Chapter 6: First punches
The bathroom door clicked open. Eva stepped back into the living room, the air shifting with her. She still wore the grey hoodie, zipped halfway up. Her hair was damp at the temples. She looked fresh, alert, like an athlete before a workout.
She stood on the black sheet, her feet bare, and looked at Peter on the couch. "Okay," she said, her voice all business. "Come here. We start simple."
He pushed himself up, his legs unsteady. He walked over, stopping just off the sheet.
"On it. With me," she said, nodding at the space in front of her.
He stepped onto the fabric. It felt like crossing a border.
"Hands first," she said. "You're going to punch my stomach. Through the hoodie. Start light. Just get the motion."
She planted her feet shoulder-width apart, her knees slightly bent. She took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly, hollowing her stomach. The soft cotton of the hoodie tightened across the rigid landscape beneath.
Peter stared. His fist clenched at his side.
"Peter." Her tone snapped his eyes to hers. "Now. A tap."
He lifted his right hand, made a loose fist, and pushed it forward. It tapped against her midsection with a soft thump. It felt like knocking on a door.
"Again. A little more."
He did it again, putting a fraction more of his shoulder into it. The impact was slightly louder.
"Good. That's nothing. You're thinking about it. Stop thinking. Just do it." Her eyes were locked on his, unwavering. "I'll tell you when it's something. Right now, you're just warming me up."
He punched again, harder. The sound was a dull, solid thud. He felt the resistance, the absolute lack of yield.
"Better," she said, her breath steady. "Again. In a rhythm. Three more like that."
Thud. Thud. Thud. Each one sent a jolt up his arm. Each one was met with utter stillness from her. Her gaze never wavered. She was assessing him, reading the fear and the fascination in his eyes.
"Okay, now," she said, her voice lower. "Give me a real one. Don't wind up. Just from the shoulder. Fast."
He tightened his fist, pulled it back a few inches, and snapped it forward. It landed with a sharper, denser crack of sound.
A flicker crossed her face—not pain, but recognition. A slight, pleased narrowing of her eyes. "Yes. That's a start. Again."
He hit her again. And again. He found a tempo. The impacts filled the quiet room, a percussive, intimate beat. The hoodie fabric whispered with each strike. He could see the force travel through her core, a subtle ripple of immense stability absorbing it.
He was breathing harder than she was. A thin line of sweat traced his spine. The tight coil of arousal in his gut was winding tighter with every blow. He was doing it. The fantasy was sound, and force, and her standing there taking it.
"Harder," she said, interrupting his rhythm.
He paused, his fist hovering.
"You're holding back. I can feel you braking at the last second. Don't." She patted her stomach. "This is designed for it. Give me your weight."
He set his feet, twisted his hips this time, and drove his fist into her.
WHUMP.
The air left her lungs in a controlled, grunting sigh. "Hah! Yes. Like that. Again."
He hit her again, same force. She absorbed it, her body rocking back a centimeter before settling.
"Good," she breathed, a smile playing on her lips. "Now you're talking to it." Her hands came up and grasped the bottom of her hoodie. "Keep going."
In one smooth motion, she pulled the hoodie up and over her head, tossing it aside onto the couch. She stood before him in just a black sports bra and matching leggings.
The visual was almost too much. Her torso was a masterpiece of dedicated anatomy. Every muscle was cut, defined, a map of power and endurance. The skin over her abs was faintly flushed from the pounding it had just received through the fabric.
"Don't stop," she commanded, seeing him freeze. "Look at it. Then hit it."
His eyes drank in the sight—the deep central groove, the crosswise indentations of her muscle bellies, the defined v-line leading down. He raised his fist. It felt different now, nakedly violent and infinitely more personal.
He punched.
The sound was crisper, a clean, meaty thock. His knuckles met the incredible density of her. He felt the heat of her skin, the slight give of flesh over the impossible solidity beneath.
"Damn," she whispered, looking down at the point of impact. A reddened blotch was already forming on her pale skin. "Again. Same spot."
He did. Thock. The red blotch deepened.
Eva let out a long, satisfied hum. "That's the feeling. That deep ache. Feed it."
He was lost in it now. The fear was gone, burned away by a rising, frantic heat. He punched again, and again, alternating sides of her stomach. The sounds were brutal and real. Her skin bloomed with red marks. She began to breathe deeper, her rock-solid abdomen tensing and releasing with each impact, actively meeting his force.
He was painfully hard, every punch felt like a direct current to his groin. She saw it. Her eyes, dark now with focus, flicked down to his jeans and back to his face.
"Good," she grunted, taking a sharp one just below her ribs. Her voice was a little ragged, but steady. "You're a natural. Now you see what I can take."
She reached out, surprisingly fast, and placed his left hand flat on the center of her abs. Her skin was burning hot. "Feel that," she said, her own hand covering his, pressing it down. "It's alive. It's singing. That's from you."
Under his palm, he could feel a profound, rhythmic trembling—the agitation of deeply stressed muscle, the aftermath of the blows. It was like touching the engine of a car that had been driven hard.
She smiled then, a wide, genuine, hungry smile. "Just wait until you get your feet on me."