PULSE [H.S]

111

"Addiction begins with the hope that something 'out there' can instantly fill up the emptiness inside." — Jean Kilbourne

Harry is brutal.

He's brutal in every sense of the word, but he takes it to another level when he is giving boxing lessons. He started giving me lessons again recently to help me build my strength, but I also know he wants me to be prepared. Any number of things could go wrong when we attempt our coup, and I need to be able to hold my ground if push comes to shove.

The thing is, I'm really not feeling this today. As I stand in the ring with him, my mind is anywhere but here in the ring with us. I could think of a million places I would rather be, and a billion things I would rather be doing. But Harry dragged me with him this morning, insisting that we get a lesson in.

He is literally trying to break my body today. Not only is he making me do a lesson, but he first tortured me with an intense workout beforehand. We ran on the treadmill for a while, until I was out of breath. He said it's important to still be able to defend myself even when I am tired, but I was already tired when we got here. The cardio wasn't necessary.

Harry circles me in the ring, preparing to strike.

He circles me like he is a lion, and I am the prey he's been eyeing all day. His stare is intense, like he's looking at me with purpose. The slight inward pull of his eyebrows makes him look so intimidating and hot at the same time.

He jabs my side with his right hand, and I say, "Ow."

He rolls his eyes at me and says, "Keep your elbows in, and I wouldn't be able to do that."

I take a breath and force myself to focus before I piss him off. He tends to get mad at anyone or anything for being bad at anything they're doing. The other day, I saw him yell at the trash can for not opening fast enough when he pressed on the lever.

I tuck my elbows in, protecting my sides.

"Ow," I mumble again as he hits the side of my head. The hit is gentle, but I still glare at him.

"Elbows in, but keep your arms up," he instructs, adjusting my arms for me. He says, "You still need to protect that pretty face of yours."

I huff, "Okay, bossy pants."

He doesn't give me a second to breathe as he starts throwing jabs at me left and right. I manage to block a lot of them, anticipating his moves, but he is obviously going easy on me. My reflexes aren't as fast as they should be when I'm boxing or trying to defend myself.

He scolds me, saying, "You're being lazy."

"It's hard to focus when you don't have a shirt on," I say in an attempt to defend myself and explain my lack of focus.

My eyes wander to his chest, taking in the sight of it. There's a slight shine to his skin from the sweat he's been working up with the workout and the lesson. It coats him deliciously, and I want to run my tongue up his chest so badly.

He says, "So if a shirtless man attacks you, you're going to die because you're distracted by his body?"

"If his body looks like yours, yes," I say as I gesture to his body with my hand. He shakes his head at me, disappointed. I add, "It wouldn't be a bad last sight."

"Kiz..." he sighs.

I raise my hands up and say, "What? You don't want me to die happy?"

He shakes his head again, bringing one of his hands up to pinch the bridge of his nose, like I'm giving him a headache or something. He's the one who has been hitting me in the head. I'm the one with the headache here.