it over my head.
Sunny stared at me with those big brown eyes swirling like hot pools of the richest chocolate. With her lips slightly parted, she scanned my shirtless torso before bringing her stare to mine.
“It wasn’t a request,” she stated, stepping forward to grab my hand once again. The softness and politeness in her grip was gone, replaced with a firmness leaving no room to argue as she dragged me to the bathrooms.
After pushing me to sit on the closed toilet, she opened the larger of the vanity drawers and pulled out a fluffy white washcloth and a bottle of antiseptic. Wordlessly, she ran the tap as hot as it would go before shoving the washcloth under it. She wrung it out and crossed the room to me.
“I would have done this myself,” I lied. I knew how to, of course. I’d been doing this for so long, dressing cuts was something I could teach even a blind man to do. But I found that when it came to dressing your own wounds, it was easier to go with the ‘it’ll be right’ approach.
“No, you wouldn’t have,” she said, wiping the hot fabric over the top of my right hand. “Besides, I like to protect my investments. Who’ll take class tomorrow if you get staph or whatever from punching a filthy bagbare-knuckled?”
She shot me a pointed look.
“Careful, Sunny. You almost sound like you care.” I smirked up at her. She was bending down slightly to address my left hand now, her magnificent cleavage well on display and directly in my line of sight.
Torture.
This wastorture.
This strong, sexy woman was all I could see. She was light and warmth and fire.Fire. Everything about her was heat, a burning flame I was fucking drawn to.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Riordan. I’m purely taking care of an asset.”
“Mmm, I love it when you talk dirty,” I mused.
She snickered.
A zapping rush filled the open cuts as she poured antiseptic over them. The brown liquid ran off the sides of my hands, dripping to the floor. The bleeding had stopped, so I declined the need for bandages.
“Don’t come crying if they get infected,” Sunny said, shoving the bandages back in the drawer and the washcloth in the laundry basket.
“Not one to cry over a split knuckle, Sunny,” I joked.
“What’s the deal with going bare-knuckle?” she asked, wetting a paper towel under the tap.
“What’s it to you?”
