Billie Bossa Nova

11.

He'd nearly caught the impact of her first hit, but blocked it just centimeters from hitting his nose. His eyes found hers. She clearly meant business. Within a split second after he had blocked the first punch, she threw another two. They were almost simultaneous from how fast she had swung them, making him take the third on the chest. She had a firm fist. It was evident that she took training of some sort, Kai assumed those self-defense classes that women often took.

He blocked away a kick and grasped her ankle when she started to swing another, pulling until she hit the floor. She stood up as fast as she had hit the ground and swung another hit. She was fast, that was admittable. But for how long?

A series of hits followed in his direction, agile, aggressive, fast. He'd grab her wrist, she'd twist it away and counter with an elbow to the stomach. He'd attempted to pin her to the floor, and she'd use his weight to her advantage and slip away. He'd go to grab her hips and she'd smack his hands away deliver a load blows to the chest. He was making no attacks. All defense. Whip her punches away or slap her kicks aside. That was the majority of his movements. Other hits deliberately didn't reach her, and she had easily blocked them. He had no intention of hitting her.

She stepped back, meeting his hazelnut orbs. They depicted challenge and readiness, but that was surely feigned because she knew this wasn't his best. According to the files she'd read of him at CRO, he took boxing since he was sixteen and had a black belt in jiujitsu. He had the capabilities to put up way more of a fight than he was now.

Something beneath her skin sizzled. Her cheeks reddened with madness. Frustration took a hold of her. This whole time, he hadn't been trying. It was humiliating. What did he think of her? That she was weak? An easy fight?

"You're an asswhole," she panted as she lunged towards him. He whipped away from the attack, and she lost her footing when his foot got in front of hers and tripped her to the floor.

"Alright, that's enough," he muttered, barely breathless. He pulled her ankle until they were eye to eye and clung her wrists above her head with one hand. His body hovered just above her own, so close that she could feel the warmth of his blood running beneath his skin on her own, but so far that not an inch of him touched her. His bare chest lingered millimeters from her clothed one. Sheen, broad, clean. Like a canvas before the touch of an artist's hand grazed it.

His breaths, controlled and steady were far different from her heaving ones. She could barely feel the tickle of them as he exhaled, blowing timidly against her cheek. Subtle. Alluring.

"That's not a way to address your boss," he chastised.

"Is this a way to treat your assistant?" Her eyes lifted to her imprisoned wrists above her head.

Something playful came to his eyes. Something that reminded her of his age. Usually, he acted years older than he was. His tone of voice and articulation reached a depth of maturity that only old age could inhibit and his actions effortlessly mirrored these habits. It was odd to see him display actions of a twenty-three year old man, for once the stoic demeanor gone and some emotion coating his expression, even if it was just the eyes.

"Your subordinancy robs you of any right to complain."

Her eyes narrowed. Curious. Intrigued. A little displeased. "Is that how you consider all your employees?"

"Only for the maintainance of general balance. Respect, I mean. Man leaves his house complaining about a job he'll never quit, but will never complain to his employer, of course, because that would mean he'd lose his low-income job and his ranking lowers to no income. And all for a complaint. Sound worth it?"

She didn't want to answer that question, only becuase her reply would satisfy him. Moreover, she barely understood what he was saying. As established earlier, his words were beyond his age, meaning they exceeded her age far more. "You went easy on me. Why?"