Just My Type(26)

“Just a reminder, I started recording right when we walked over here,” I tell Baker, pointing to the small, metal table a foot away from us, where I placed my phone next to a bowl filled with rolls of multicolored hand wraps and a few pairs of scissors. “Let’s keep this professional, buddy. There’s no telling what that transcriptionist will do. I hear she’s a wild card.”

Baker just shakes his head at me in amusement, bracing himself as I pull my arm back and let my fist fly against the heavy bag.

“My four-year-old niece hits harder than that. Did you forget to eat your Wheaties today?” Baker snorts from behind the bag.

I narrow my eyes at him, pulling my arm back again and throwing it forward as hard as I can.

“Stop. Please. You’re so scrappy and strong,” Baker says in a bored, monotone voice.

“Eat a dick,” I mutter. “I thought the whole point of this exercise was that you were going to show me how it’s done, so I can get a little insight on what you do here and we can talk about it for the interview.”

Baker drops his arms from around the bag and moves out from behind it.

“You want me to show you how it’s done?” he asks.

“That is the point of me being here,” I reply sarcastically.

He grins at me and closes the distance between us. All of a sudden, I know exactly what it’s like to watch the devil walking toward you. This man has got sin in his eyes, and he wants to bring me over to the dark side.

Baker once again stands right in front of me, grabbing one of my wrapped hands and pulling it up between us.

“There are lots of ways to make a fist, but this is the easiest one that will prevent you from breaking anything in your hand. Start with curling your fingers into your palm then wrapping your thumb around the first knuckle of your ring finger,” he tells me, speaking in a low voice as he helps me position my hand the right way, doing the same with my other fist.

When both of my hands are back up in front of my face in the correct way, he nods and then slowly walks around me. Baker’s chest brushes against my arm as he goes until he’s standing behind me. I have to remember how to breathe when leans his body in closer to me, his chest pressing right up against my back. He places his palm on the side of my bare shoulder, slowly dragging it down the length of my arm until he can wrap his hand around my bent elbow. He does the same thing with my other arm until his muscular ones are practically wrapped completely around me as he helps me hold my fists up in front of me.

“When you’re getting ready to throw a punch,” he starts explaining again, “your forearms need to stay vertical, with your elbows tucked into the side of your body.”

With his hands still wrapped around my elbows, he brings them in closer until they’re pressed into my sides. I swallow thickly as he trails his hands off my elbows, down my sides, and rests them on my hips.

“Are you a righty or a lefty?” Baker asks, bending his head down and speaking right against my ear.

“Yes.”

I curse under my breath when I not only hear him chuckle, I feel the rumble of it through his chest and against my back.

“Shut up. Righty. And can we speed this skill class up a little? You’re wasting precious interview time.”

Dragging in some much needed air, I let it out slowly and remind myself Baker is my boss, he’s just an annoying hot, douchebag jock, and this is a job. I am at work. It’s definitely not professional to orgasm at work. With your boss. Whose hands are still pressed against your hips.

I really shouldn’t have spent the last year and a half not having sex.

“Almost finished. Just one last thing,” Baker says, his right hand moving from my hip and his palm sliding a few inches down and around until it’s resting on my upper thigh.

It takes a lot of willpower not to moan, but I power through like a goddamn professional.

With a little pressure from his hand, he forces my right leg to take a step back.

“Now that the leg of your dominant side is back at about a thirty-degree angle, just square your hips off toward the target.”

Both of his hands are back on my hips, and he angles my upper body more toward the heavy bag. When he drops his hands and I lose the heat of his body as he walks away from me, I really want to be relieved I have my personal space back. But I’m not. And that’s not good.

Baker gets back behind the bag and wraps his arms around it.

“All right, fire away,” he tells me with a nod.

I’m looking right at his stupid, dumb, hot face when I pull my arm back and smack it into the bag, hoping he can feel my wrath over how unprofessional he’s being, and how pissed I am that he’s not respecting my boundaries.

Except I’m not really mad about it. I’m turned on.

Boundaries? What boundaries? Take off your pants.

It shows how not mad I am about it when Baker doesn’t say anything as I pull my fist away from the bag and get back into position. He just raises one eyebrow in amusement when he looks at me. Because my punch sucked ass. And in no way showed him any kind of wrath.

“Good form, but you need more power behind that thing if you want to do any damage. Keep practicing,” he orders.

Choosing to be the bigger person for once, I keep my mouth shut and do what he says, hoping he’ll annoy me and my anger will build so I can beat the shit out of this bag. I’m sure it will be any minute now. Might as well finally get the ball rolling with this interview.