Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down: Making Him Sweat / Taking Him Down. Meg Maguire

the kitchen, he eyed her for a moment before announcing, “I’m gonna head downstairs for a little while.”

      “If I don’t see you before I go to bed, good night.”

      He nodded, filled a water bottle from the sink and left, dead bolt snapping behind him. Jenna released a held breath.

      She should have gone to bed at ten. By eleven, surely. Yet when quarter to midnight rolled around, she was still watching TV, barely taking in the program. She wasn’t preoccupied by party to-dos, either. Her list was exactly one item long. Hire assistant. No, it was still Mercer, keeping her distracted, her feelings for him pacing low in her belly, a restless, reckless awareness.

      But at twelve-thirty, curiosity became concern. Mercer’s “little while” was now pushing three hours, and the gym was long closed for the night.

      She grabbed her keys, slid into flip-flops and went down to the first floor. The office was dark, but the stairs to the gym were lit.

      She heard Mercer before she saw him, the thump of his fist and the hiss of his sharp breaths. The space felt huge in the darkness, its smell mysterious, heady and foreign as a jungle.

      Only the lights illuminating the row of heavy bags along one wall were switched on. Mercer was dressed in shorts, barefoot and shirtless, gloves on his hands. The bulbs cast him in harsh, dramatic shadows, his shoulders shining with sweat. The bag was suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain, and it jangled with every kick and punch, every knee and elbow he whacked it with. He danced from foot to foot, lost in his own world, in his imaginary battle.

      Jenna’s legs went wobbly, heat pooling in traitorous places. This man didn’t waste any of the physical gifts humans were born with, every muscle honed and disciplined and punished, day after day, until he made violence look like art. That this workout was likely inspired by the angst she’d roused in him dampened her pleasure.

      After another minute’s assault, Mercer paused to grab a bottle of water from the mat beside him. Jenna approached.

      When he set the bottle down, she caught his eye and he started. “Jesus, don’t sneak up on me when I’m wearing these.” He held up his gloved hands.

      “Sorry. What are you doing?”

      “What’s it look like?”

      “If I had to guess, you’re working off how annoyed you must be at me.”

      He blinked, looking more startled than when he’d spotted her.

      “We can talk about it, if you want. But maybe this is how you prefer to—”

      “I’m not angry at you.” He looked troubled. “I’m definitely not down here wailing on something because I wish I could wail on you.”

      “No, I didn’t think that.”

      “I’m trying to wear myself out.”

      “Oh. Okay.”

      Three times he opened his mouth, poised to say something, only to close it again.

      “What?”

      He shook his head. “It’ll sound like flirting and you’ll chew me out again, so forget it.”

      “No, what?”

      He huffed a breath through his nose. “I’m down here wearing myself out, so the second I put my head on the pillow I’ll be unconscious. ’Cause if I don’t, my brain’s gonna be full of thoughts that probably violate some mental restraining order you didn’t tell me about.”

      Jenna’s turn to start. For a split second her mind supplied a vision of such a thing, of Mercer succumbing to fantasies about whatever inappropriate things he felt she was denying them. She shoved the image away. His body was dangerous and distracting enough, here in reality. No good could come of hypothesizing about the few bits of him she’d yet to lay her eyes—or hands—on.

      With a huff, Mercer sat cross-legged on the mat. He ripped the Velcro straps from his wrists and tugged off his gloves. His hands were wrapped in white tape, and he ran them over his head, blowing out a heavy breath.

      Jenna sat a few paces away, hugging her knees.

      “Maybe I should just move out now,” Mercer said.

      “To where?”

      “I dunno. Sublet somewhere, cash in a favor and crash on somebody’s couch till I find a place I can afford. It was nice of you to let me stay, but that was before we knew we’re…”

      “Allergic to each other?” It earned her a grudging smile.

      “I know you think this is simple for me,” he said. “Like I think sex is as incidental as a movie we might watch together. I wish it was. But you’re my mentor’s daughter. And the woman who turned up here prepared to end my life as I know it.”

      Unsure what to say to that, she kept her mouth shut.

      “I dunno what the hell to make of you, Jenna. My body has plans for yours—plans I can usually take or leave, because sex doesn’t come first for me, believe it or not. My responsibilities do, and you’re the worst possible woman I could let myself get distracted by.”

      “I’m sure.” She was spacey, lost in what he’d said about his body having plans for hers. She felt strangely honored to be singled out, maybe targeted, curious beyond belief.

      “What I joked with you about in the kitchen was bullshit. This isn’t simple to me at all.”

      Not sure how to process what he was telling her, she looked to his legs, to the red smear streaked along one shin. “You’re bleeding.”

      He glanced down. “Oh, right. I’ve got no feeling left there anymore. No decent kickboxer does.”

      She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met. Why don’t you come upstairs and get cleaned up?”

      A monstrous sigh. “Yeah, fine. I can barely move now, so my work here’s probably done.”

      Jenna stood and offered him a hand. He clasped it in his wrapped one and she helped haul him to his feet. The cotton tape felt exotic against her palm, his hand big and scarred and fascinating as always. Allergic indeed.

      She was ready to take her hand back, but he held it in his grip, his eyes on hers. “Why’d you come down here, anyway?”

      “To see if you were okay.”

      “I really seemed like that much of a mess?”

      She nodded.

      “Better work on my game face.”

      He dropped his gaze and her hand, then wandered to grab his water bottle and shirt, slipped flip-flops on his feet. She tried and failed to keep her eyes off his bare chest and stomach and arms, that body looking as reckless as the urges it inspired in her. But they were in firm agreement on one fact—hooking up was a terrible idea. It nearly disappointed her. If Mercer had kept that door open on his end, she just might have let herself be yanked inside.

      He hit the lights and locked up, and they trudged up the two flights and down the hall to the apartment.

      She shut the door behind them and it felt as if something ought to be said. An apology tendered, or even a joke to lighten the heavy atmosphere.

      “That’s a really nerdy sweater,” Mercer said.

      She laughed, relieved by his levity but pretending offense. She looked down at her argyle cardigan. “It’s librarian chic.”

      Neither spoke for a moment, though she knew he was struggling for the next quip, same as her. Words came, but not ones she’d expected.

      “I don’t want you to move out. I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you have to move out sooner than we’d discussed.”

      “It might make everything