RIDING DIRTY (Steel Titans MC Book 4) by Franca Storm (ebook voice reader .txt) 📕

forming a sexy ‘V’ and dipping below the waistband. Sweat was dripping off him, making that gray muscle tee stick to his skin, emphasizing those cut-from-marble abs of his. It also didn’t help that every time he threw a punch, his muscles bunched and rippled. Rippling biceps didn’t even cover it with him.

The other night when I’d walked in on him training all-out had been bad enough of a temptation, but up close now and training with him was steps beyond that.

What did help for me to keep it in check was that he was being a fucking dumbass right about now.

I moved away and walked to the bench, snatching up the towel I’d left there earlier beside his. Dabbing off my face, neck, and chest, I told him, unable to check my pissed tone, “You apologized for the bullshit you spouted about my sex life. I accepted said apology. Then we both agreed that we need to be on the same page and in sync, going into this mission, from this point out. Training together and learning to mesh our fighting styles, tactical responses, and all of that, was the first step toward achieving that.”

“Yeah, I know. I was right there with you.”

“Then what the hell is this bullshit? For the last forty-five minutes you’ve been fighting like a pussy.”

Instead of taking offense, like I thought he would, a burst of laughter erupted from him. “Pussy, huh? Ain’t that offensive to women, seen as real sexist? Just like saying somebody hits like a girl?”

“I’m trying to speak in a language you understand.”

The humor vanished then and he bit back, “You know damn well I ain’t some fucking dumbass caveman.”

I did know that, but I also knew that he needed a push here to bring it, so taking a dig that would spark a reaction was the route to go.

Shifting my weight and assuming a fighting stance, readying myself for him, I said, “Let’s do this then.”

He held up his hand. “Chill, woman. We’re just sparring. We ain’t here to kick each other’s asses. Can’t be risking serious injury right now with the mission we got going on.”

I narrowed my eyes.

More talking.

Misdirection.

Avoidance.

Didn’t he get by now that I could see right through his bullshit tactics?

After all, they weren’t far off from mine.

“Slade,” I hissed.

He blew out a breath. “Jesus.” He shifted into a fighting stance, then crooked his fingers at me in a ‘bring it’ motion. “Take your best shot.”

“And you’ll take yours? Give me your best?”

“Yeah.”

I ran at him and threw a right cross. He dodged it well.

But that was what I’d intended.

As he veered away, I faked him out and spun into a roundhouse kick that connected hard.

He stumbled and I took the opening it offered me and moved in closer, intending to deliver an uppercut to his jaw to destabilize him further. After that, an elbow to the back should have him on the ground.

But Slade was far from green when it came to a fight.

He saw it coming and as I swung, he turned into it, snagged my arm, then leveraged it to slam me to the ground.

I rolled as I hit it hard, something a lot of training had made instinctual.

When I came up in a crouch, he was already there. He swept my leg out from under me and I collapsed onto my back.

In the next second, he straddled me, pinning me beneath him, his legs holding mine down, his hands grasping my wrists.

I grinned up at him.

I saw the worry there in his eyes, clearly wondering why amusement was my reaction and not concern about my predicament, or acknowledgement of my defeat.

“Good. You’ve stopped holding back.”

“That ain’t why you’re grinning.”

I tapped out.

He moved back, sitting up, straddling me. “Thought you didn’t want no holding back?”

“I don’t. But in this case, my next move was either a brutal headbutt, or twisting my hips sharply to the side and crushing your balls with my fist.”

He chuckled. “I know.”

“You do?”

“I’ve seen you fight, know how you operate. This training is just because you don’t know how I do it. You ain’t never seen me in a fight before. I know firefights don’t count with you.”

“They don’t. Anybody can fire a gun. Pretty much. It’s what happens when you don’t have that to hide behind or depend on that counts.”

“You wanted to know if you could take me.”

I nodded. “If it came down to it.”

“The thing is, darlin’, we ain’t never gonna find out the answer to that question,” he said, pushing off me and getting to his feet. “It’s because the only way to know is to go all-out and deliver some serious hurt to each other.” He offered me a hand up. “No way I’m going there with you. I can’t hurt you, all right? Ever.”

He can’t hurt me?

I bristled at the unintended reminder of when he’d done just that. Although, only emotionally. But for someone as closed-off and stoic as me, that was a hell of a thing, and not something I was used to dealing with.

I batted his hand away roughly and he moved away.

With a growl, I reared back and somersaulted to my feet. In the next beat, I was striding up to him, getting in his space, and demanding, “If that’s true, why did you pull that asshole move and stand me up that night at my old penthouse?”

“To spare you.”

Our eyes locked.

Sincerity was coming off him in waves.

That was easy to do when he was suffering from so much fucking denial.

“I didn’t need a chivalrous act, or a hero. I needed a choice.”

“That ain’t what—”

I grasped his arm. “Admit it. It wasn’t just about that.”

“What the fuck else would it be about?”

“You were scared.” I tightened my grip on his arm in my urgency. “After way too long without, you finally felt something, and it scared you.”

He pulled away, shaking his head.

But I wasn’t done pursuing it. It was something I’d wanted answers to, something I’d needed resolved for