Put on a bra? Hands on her hips, she watched him attempt to keep a straight face, then she turned on her heel. “Not what I expected you to say.”

“What’s that?” he called.

“Nothing,” she muttered. Put on a bra. Hmph. Apparently their ideas about good ways to blow off steam differed. Clearly, she was way more affected by him than he was by her. And just as well. In her room, she slipped a bra on under her sleep shirt. Shouldn’t even be thinking of anything else while Charlie was missing. No matter that Nick made her feel more like a woman than any other man ever had. Selfish much, Bec? Guilt settled over her like a lead blanket.

From the moment she returned to the hall, Nick’s gaze was on her. Leaning against the front door, he watched her walk the straight line to him. And, damn, even though she was trying like hell to ignore it, he was sex on a freaking stick, his folded arms emphasizing the inked and stacked muscles of his biceps and shoulders, and leaving bare the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his now-buttoned jeans.

“All right, lay it on me. What kind of big surprise requires a bra at two o’clock in the morning?”

“This way,” he said, holding the door for her. He followed her out and gestured to the door opposite their apartment, where he entered a code into another electrical panel.

“What’s with all the keypads?” she asked.

“Secure. Easily changeable. Not easily picked.” A metallic click sounded and he stepped inside, into the yawning darkness. He reached to the wall, flipped some switches, and light illuminated a mostly unfinished, cavernous space. One they used as a gym, judging by the machines, free weights, and other equipment within.

But Becca couldn’t focus on the details of the huge space. Because all she could see was the magnificent expanse of Nick’s bare back.

Running almost the whole length of his spine, a dragon wrapped itself around a deadly black sword, hilt just below his neck, point at his lower back, ending near a mass of scars that traveled outward toward his hip and disappeared below the waistband of his jeans. The dragon’s wings spanned his shoulder blades, and the movement of his muscles made it appear alive, actually struggling to hold its perch on the steel. The red of the beast’s eyes looked out from the image, holding her gaze.

Surrounding his left shoulder, the tribal tattoo looped and jagged in a lighter shade of black than the dragon. A reach for something off a shelf revealed lines of writing on his rib cage beneath his right arm, but Becca couldn’t make out what they said.

Tattoos had never looked better than they did on this man. She was absofreakinglutely sure of it.

“Put these on.”

A pair of fat white boxing gloves fell into her hands. “We’re gonna box?”

He smirked. “Figured you’d enjoy taking a swing at me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What? I don’t want to—”

“Relax.” He grabbed a smaller pair of black gloves for himself and slid one on. They left the tips of his fingers exposed. With a smirk, he pointed. “We’ll use the heavy bag.”

Becca’s gaze cut across the room, where an oblong vinyl bag hung suspended from a beam. “Oh.” Actually, beating the crap out of something did sound like a good way to work off some nervous energy. “Cool.”

“Here. Let me help you with those.” He tucked one of her white gloves under his arm and held up the other. The padding that encased her hand was cool and stiff, and the Velcro band that secured it was tight around her wrist.

“These fit perfectly.”

They repeated the process with her other glove. “They’re Katherine’s. Figured they’d work for you.”

“Katherine boxes?”

Tugging his other glove on, he nodded. “Yeah. My sister is tiny, like five foot two. Before she left for college, I made sure she knew how to take care of herself. Now she’s hell on wheels.”

Becca smiled at the image of this apparently petite yet kick-ass woman, but also at the obvious affection in Nick’s voice. “You were a totally crazy overprotective big brother, weren’t you?”

“No more than necessary.”

She knocked her gloves together. “Ha. According to you or her?” His scowl made her laugh. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. I think I’d like to meet your sister.”

He crossed to the heavy bag. “I’m sure that would be tons of fun for me. You ever hit a bag like this before?”

Becca stopped a few feet away. “Er, no. You don’t just hit it?”

“Not if you don’t want to hurt yourself. Hit it wrong and you could sprain or break your wrist. Watch, and then I’ll walk you through it.” Nick stepped about an arm’s length away, his body at an angle to the black vinyl, right foot, hip, and shoulder back. He brought his arms up, elbows in tight and gloved fists in front of his chest. As he explained, he demonstrated in slow motion a few times, twisting his body into the fake punch. “Your goal is to make solid contact with the bag, not to push it or make it bounce. Like this.”

He unleashed a series of right punches, the muscles rippling under his skin. His movements were precise and efficient.

With a gloved hand, he stilled the bag and turned to her. “Now I’ll show you how to do a one-two punch, and then you’re up.”

“Okay,” she said, half of her eager to try, because smashing something right now would probably feel great, half of her perfectly content to grab a tub of popcorn and a drink and watch him as long as he wanted to do it.

He got back into position and demonstrated again. Using his full power, Nick attacked the bag. Smack-smack, smack-smack, smack-smack. Light on his bare feet, the dragon absolutely alive underneath his powerful movements, he hammered his punches into the firm surface for a full minute.

Becca picked her jaw up off the floor before he saw. But . . . just . . . wow. He was beautiful to watch, all controlled strength and purposeful movement.

He stilled the bag. “Your turn.”

She swallowed hard. No way she was going to look like that, but the idea of being able to direct her strength that way had her stepping up without reservation.

He moved behind her, and heat radiated off him. “Hold your arm out so you know how far away to stand. Good. Right foot back, hip and shoulder angled away.” Becca followed his instructions. “Okay, arms up.” His big hands fell on her shoulders and gently squeezed. A tingle of nerves and heat shot through her. “Relax your muscles. Only thing you want to keep tense is your wrist. No floppy wrists.”

“Okay. Floppy wrists bad. Got it.” She let her shoulders go loose under his grip.

“Good. Now, start out in slow motion so you can get the feel for the movements.” She twisted her body, bringing her arm out straight against the bag. He stepped in close to her extended arm. “If you weren’t wearing the glove, what part of your hand would be touching the bag right now?”

Becca concentrated on her position. “The middle knuckles of my fingers.”

He adjusted the angle downward. “You want to hit with the knuckles closest to your hand. Try again. Slow.” Becca did it a half dozen more times under his intense observation. “Good. That looks good.”

Despite the chilly air, warmth rolled over her skin. Since she really hadn’t exerted herself yet, it was hard to deny that he was the cause, his bare muscles and patient, encouraging words. “I want to hit it for real now.”

He stepped back. “Go for it. Just take your time.”

Staring at the bag, Becca released a deep breath. Her right fist shot out, made contact, and retracted. A wave of giddiness flashed through her. Position, breathe, punch. She did it three more times, then grinned at Nick.

Liquid heat filled his gaze. He nodded. “Good. Again.” Was she just imagining it, or did his voice sound deeper?

Her heart pounded in her chest. She threw four more punches, lifting a light sheen of sweat from her skin. “I don’t feel like I’m hitting it very hard, though.”

Nick moved to her right side. “Do it in slow-mo again. Just a right punch.”

She did.

His hand fell on her hip, stirring up a nest of butterflies in her stomach. “When you punch, make sure you’re involving your hip. The power is coming from your back foot. Let it move your body with the punch. Slow-mo again.” He pushed her hip further into the movement. “Now, do it.”

Concentrating, Becca threw a punch. She threw her gloved hands into the air. “That was harder.”

Nick nodded. “Again.”

Becca pounded the bag in slow repetitions. She’d have to figure out how to add this to her regular exercise routine, which mostly consisted of running a few miles around the park by her house. Because, damn, it felt good. The movements required her concentration, shutting out all the crap that had been bombarding her brain.

“I think you’re ready for more,” he said after a while. “Try the one-two.” For a moment, she shook out her arms, then got back into position. “Only small steps with your feet, and twist your body into the bag. Try it slow first.”

Demonstrating the one-two, she liked the way the fluid action made her body feel, especially when Nick stepped behind her and placed his hands on her hips, encouraging her to turn more into the punches. She shuddered, her mind conjuring all kinds of really distracting images. Him, gripping her hips from behind while he—

“Okay, give it a go.”

She blew out a breath. Heaving her mind out of the gutter, she directed the pressure cooker of her lust and anxiety at the vinyl and struck out. Left-right. Left-right. Left-right. “Feels . . . freaking . . . awesome,” she gritted in between punches. And it really did. She pictured Charlie’s apartment, thought of someone breaking into her house, recalled the precise moment she’d learned that her mom had died of an aneurysm when she’d been thirteen. And Scott of a totally mind-boggling overdose. And her father of an enemy attack. Smack-smack, smack-smack, smack-smack. Her fists pounded harder.

Sweat dripped down her face and her mind raced. Where the hell is Charlie? God, if somebody took him, hurt him . . . She punched faster. What else can I do? There’s got to be something. Why didn’t I listen to him? What if I never see him again? A moan echoed from somewhere, but all she wanted to think about was the amazing release pummeling the heavy bag brought.

“Becca. Becca, stop.” Hard arms banded around her upper body and hauled her back. “Becca, it’s all right.”

Without the exertion to distract herself, she came slamming back into her body. It wasn’t sweat alone that covered her face but tears as well. A sob worked up her throat. Nick turned her into his body, cradling her head against his chest as best he could with the thick gloves. “Sshh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

She shook her head and gulped down the jagged ball of emotion, afraid that if she started letting go, she might never stop. “I’m okay. I’m all right,” she rasped against his hard chest.

“I know,” he murmured against her hair.

Becca’s breathing hitched, and she sucked Nick’s masculine scent—all clean sweat and spicy soap and leather—down deep. After that, the rest of her senses came online in sequence. The feel of his hard chest against her cheek, warm and pulsing with life. The heady sight of his inked shoulder, bringing his arms around to hold her. The sound of his heart, picking up steam beneath her ear. That only left taste . . .

Out of nowhere, her emotions lurched in a new direction. Her tears dried up, but just the thought of acting on the urge to press her lips, her tongue to his skin had her body growing damp elsewhere. God, as wrong as it probably was, she had no doubt she could lose herself in him, that being with him would take away all the crap filling her head and weighing on her chest. Even if only for a little while.

Heart slamming against her breastbone, panting breaths falling against his pecs, she looked out over the edge of the responsible thing she should do and leapt. “I want to kiss you,” she whispered, the room spinning around her at the admission. If he hadn’t been holding her, she was sure she would’ve fallen.

On the outside, he didn’t seem to react, but their position gave him away. His chest rose and fell more quickly, his heartbeat thundered. The pressure of his growing cock nudged her belly.

The thrill of arousing him made her bold.

She pressed her lips to his chest, once, twice. On the third kiss, she let her tongue drag against his skin, drawing the salt of his sweat into her mouth. His taste—the very fact that this was happening—blew her mind, especially as his thick erection grew harder against her. Her hands yearned to clutch him, to feel every ridge and cut of muscle, but the gloves made it impossible.