Punching and Kissing by Helena Newbury

blue tank top and black sweatpants and he looked...amazing. The other guy was ripped and good looking in a filthy sort of a way. But Aedan was powerful on a different level—raw and primal. Dangerous. If the other guy was a wolf, Aedan was a lion. And he was staring at the other guy with a knowing glare and just a hint of... something.
    "Just saying hi," said the other guy, grinning. He looked between the two of us questioningly.
    "I'm training her," said Aedan. And there was something in the way he said it, something that made me frown inside. As if there was an unspoken message alongside it.
    "Oh," said the other guy, nodding as if message received. "Okay. No problem. Got it." And he gave Aedan an especially big grin.
    Aedan put an arm around my waist and led me away. "Don't mind Connor," he muttered. "The fecker just...flirts."
    "Was he? Did he?" For some reason, I was blushing. I was also trying not to react to the feel of Aedan's muscled arm caressing my waist with each step. I was re-running the conversation in my head. Had he just basically told Connor to back off?
    Was Aedan jealous?
    Aedan must have caught my confused look because he cleared his throat and shrugged. "He's just some wanker," he muttered. "Plays the guitar and thinks women all worship the ground he walks on. Flirts even now that he's attached.”
    I nodded to let him know I understood. But my mind was spinning. He was a little jealous. And, at the same time, I was trying to keep a straight face because I’d never heard anyone say wanker before.
    He led me over to a thick gym mat and slipped off his sneakers. It hit me just how big the size difference was between us. It wasn’t just his height—it was the width of his muscled shoulders and the presence of him. He looked like a statue made out of granite. I felt as if I was made out of matchsticks.
    This is ridiculous. I can’t learn how to fight. Look at me!
    But it was the only chance I had.
    I knelt to untie my sneakers. I'd settled, in the end, for gray sweatpants and a black Lycra top over a sports bra. As I knelt there, I became aware of something. A sort of hot, tingling wave lashing across the tops of my breasts. A feeling that soaked down into me and finished between my thighs.
    I didn't have to look up to know he was staring down at me. It only lasted a second. When I glanced up, he was looking off towards the far end of the gym. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I was just transferring all my feelings onto him.
    I couldn't take my eyes off his shoulders. Under the hooded top, they'd looked big. Now, though, exposed by the tank top, they were huge—powerful and solid, and the way his arms narrowed and then flared again into thick biceps and sculpted forearms... wow. I'd been expecting him, somehow, to be covered in tattoos—a lot of fighters were. But I couldn't see one anywhere. The only mark on him was that jagged, twisting maze of scars down one side of his neck. I could see it better, in the daylight, and the viciousness of it made my chest ache. Someone had not just stabbed him but twisted and gouged and— Jesus. What would drive someone to do that to him?
    It didn’t make him ugly—not in my eyes. It made me want to kiss him, there, press my lips along every hardened scar. If my kisses couldn’t heal him, they could at least show him that it didn’t matter.
    That isn’t going to happen. Going by his gruff manner, this was going to be all business, even if he had been a little jealous when he saw Connor talking to me.
    That knowledge didn’t stop me looking, though. It couldn’t—his body was too damn addictive, harder and more solidly real than any guy I’d seen. His strong chest narrowed to a trim waist, giving him that gorgeous X shape between shoulder and thigh. Big thighs, too. Powerful. And between them— I jerked my eyes upward and found myself looking right into his. He'd been staring down at me again, just as my eyes had strayed towards his cock. I didn't know which of