Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
He stretches his arms over his chest. “You woke up in a cold sweat.”
See, I tried not to jostle him, but we slept in the same bunk. A confined single-bed. Our legs were intertwined. My jaw was on his chest. I was more surprised that he didn’t bolt upright instantly when I left.
“Bad dream,” I tell him and then study his shoulder as he rotates his arms. He’s not flinching or wincing. It’s healed better than I initially thought. Good.
I’m hoping he never needs a doctor again. Because he no longer has my father. That fucking asshole…
“What was the dream?” Maximoff crosses the campground, opening and closing his switchblade absentmindedly.
I comb a hand through my hair. “You were drowning.” And I couldn’t save you. I breathe hot breath through my nose and rest my boot on a log bench.
Maximoff clicks his switchblade closed. Standing stoically, he reminds me of an unshakable marble statue again. A man who refuses to let anyone or anything topple him. At least not without putting up a hell of a fight.
And I’m not surprised when he tells me, “That would never fucking happen.”
I toss my head from side-to-side, considering that. Something never happening is a spearfish becoming a horse. Of course people can drown. Shit, even Olympic swimmers can drown. But I can’t wade inside these fears or let them leech onto Maximoff.
It was a nightmare.
Not reality.
Our gazes catch in a forceful grasp. Not letting go. “You’re right,” I tell him. “You’re not drowning. Because you have me.”
He pauses in thought. “I’d survive either way.” He gestures from my chest to his chest. “Between the two of us, I’m the trained swimmer.”
I smile. “I meant metaphorically drowning.”
He glowers. 2% amused, 98% irritated. I’m a 100% satisfied, and we unconsciously near. Our boots scuff the dirt and moss.
“I’m not losing at anything,” he says, still trying to assure me.
I won’t say this out loud, but fuck, I agree—he’s capable of surviving 8 out of 10 scenarios. But I’m here for those 2 that he needs someone else. And he will.
He does.
He knows it too, but like me, those words rarely meet the air. I’d rather tease him for as long as I can, and he’d rather combat me.
“You’re not losing at anything,” I repeat his words and then say, “you’d lose to me in an MMA match in less than a minute.”
“Or I’d win,” he refutes.
I laugh hard.
“I’m fucking serious.” He pockets his switchblade, standing about an arm’s length away. “Let’s see who’s better.”
I’ll have him on his back in less than two seconds. “Someone teach you? Because I know I didn’t.”
“I did some research.”
My smile is hurting my face. “You mean you Googled MMA moves?”
He glares. “Are we doing this or not?”
I suck in a breath. “Wow, you must really want me to be on top of you.”
He licks his lips to hide a smile. “Maybe I’ll end up on top of you.” He gestures me forward.
Wind whistles. No paparazzi here. The only cameramen tailing us lost our tracks around Chicago. The rest stayed in Philly for money-shots of his parents.
This informal match is just for us, but my fist isn’t hitting his face. We quickly agree to no jabs, hooks, uppercuts or kicks. Leaving mostly wrestling and grappling.
We circle one another, and then he approaches like a bullet. He tries a clinch takedown, pushing my chest while sweeping my right foot out from under me. I maneuver out of the inside trip, and then step forward, drop to a knee. And swiftly shoot my hands behind his legs and pull.
Balance gone, his back thuds to the dirt. “Fuck.” His breath ejects.
I smile. “Double-leg takedown,” I tell him the basic move.
“Let me try again.” He picks himself up, and I stand. The second time I try to shoot for a takedown, he crouches out of range and drives his weight into my upper-body.
Damn. His muscles carve as he taps into his strength. I grit down and dig out of the hold. Slipping behind him, then we circle one another again.
“I learned that from YouTube,” he tells me.
I smile. “Okay, smartass.” I remember how his siblings said he’s better than average at everything he tries. Maximoff trying to keep up with me and actually succeeding—it’s extremely fucking attractive.
But I’m not going easy on him. Next time, I trip him from the inside, and his body plummets. Back to dirt.
We grapple on the ground. Tangled up, our legs and arms hooking. Muscles blazing, sweat building. Flipping over in mud and moss, skin and clothes dirtied. I smile each time he attempts to hit a more advanced move. He even tries a rear-naked chokehold, but fails.
He’s gassed, exerting twice the energy as me. After a guard pass from me, I gain the advantage and end up on top of him. My knees bear on either side of his waist, basically mounted on Maximoff. I rest a palm by his face.