Tina Beckett - New York City Docs

He waited for Marcos to leave the ring and for the rhythm instruments to again pick up that hypnotic beat. All the other participants had run their matches just as they’d been programmed, entering and exiting the ring like seasoned pros.

And he and Tessa—the last match on the exhibition agenda—were gumming up the works.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” She yanked down the hem of her closefitting tank top, her skin gleaming.

This time Clay executed a series of moves that actually had Tessa swerving and doing some tricky maneuvers of her own to avoid him getting too close.

This was more like it. For three minutes they continued like that, the match feeling much more even all of a sudden.

She arched into a backbend and flipped out of it like an expert.

Of course it felt even. Because she was letting him gain the upper hand. Just as Marcos had suggested.

Time and time again she kicked and bowed and spun. Back. Away from him.

“Dammit, Tessa, you’re not even trying.”

She swept by him with another grin. “Because someone told me to keep it going.”

Perfect. She didn’t have to admit to it.

He pushed harder. Entering her space and then exiting it, his leg barely missing her head as he swept past. But Tessa was good at what she did, able to calculate down to the last centimeter how much room she needed to give him in order not to get hit. Because, as Marcos had said, the goal wasn’t to make contact but to show off techniques and the unique dance style, the give and take that went on in the ring. Clay had never seen anything like it in his life. And the real capoeira experts were as ripped and fit as athletes in any other sport. The timing was what made it what it was. Because in some ways it was harder to go at each other knowing you weren’t supposed to strike them, but to sweep past, and over, and under, with barely any room to spare. That took skill and an ability to read your opponent. Something Tessa seemed built to do.

And she could read him.

He only hoped that some of his secrets stayed hidden, even from the great Tessa Camara.

Like how turned on he got by watching her arms and legs move with the grace and strength of a ballerina.

At least when he wasn’t the one fighting her. And even now it was only his concentration that kept him from thinking too hard about her body and how absolutely flexible it was. In more ways than just training in capoeira.

Something hit the small of his back, and he lurched forward. Damn. He hadn’t even seen that coming. And just like that he was once again on the defensive. Because Tessa had evidently decided enough time had gone by that she could really start fighting. And no way could he look down at his watch to see if the requisite fifteen minutes had passed. It probably had, though, because she would be keeping that internal clock ticking, despite gliding around the ring in time with the beat of the instruments.

His left knee gave way so fast that he thought he’d stepped the wrong way. He hadn’t. Tessa had just stepped the right way. Down he went. For the second time that day.

Tessa once again stood over him, her exercise tank molding to her chest with each breath she took. “Sorry, Clay. You weren’t concentrating.”

No kidding.

Marcos clapped his hands. “This is enough for tonight,” he said, his Brazilian accent a little thicker than it had been at the start of the evening. “Much better, Tessa.”

Oh, yeah? And what about him?

As if reading his thoughts, the other man said. “You will improve next time.”

Clay, from his spot on the mat, couldn’t help but chuckle. This was the same old Marcos. Never pampering his students but giving it to them straight, without being ugly. But his attempt at encouragement said it all. He would improve. He needed to improve. And the director would accept nothing less.

Hell, he’d missed this whole scene. More than he wanted to admit.

Tessa reached down to help him up. He started to ignore her hand but something made him grip her palm, making sure to give a quick jerk as he stood so that she was momentarily thrown against him. He stepped back. “Sorry, Tessa. That’s what happens when I forget to concentrate.”

Her face flashed with color immediately because he’d used those same words in more than just a capoeira session. He’d used them once when he’d been so carried away with how she’d made him feel that he’d lost control, coming in a rush before she’d climaxed.

He’d made it up to her minutes later, though, until her eyes had squeezed shut with her own orgasm.

And Clay had said those very words to explain what had happened.

She’d liked it. Liked that she could make him forget everything but what was happening.

Releasing her hand, he gave her a knowing smile. “Shall we call it even?”

Before she could say anything, Marcos was telling the group that he’d made plans for them all to go out to a bar a couple of blocks away to celebrate their first official practice session for the exhibition.

Clay could feign being tired and needing to go home and rest before work the next day, or say that Molly was waiting for him, but she was with his parents. Besides, he wanted to go. He’d missed the camaraderie of this group and how they always seemed to start their sessions as friends and leave the same way, no matter what went on in the ring. Maybe because they left any hard feelings inside that circle. Or maybe because most of them were Brazilian, lapsing into their own language at times. And they always made him feel like an insider—as part of them. Clay had learned bits and pieces of Portuguese during his time with Tessa, especially since her folks spoke it at home—although they’d always made an effort to speak English whenever he’d been around.

In the excited rush of voices that followed Marcos’s announcement he glanced at Tessa and saw a shadow of indecision in her eyes. “Come on, Tess. You owe me a drink or two for the way you manhandled me.”

Her brows went up. “Manhandled? I went easy on you.”

Had she? A shadow passed through his head. Maybe she had tonight, but four years ago? Not a chance. And that should be what he concentrated on, not the memory of those times they’d shared in the ring… and in bed.

If only he could convince his body to cooperate.

He shook his head to rid it of that thought.

Today was a new day. And they could very well go out and enjoy a drink together, dammit, without him turning it into a huge friggin’ deal.

The group headed to the locker rooms to change back into street clothes. Since Tessa was the only woman in the room, she went to Marcos’s office.

Something about how close she and the studio owner seemed to be struck him for the first time.

He looked at Marcos with new eyes. Were they seeing each other outside these sessions? The man wasn’t married, and he certainly seemed to have a soft spot for Tessa, having used the diminutive form of her name quite a bit today. He couldn’t remember if Marcos had done that in the past.

But he was in his late forties.

And that meant what, exactly? Tessa was thirty. Not exactly a May to December romance.

A shard of what could have been jealousy went through him, except it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He and Tessa had been over for a long time. He’d married another woman and had fathered a child, for heaven’s sake. He saw how that had turned out. Failure on a spectacular level. So whatever was going on between Tessa and her trainer was none of his business.

She kissed you.

The inner voice rumbled in his head, reminding him that either he was wrong about his speculation or their relationship was open enough that neither of them cared what the other did.