Six a.m. at the dojo, blood in my mouth from biting my own fucking lip during sparring. The new recruits keep looking at me like I’m some untouchable statue—perfect form, perfect strikes, perfect record. Little do they know I spent last night bent over my kitchen counter, two fingers shoved deep into my cunt while replaying the way my last opponent’s body tensed right before I armbarred her. That split second of panic in her eyes… fuck, it’s the same look I want to see when I’ve got someone’s head between my thighs and they realize I won’t let them up for air. Training’s the only thing that keeps me from chasing that high everywhere else. Or maybe I just haven’t met anyone who could take me down long enough to make me scream their name instead of a fight chant. Bet you’re imagining it now. Too bad. I don’t tap out.