Page 30 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

His torso on display, he stalked toward her.

Blinking, she stepped back, and then, as if coming to her senses, she dropped into her too-low stance. One fist protected her chin as her other fist shot toward him, gauging her distance.

Using her shorter stature to her advantage, she moved close, making it difficult for him to extend fully, thus depriving his jab of force. Not that it mattered because he had no intention of unleashing his power on her.

His gaze glued to hers, he countered by stepping out of her reach. Her left shoulder forward, her fist posed to strike, she moved right back into his space.

She jabbed once, hitting his jaw. Her ensuing left-right hooks served their main purpose. His obliques stung.

Her well-landed combination had the additional effect of making his blood pump wildly. This new sensation was both wonderful and confusing since he’d never been this excited after receiving a strike from another pugilist.

The lingering ache in his bones was proof that Josie put her hips behind her shots, making her lethal to any fighter her size. But eventually, she would face an opponent with faster footwork. And, currently, she stood across from a man three stone heavier and five inches taller.

Since he was preoccupied with his thoughts, she landed a double jab hook combo that hurt like hell.

“Throw a bloody punch,” she growled.

He pulled the weight from a jab, tapping her on the shoulder.

She straightened, looked down at her shoulder, and then glared at him. “You hit like an infant, Meddlesome.”

He grinned. “But watch my fancy footwork.”

“Float.” He moved forward and back and forward and back again. “Dance on air,” he chanted as he circled her.

“What the bloody friggin’ hell?” she said, not looking the least bit impressed.

Her eye-rolling and snorting did not deter him. He ducked and weaved around the harness room as she breathed hard and chased after him, proving five things:

One. She was struggling to keep up with his fast feet.

Two. Once she caught him, she would pound the shite out of him because…

Three. There was no way he was hitting her.

Four. Her breasts bouncing around beneath her chemise were as distracting as a squirrel in a sparkly tutu.

Five. He wanted to kiss the scowl from her lips more than he wanted his next breath.

Unlucky heir to a cursed earldom that he was, this was the most fun he’d had in ages. He beamed.

She growled.

Chuckling, he taunted her with an absurd jig, resplendent with a crescendoing heel click.

Resembling a bull, she bent low and charged. Her head and shoulder slammed him in the stomach. Since he was busy acting a fool, he didn’t have a chance to brace himself. He lost his balance, swaying backward.

She nailed him with a sharp punch to his breadbasket, then wrapped her arms around his waist. They both tumbled to the ground.

He landed flat on his back. She lay on top of him, her heaving breasts pressing against his bare chest, the end of her plait tickling his nose.

“Told ye so,” she said.

He couldn’t think with all of his blood pumping into his cock. “Told me what?” he somehow managed to ask.

She scoffed, her breathy derision blowing across his cheek. “Ye don’t have a strong base when ye are fluttering about like a dashed ballerina.”

“Floating. And I wasn’t in my fighting stance when you knocked me off-balance.” No, he was dancing a jig and laughing. Well, if truth be told, he was also drooling over her unbound breasts.