“Chrissie, what are you doing here? If you needed me, why didn’t you call?”
“I want to start our lessons.” She kicked off the first boot and began unzipping the second. “Your room is better than mine. People are always knocking on my door. This way we can focus.”
She stood and pulled off the wig. Her long blond ponytail unraveled and fell down her back.
“Lessons.” Dante took in the walking, talking fantasy in his room. Short skirt. Stockings. All-American freckles dotting her face as if she’d spent the day out in the sun before dressing to drive him insane. And yeah, he was hard as a fucking rock. The only lesson he wanted to give involved her skirt around her waist and the bed.
“My Navy SEAL lessons.” She picked up her black backpack. “Let me change, and then we’ll start.”
Dante nodded. If he opened his mouth, he’d probably ask her to keep on the skirt and stockings. He’d never met a Navy SEAL who trained for hand-to-hand combat in fishnets, but…
The bathroom door clicked shut, and he stared at the brass knob. He began counting backward from one hundred and hoping like hell his physical reaction subsided before she opened the door. He hit fifty, his dick still begging to be released from his jeans, when the door opened.
She’d traded the off-the-shoulder shirt for a fitted tank and sports bra. And in place of the skirt? Running shorts. It didn’t come close to a fantasy getup. But Dante had a feeling his X-rated daydreams were about to change.
And teaching Chrissie to fight? That gave a new definition to the term “Hell Week.” Because the minute he touched her again, the second he felt her bare skin, he would harden. By the time he had transformed country’s version of a Disney princess into a SEAL, his balls would be blue.
She placed her hands on her hips and looked at him wearing a mask of freckle-faced determination. “Where do we start?”
Change back into that outfit with the fishnet stockings and climb on the bed. Let me lick you again…
Dante crossed his arms in front of his chest and forced himself to focus.
“There are two basic rules in hand-to-hand combat. Hit hard and haul ass.”
She nodded. “I can do that.”
“Can you?” He raised an eyebrow. He’d witnessed sailors entering BUD/S, the elite Navy SEAL training program, who held back when sparring with an “attacker.” And nine times out ten, they lost the fight. “When you strike another person, you need to commit to it. Aim for a vulnerable spot, and don’t hold back.”
“I won’t,” she assured him. “Tell me whe
re and how, and I’ll hit you hard.”
The blood powering his train of thought headed south. He knew she hadn’t meant those words as a come-on. But the thought of her pressing him up against the wall, taking a swing at him, yeah, it turned him on. Any excuse to touch her…
“It’s your right,” he continued, struggling to regain his footing in the lesson. “Not to be attacked or hurt by another person. Remember that and hit hard. Then, if you see an opportunity, haul ass. Hell, if you have the chance to run before your opponent attacks, take it and—”
“Haul ass. I got it.”
“But if you do need to strike,” he said, moving his feet hip width apart and preparing to launch at her. “Focus on the face and neck. The nose and windpipe are always safe bets.” He took a step forward. “Now come at me.”
She launched across the room, and her fist connected with his neck. Not hard. She’d held back. And it helped that he hadn’t put up much effort to fight her off. Most of the men likely to attack her wouldn’t have his training or ability to play defense. So he’d let her land the hit before catching her right wrist in his hand.
“Not bad,” he said, gasping for air. “But you could try harder.”
“Harder?” she repeated, stepping back and pulling free from his hold.
He nodded and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. She caught on fast, and he didn’t want to make this too easy for her. Plus, he was rested and ready for a little PT. Ronan had taken over protection duty for the past twenty-four hours. Then his teammate had driven back to Coronado. And Dante, still on freaking medical leave, had boarded a plane to wet, rainy Oregon.
But right now medical leave isn’t looking so bad.
Chrissie came at him again, and this time he caught her fist before she landed a jab on his windpipe.
“Better,” he said, holding tight to her hand. He wanted to keep her close, and his reasons didn’t have a damn thing to do with SEAL training. “But you should try hitting like a girl.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re a fully qualified SEAL?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Remember the way I broke your stalker’s nose?”