Then she’s gone, gathering up her stuff by the entrance and heading out the door.
Leaving us alone.
My gaze wanders up to the skylight, where night has started to fall—the sun’s trying so desperately to hold on again, but she’s overruled by dusky shadows sweeping over the clouds.
“Shall we go again?” Henry asks me.
“Let’s do it,” I say, going to stand in front of him once more.
I place my hand on his chest, just like I’ve done a million times at this point. Only now that we’ve had a break in the rhythm—a pause—it somehow doesn’t feel like something I’ve done a million times. And I swear I can feel his heartbeat speed up through the T-shirt that’s now clinging to him in sweaty patches.
“So,” Henry says, “I’m getting pretty good, huh?”
I meet his teasing gaze. “You’re getting passable. At one move.”
“And now I’m ready for more,” he says, reaching out to grasp my arm. “You heard Sensei Mary—apparently I’m a fast learner.”
“She was being polite,” I say, as he twists around, putting me in the baby koala position. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Hmm, I dunno,” Henry says, his voice way too amused. “Sounds like you’re worried about holding on to your top spot here.”
“Never,” I insist. “I’m never letting that go, especially not to a beginner. This is all kids’ stuff, you’re not ready for the real thing yet.”
“You better watch out,” he counters. “Soon we’ll be sparring for real.”
I want to retort, but suddenly I’m pressed up against his back again and he isn’t flipping me yet—he’s just kind of holding me there. I feel the heat of his skin through his shirt—so much warmer now that we’ve been drilling for so long. See the sweat beading his neck, drifting under his collar. His shirt is definitely clinging more to his biceps, his broad shoulders, and I’m so freaking close, I can’t help but stare, my mouth going dry . . .
“What, nothing to say to that?” Henry says.
Then he does flip me. Only this time, I’m so fixated on his shirt and his heat and his stupid biceps that I’m momentarily caught off guard. I let out a loud yelp as I fly through the air, my sense of gravity disrupted, and then I’m landing flat on my back on the mat. I manage to brace myself just in time, but I still wince upon impact.
“Oh, shit,” Henry says. “Shit. Rika, are you okay?”
“Fine,” I manage, my breathing uneven. “I wasn’t paying close enough attention.”
Still grasping my arm, he leans down, frowning as he studies my face. “What . . . were you paying attention to?”
I really don’t want to answer with “Your biceps, obviously,” so I take advantage of his weakened position, ground myself firmly on the mat, and yank hard on his arm.
“Wha—” A look of utter surprise crosses his face as he goes tumbling down.
He lands on top of me, but because I’m ready, I use the momentum of his fall to flip us, so he’s flat on his back and I’m straddling him at the waist. Kind of like the first time we met, only I’m not all tangled up in my cumbersome yukata. He gazes up at me, dazed, his hair sticking out in all different directions.
“And that,” I say triumphantly, “is why you’re definitely not ready to spar with me for real. You let your guard down and easily gave me the upper hand. And now . . .” I gesture expansively to myself and the dojo. “Winner. Undisputed number one champion of the Little Tokyo Dojo!”
He’s still staring at me with that dazed look, like he’s barely hearing anything I’m saying.
“Hey,” I say. “Henry.”
I flop forward and plant my hands on either side of his head, getting all up in his face.
“Are you okay? Are you listening to me?” I say.
He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at me in that weird, wide-eyed way. Almost like he’s seeing me for the first time.
I am suddenly very aware of our breathing again—it’s so loud, syncing up and echoing off the high ceiling of the dojo. And we’re pressed up against each other once more, even closer than we were in the alley.
He reaches up, his fingertips grazing my cheek.
What would the nure-onna do in this moment? Probably kick him away, snarling and hissing. That . . . should be my instinct right now. That’s what I would normally do.
But I don’t do that. I do . . . well, the opposite.
I close those teeny, tiny millimeters of space between us and press my lips to his. He sighs, like he was waiting for it, and pulls me closer.
His hands run through my hair, down my back, finally landing on my waist. He shifts his weight and flips us in one fluid motion, so now he’s on top.
“Now who’s the judo champion?” he says between kisses, a little growl in his voice.
“This . . . is . . . not . . . judo!” I manage.
His mouth moves lower, trailing kisses to the delicate hollow between my neck and collarbone. He dedicates an amazing amount of focus to that spot, grazing it with his tongue, his teeth. Brushing the collar of my T-shirt aside so he can pay even more attention. That spot feels like it’s on fire, the blaze radiating outward to consume my whole body.
I close my eyes and sink into that feeling. I want to touch him more, to slide my hands under his shirt and feel the muscles rippling over his back. But I can only manage to desperately cling to him, like he’s some kind of life preserver.
And I still don’t want to push him away. I want to fall into him, get swept up in the sensations crashing over me. I feel like the nure-onna again, but a nure-onna who’s free to be unleashed, wild. Not afraid of her temper destroying everything around her.
When he kisses me, it feels like I can be that. It feels like I’m . . . safe.
Like he’s standing behind me for the trust exercise, telling me he’ll catch
