FLORENCE AND THE MACHINE ~ KISS WITH A FIST
…
The woman's fist slammed into the wall where the man's face had been milliseconds ago, creating a black hole in the drywall.
"Admit it," he slurred behind her. "I've gotten better."
She turned to face him, fists loosely held up in front of her. He was standing defensively, but he had a stupid grin on his face.
"Maybe a little," she conceded, and attacked again.
Their friendly sparring was becoming spirited; he'd thrown her to the floor quite a few times and one of her kicks had sent him crashing through a nightstand, reducing it to firewood. They always gave each other enough room to back away when drawing blood was imminent.
After a particularly intricate bout of jabs and deflections, the man leapt away and rolled over the top of the bed, giving them a much-needed moment.
They stared at each other from opposite side of the bed, breathing hard, watching every move warily.
The woman smiled and said, "Come on. All I'm getting from you is defense. Let's see what else you got." She did a handspring over the bed, an empty vodka bottle rolling around on the sheets, and landed in front of him.
His smirk returned behind his raised hands. "Careful what you wish for, sweetheart."
She a smiled dangerously at the pet name, "Quit talking, asshole," and she lunged at him.