Free Eighty Days Amber by Vina Jackson Page A

martial arts school on West 27th Street where I knew that he trained when he was in New York, keeping his body fit and his muscles taut, a habit that I in no way planned to discourage, as I would not date a man who allowed himself to get fat like his friend Lev.
    Besides my dancing, I had never had any need or desire to take any formal exercise. Saw all that sweatiness as somehow ungainly and unnecessary; as once I had dropped my adolescent puppy fat, I had always been naturally slim. Even my daily breakfast at the patisserie – a pain au chocolat or choux Chantilly and frothy coffee – had not added a pound to my trim frame.
    Chey led me through the reception area, tapping in his membership card and signing me in the guestbook as I surveyed my surroundings, the scent of dried sweat and damp towels, the few men and occasional woman in cheap and dishevelled exercise wear, and wondered how he thought that this might improve my dancing.
    We passed an acquaintance of Chey’s, who was wearingonly a pair of brightly coloured satin shorts and protective straps on his hands, mock-fighting himself in the mirror and I stifled a laugh as he preened when we walked by. He and Chey locked eyes in a gesture of recognition, and then the other man ducked his head, like a dog in a pack that knows he’s just been cowed.
    I was pleased to find that in Chey’s company, no one ogled me; no one stared or seemed to find my presence unusual. I felt as though I stuck out here as much as I had when I first appeared on a stage, but Chey’s naturally confident bearing and slightly fierce expression seemed to deflect the attention from me, which was nice for a change. I didn’t like to be peered at unless I had explicitly granted the viewer permission, as I did when I was dancing.
    He demonstrated some stretches, and basic movements. Muay Thai, he called it, and I found to my surprise that my dancer’s body was naturally suited to the exercises. My legs and abdomen were strong, and my balance practised, so that when we moved onto the bags, I could kick and strike with ease and surprising power.
    Next, he showed me a variety of basic hand-to-hand combat techniques, fitted pads onto his hands, and invited me to hit him, while he ducked and blocked to avoid me.
    He was obviously allowing me to land most of my strikes successfully, and holding back his own strength to avoid hurting me, but even though I knew he was letting me win, I found myself revelling in the familiar stretch of my muscles, the dance with Chey as opponent instead of lover, the impact of my body on his body, the way that he looked as he dived and side-stepped to avoid a blow from my elbow or foot, the glow on his face as a slight sheen of sweat began to gather, highlighting further the definition of his muscles.
    I paused momentarily to catch my breath and he leaned forward and kissed me, biting my bottom lip so hard that I nearly cried out in shock.
    ‘You should have blocked,’ he teased. ‘You weren’t paying attention.’
    ‘I saw that coming from a mile off,’ I insisted. ‘Just didn’t want to stop you . . .’
    He lifted me straight off the ground and I wrapped my thighs around his waist, trapping him into a leggy embrace as he walked us over to the wall and pressed my back against the mirror.
    ‘But the door’s open. Someone will see . . .’ I whispered, knowing that I didn’t really want him to stop. Pressed between Chey and the smooth, cold mirror I felt my arousal growing. We were in one of the smaller studios, which held mats for stretching and a couple of punching bags, adjacent to a larger room that sported a full-size fighting ring, several bags attached to rings in the ceiling and a weight-lifting area.
    ‘I don’t care if they do,’ he replied, lifting up my vest top and displaying my breasts, nipples already erect, to anyone who chose that particular moment to enter the space. ‘Besides, no one will disturb us. I made sure of that.’
    I wondered