Later, she walks into the exercise room, flush with the energy of anticipation. Sparring with him, the fight, it's as much as dance as anything else — the coordinated movements, the brush of bodies, touch of hands, tangle of legs. He's waiting for her again, smiling, sitting on the edge of the treadmill close to the floor.
"Now that I know a little better where you're at," he says smoothly, without preamble, "I think it would be more helpful for me to watch you; then we can really achieve progress."
Her stomach drops a little — both disappointment and a rush of nerves — but she can see his point. Normally, an instructor would watch and evaluate pairs, for better accuracy, but since there's only two of them here…
"All right," she says, striving for her usual coolness. "You'll call it for me, then?"
He grins at her and nods in both agreement and invitation.
She centers herself on the mat, shakes her arms a little, takes a breath, then meets his eyes. They're very green this morning, she thinks, distracted, but he's already giving commands. She's a step behind before she even starts to move; he sees it and stops her.
"Pay attention," he says sharply. "It might be practice now, but it won't always be."
She bites back the irritable response that leaps to her mouth and settles for a brusque nod — but she's careful not to make eye contact again.
He starts again — behind you, Lizzie, 6 foot, 200 pounds, knife in his right hand, coming fast…
It isn't long before she's soaked with sweat and has forgotten everything but her next move. Red, surprisingly, is an excellent teacher — demanding but patient, expertly correcting her form when needed, suggesting alternate moves at intervals. Some are completely new to her, and she appreciates the insight into battle without rules.
Eventually, he gets up to show her something; stands behind her to position her arms and nudges at her foot with his own to shift her leg. It all comes flooding back to her, the second his hands touch her arms, as his leg presses against her own. She wonders what he would do if she pressed back against him. She wonders if he's… enjoyed watching her, what she would feel from his body…
"Lizzie!" His exasperated tone breaks through her hazy thoughts. "You're not paying the least bit of attention. Where have you disappeared to?"
God, she thinks wretchedly, control yourself. "I'm sorry, Red," she says lightly, and turns to face him. "I'm flagging a bit — how about a break?"
"All right," he answers, dropping his hands. "You're making some progress already, Lizzie, but your head has to be with you. Your body will eventually respond automatically, but your head can still betray you."
"I know," she says. "I'm just tired today, I think. Thank you for your help." She smiles at him, reaches out to squeeze his hand, then moves past him and out the door, letting her hips sway a little more than they normally might.
He takes a deep breath, watching her walk, thinking wryly that he could use a break himself — if his body went any further on alert, they wouldn't need the solar to light the place anymore. Hoping against hope that she hadn't noticed anything, he adjusts himself with a sigh, and follows after her into the kitchen.
They sit across from one another in relatively companionable silence, drinking bottles of water. Liz is still dampened from her workout — the wet curls of hair at her temples make him ache to touch her; he thinks that the cluster of droplets gathered at the center of her clavicle is unreasonably sexy. He imagines, briefly, the taste of her — salty with sweat, but clean underneath, with a hint of the citrus that perfumes her soap…
He is lost in thought and seems so far away that she wonders if she has let an opportunity pass by. Maybe she should have just walked back into his room last night and taken her chances. She's quietly admiring the clean line of his profile while trying not to look directly at him when he licks his lips absently. She feels a jolt of lust right through her body and jumps up, needing to move, needing a distraction before she makes a complete ass of herself.
He startles a little as she rises, and clears his throat. "Ready for more, sweetheart?" he says, sounding a little strange.
She raises an eyebrow and smiles. "Maybe it should be my turn to evaluate your form," she teases.
He laughs, more himself as she intended, and shakes his head at her. "It's not me who needs the practice," he points out. "I took you down easily enough."
She scoffs a little; moves to give his shoulder a little nudge with her hip. "All right, then, show-off," she says. "How about you tell me more about your… business? If we're going to be working together from now on, I'm sure there are people, procedures, events I'll need to be familiar with to pass as one of yours."
He considers this briefly, but he's already committed himself to letting her into his world when he met her on that bench. He savours the warm glow that starts inside him at the friendly, teasing tone, at the way she's referred to herself as his, at the way she implies their partnership will be permanent.
"Let's go back to the library, then," he says. "Do you want to change first? We could be a while."
"Okay," she acquiesces easily, "Meet you there in a few."
In her bedroom, she evaluates quickly. He's going to wear The Jeans again, she just knows it. She has to get her own back on that score, or there'll be no living with him. Her choices, however, are limited, as is her time.
She settles on long black leggings, and instead of her usual loose tunic, pairs them with a small-ish scoop-necked blue tee — not particularly sexy, she thinks, but at least shows off what curves she has left after the misery of the winter.
She'd thought yesterday, last night, even this morning, that she would take some time, find a rapport with him. Make them at ease with each other so that they can be honest. She'd thought that her indulgence in the shower would relieve her thrumming tension enough to allow for the time they need. Enough to allow the back-and-forth verbal thrust and parry that he so loves to connect them together.
All it did was heighten everything, every feeling, all of her most illicit thoughts. Her awareness of him is sharply intensified — the lines of his body under his clothes, the fluid mobility of his face, his hands… she thinks she could write poetry about his hands, strong and deft, long-fingered and supple.
She shudders all over and sets herself, determined. With her feet bare and her hair loose, she pads out of her bedroom, determined not to end the day without some kind of resolution. Because this — this just can't go on any longer.