Thank god he's talking to the kids. It takes me a minute to switch my focus from how solid he is to his low voice.
"…take a step forward."
I realize he's talking to me. I do what he says and feel his body weight shift to me.
"Kick him in the crunchies!" one of the kids cries.
"Crunchies?" I echo. Realizing what he means, I start to laugh.
"Not the best position to try that," Captain Mathis says, amused. "What else can she do?"
"Elbow!" someone says.
"Okay. Try to move your elbow."
I wriggle and pull, but he's got my arms pinned solidly against me.
"So that won't work. What next?" he asks.
"Stomp on his foot!"
"Try it," he tells me.
I do.
The kids clap.
Eventually, he gives the steps for how to get free. Not that I'll remember them. I'm a little too … aware of him to recall anything. But for the next hour, his hands don't leave my body. He's more patient than I expect, walking the kids through scenarios over and over until they get it. As strong and detail oriented as he is, he's also gentle with me, positioning my body and shifting me around with absolutely none of the awkwardness that I feel.
In fact, I'd say he doesn't notice me any more than he would one of his men.
When the hour training is up, he moves away from me. My body is humming with uncomfortable warmth that makes me wish I had the guts to wear a t-shirt instead of a long sleeved shirt. I haven't worn anything but long sleeves out in public since I was thirteen, after the kids at school made fun of my scars.
The kids are being sent on a run around the pit once more. Captain Mathis watches them, hands on hips.
"This isn't boot camp," I remind him. I want to fan myself but know better than to give him any sort of sign I'm attracted to him.
"You'll thank me when they're in bed at eight while the other teams are up past midnight," he replies. "They'll be easier to manage throughout the day this way."
"Are we going to start every day this way?" I ask.
He glances at me then back. "If learning self-defense keeps you from biting my head off, we might."
I glare at him.
"Though, I wonder if you were so quiet because you wanted to learn how to take me out?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Maybe." There's no way in hell I'd ever admit to him the real reason: that I was distracted by his body too much to say anything. "You are a half-decent instructor." Hoping mind reading isn't something he learned in the Marines, I follow the kids with my gaze, my face warm.