Page 44 of Enforcer Daddy
She tried, but her body kept reverting to that narrow, ready-to-flee position. Every time I corrected her, my hands on her hips or shoulders, the electricity between us built higher. By the fifth adjustment, we were both breathing harder than the minimal exertion warranted.
"Palm strikes next," I said, demonstrating against the air. "Basic but effective. Heel of the palm, driving forward, using your whole body for power."
She watched, then tried to copy. Wild, uncontrolled, throwing everything into each strike like it was her last chance at survival. Classic street fighter—all heart, no discipline.
"Stop." I caught her wrist mid-swing. "You're wasting energy. In a real fight, you'd be exhausted in minutes."
"In a real fight, I wouldn't have minutes." She jerked her wrist free, frustration coloring her cheeks. "It would be over in seconds. No one's checking if my thumb is positioned correctly while they're trying to kill me."
"Discipline," I said firmly. "Save your energy. Make each strike count. Control beats chaos every time."
"Control." She laughed, bitter and sharp. "Right. Because that's worked so well for me. Being controlled, following rules, doing what I'm told."
"That's not what I—"
She swung at me—a wild haymaker that had more rage than technique. I caught her wrist easily, used her momentum to spin her, and suddenly she was pressed against me, her back to my chest, both her wrists trapped in one of my hands above her head.
"In a real fight," I said against her ear, feeling her shiver, "technique means you walk away instead of being carried."
She was breathing hard, chest rising and falling against my arm where it crossed her body. I could feel her pulse racing under my grip, could smell the heat rising from her skin. This position—her pressed against me, restrained but not hurt, completely under my control—was dangerous. Too close to what I wanted, what we both wanted but couldn't have yet.
"Let me go," she whispered, but her body said differently, melting back against me instead of fighting.
"Make me," I challenged, curious if she'd retained anything from the lesson.
She went still, thinking. Then she stomped hard on my instep, drove her elbow back into my ribs, and twisted when my grip loosened. Not perfect technique, but effective enough that she broke free, spinning to face me with triumph lighting her features.
"Better," I admitted, rubbing my ribs. She'd actually put force behind that elbow. "But you're still fighting angry instead of smart."
"Maybe angry is all I have." The words came out raw, honest in a way that made my chest tight.
"No," I said firmly. "You have more than that. You have strength and intelligence and instincts that kept you alive when most wouldn't have survived a week. I'm trying to give you technique to match your spirit."
She studied me for a long moment, those fascinating eyes seeing too much.
"Show me again," she said finally. "The stance. I'll listen this time."
"Arms up," I instructed, moving behind her again. "Protect your face."
This time when I adjusted her stance, she stayed pliant, letting me position her correctly. My hands lingered perhaps longer than necessary, feeling the way her muscles shifted under my touch, the way her breathing changed when I pressed closer to adjust her shoulder position.
"Good," I murmured, and felt her shiver at the praise. "Now, palm strike. Slow first, for form."
She moved through it slowly, letting me guide her arm through the motion. My hand over hers, showing her how to keep her wrist straight, how to drive from the shoulder. The intimacy of it—teaching her to protect herself, giving her toolsto survive without me if necessary—felt more intense than any sexual encounter I'd had.
"Faster now," I said, stepping back. "But maintain form."
She struck out, better this time. Still some wildness there, but controlled, directed. I made her do it again, and again, until sweat darkened the tank top, until her form was almost perfect.
"Good girl," I said without thinking, and watched color flood her face.
We'dbeenatitfor an hour, both of us sweat-soaked and breathing hard, when Eva did something I didn't expect—she learned. Not just the techniques I'd been drilling into her, but my patterns, my rhythm, the way I shifted my weight before moving. She'd been cataloguing everything while pretending to struggle, setting me up for what came next.
I was explaining footwork, demonstrating how to pivot without losing balance, when she struck. One moment I was standing, comfortable in my authority, the next she'd dropped low, hooked my ankle with hers, and shoved hard at my chest with both palms—a perfect street sweep combined with the palm strike I'd just taught her.
I hit the mats hard, air rushing from my lungs in surprise more than pain. Before I could recover, before I could process that she'd actually taken me down, she was on me. Knees bracketing my waist, small hands pinning my wrists above my head with surprising strength, using her whole body weight to hold them there.
"Gotcha, Daddy," she said, grinning with pure, triumphant joy.
