Romance Impossible(41)

"I'll admit," said Dylan, dodging me expertly, "when I first saw that pipe, I thought maybe you'd pulled a Carrie White. Destroying plumbing with the raw, unadulterated power of your rage. I've pushed a few buttons in my day, but that would have been my crowning glory for sure."

"You get off on it," I managed, between short breaths. I wasn't quite panting, not yet, but getting there. "Getting an emotional reaction out of people, it's just a game to you, isn't it?"

His forehead crinkled a little, as he bounced around me, maddeningly just out of reach. "Not a game," he said, his eyes darting from my hands to my feet, trying to gauge my next move. "Entertaining sometimes, yes, but it's not a game. You make me sound like a psychopath."

I shook my head, gathering my breath to talk. "I don't know any psychopaths who yell as much as you do."

Chef's eyebrows shot up. "How many do you know?"

I had to focus. He was trying to distract me, keeping a chatter going so I wouldn't be able to pin him down. All I had to do was focus. Shut out the sound of his voice, the smell and the heat of him, the thoughts of how badly I wanted him to throw me down on the floor and pin my arms in place until he'd kissed the breath out of me -

STOP IT, JILLIAN.

With an effort, I reached deep down inside myself and felt that anger that had grown cool when I first watched him fight. I tried to remember his biting words, his mocking laughter.

The fire was stoked - the right one, this time.

I might be a clumsy oaf compared to him in the ring, but I did have a few advantages. He was tired already, and his body - while magnificent - STOP IT, JILLIAN - was much bulkier than mine. Naturally. The man ran marathons in his sleep and probably benched four hundred. But if I could stop tripping over my own feet, I could be fast. I could be faster than he was. I was lighter. It was pure physics.

I took a deep breath, centering myself.

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, motherfucker.

The fatigue was starting to affect his movements, noticeably. He was at an almost pitiful disadvantage, on paper - especially with the self-imposed handicap of not hitting back - but like a bullfighter, I was still cautious. Mindful of his raw power. He'd still have it, even at the brink of exhaustion.

I have no idea what I'm doing.

Hell. If I couldn't even land a single tap, when he was practically handing it to me on a silver platter, how sad would that be?

Maybe that was the point of this whole exercise. He was just finding another way to put me in my place.

That's not it, and you know it's not.#p#分页标题#e#

I pushed the thoughts aside. It didn't matter. I could speculate for hours on his true motivations, on whether I could take him at face value, the way Beckett assured me I could. Right now, my most important task was to hit him. Just once, at least.

Moving forward, slowly but steadily, I made just enough sudden movements to keep him busy, to keep him distracted, and with any luck he'd be too tired to notice that I wasn't really trying to connect. I was just backing him into the corner.

In retrospect, I'd never know if he was letting me do it. The suspicion was there, planted in the corner of my mind, but did it really matter? At best, I was outsmarting a man who was physically and mentally exhausted.

A moment later, I saw my opening, and I took it.

Lashing forward, I landed a light connection on his torso, unprotected for a moment by his arm. He jumped backwards, laughing, and I realized I didn't want to stop.

I lunged towards him, looking for another opening, so that he had to hold up his arms to shield his body.

"All right, all right!" he shouted, finally, dodging away from me. "You've had your chance. This isn't a fair fight."

"Maybe not," I said, continuing my pursuit. "But it was your idea."

Either I really had the best of him, in this moment - maybe just because he didn't expect it - or he was letting me. Either way, I was intoxicated, and I couldn't help it. I had to take full advantage.

For a moment, just a moment, he left his face unprotected.

I lashed out. I lashed out, and I connected, right in his stupid, yammering, extremely strong jaw.

To my utter shock, he actually stumbled back, losing his balance and having to catch himself against the ropes. I felt some kind of twisted bloodlust coursing through my veins. Or maybe it was just regular lust.

I couldn't be sure, anymore, with him.

"Good God," he said, dragging himself back to his feet. "Well, do you feel better now?"

"Absolutely," I said, watching him stretch his jaw experimentally. "How about you?"

He just smiled. Something between us had changed - and I felt it, almost palpable in the air, but I couldn't quite explain what it was.