Page 29 of Misery
I drive back. He grunts but doesn't release me. "Good. Again. Multiple strikes, fast as you can."
We practice until I'm breathless, not from how I’m exerting myself, but from how close I am to him.
His body against mine, hands positioning me, voice in my ear giving instructions.
I'm hyperaware of everywhere we touch.
The heat of him through clothes.
The way he smells.
"Now front-facing attack," he says, turning me. We're chest to chest. "Someone comes at you straight on."
"Run?"
"If you can. But if you can't?"
"Fight."
"Smart girl." His hands go to my wrists, holding them. "Break my hold."
I try twisting. Pulling. Nothing works.
"You're fighting force with force again. Circle out and down." He guides the motion. "Use momentum, not strength."
We practice the movement until it's smooth. Natural.
His hands on my wrists, my attempts to break free.
Each time brings us closer.
Each success means his hands find me again.
"Good," he says after I break his hold quickly. "You're learning."
"I have a good teacher."
"You're a good student."
We're so close, close enough to count the scars on his jaw, close enough that when I breathe deep, our chests almost touch.
"Elfe."
"Yeah?"
"You need to step back."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, I'm going to kiss you."
"What if I want you to?"
His hands tighten on my wrists. Not painful. But possessive. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then show me."
He pulls me against him. Hard. Fast.
