Bound to the Bachelor by Sarah Mayberry

he said.
    “What is it, then?”
    “I have no idea. This is a fist.” Beau put his hand in front of her, palm up, and slowly curled his fingers into his palm. She was about to protest that she’d done exactly the same thing when she realized she’d tucked her thumb inside her fingers, while his was pressed against his knuckles, the whole forming a formidable-looking mass of bone, flesh and tendon.
    “You tuck your thumb in like that, you’ll break it when you hit someone,” he explained. “What you’re aiming for is a flat surface here.” He tapped the plane he’d formed beneath his knuckles. “All the power and strength comes down your arm through your bones. That’s what you’re punching with. You want to hit with this.”
    He tapped the points of his knuckles. Lily tried again, curling her hand, locking her thumb on the outside of her folded fingers this time. Sure enough, she’d created a smaller version of his fist.
    “Good. Let’s try some punches. Hit my hand.”
    He held up a hand, palm out in front of him. She drew back and flung her fist at his palm, giving him about fifty percent of what she was capable of because she was worried about hurting him.
    “Bullshit,” was his immediate response. “You’ve got more than that.”
    “I don’t want to hurt you.”
    “That’s my problem, not yours. I want to feel the power behind your punch.”
    She tried again, this time giving it her all, and the thwack of her fist connecting with his palm resounded in the large space. To her immense satisfaction, he shook his hand out a little afterward.
    “Much better. Now we just need to get your body weight behind your fist.”
    For the next twenty minutes he drilled her on the best stance to take in order to throw as much of her body weight as possible behind her punch. He showed her how to use the biomechanics of her shoulders and arms to transfer the maximum amount of power and momentum to her fist. Then he collected two large leather mitts with flat padded surfaces – focus mitts, he called them – and made her practice jabbing at them, left and right, right and left.
    She was hot and sweaty and no doubt red-faced by the time he dropped the mitts and called a break. He brought her a bottle of water from the fridge, and she stripped down to the tank top she’d worn beneath her Henley. She was conscious of Beau’s eyes dropping briefly to her breasts, and the awareness that was always there between them ran hot for a few taut minutes.
    He killed it by beginning to drill her on how to use her elbows to defend herself, which was followed by kicking drills. When he was satisfied she had a basic repertoire, he put her in front of a long punching bag and called out instructions while she went at it with firsts, elbows, knees, and feet.
    She was trembling by the time he let up on her, sweat rolling down the valley between her breasts. Her tank top was glued to the small of her back, and strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail to stick to her damp face.
    “How are you doing?” he asked as she drained the last of her bottle of water.
    “I’m still breathing. That’s about it.”
    She was pretty sure she was going to be in serious pain tomorrow. She hadn’t made it to the gym for weeks, and he’d been working muscles she didn’t even know she had.
    “You ready to go again?” he asked.
    She groaned and put her head in her hands. “Really?” she asked between her fingers.
    “We’re almost done,” he promised.
    His hand settled on her back between her shoulder blades. She knew he was trying to be reassuring, encouraging, but every inch of her skin burned with awareness of the fact that he was touching her.
    In the middle of her back.
    She couldn’t think of a more innocuous part of her anatomy. Imagine what he could do if he were really trying.
    We’ve had this conversation before, I believe. Not. Helping .
    Beau’s hand dropped away, and she let out a sigh that was half relief, half