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"Keep your back straight," he instructed, his voice more command than concern.
"Any straighter and I'd be a fucking board," I grit my teeth as I pushed through another set.
His hand brushed against mine and a spark shot up my arm.
Hello, sexual tension, my old friend.
I wasn't sure if it was the workout or the proximity to Mr. Broody that was making me sweat more.
"Focus, Averill," Kylo sounded annoyed, but his eyes screamed of a different kind of frustration.
We moved onto endurance training, which involved a lot of panting and Kylo shouting something about pushing limits. My body was on fire, and not entirely from the exertion. Every brush of skin, each shared breath, it was like dancing on the edge of a knife—exciting, dangerous, inevitable.
"Doing okay?" he asked after a particularly grueling set and a bead of sweat trailed down his temple.
"Define 'okay,'" I panted, half-delirious with exhaustion and the sheer magnetism between us.
"Still alive," he replied with a smirk that could start wars—or end them.
"Then by those standards, I'm fucking fantastic."
Training with Kylo was a battle of wills—his determination to push me, my stubbornness to prove him wrong, and the unspoken desire that simmered beneath the surface.
“Take five," Kylo said eventually, his voice softer now. He handed me a towel and his fingers lingered on mine for a second longer than they needed to.
"Only five?" I wiped the sweat from my brow. "You're going easy on me."
"Trust me, I'm not," he said, and I wondered if he meant the training or whatever this tortured dance we were doing was.
After Kylo's relentless regimen, I was already drenched in sweat and my muscles screamed for mercy. But Ansel—Captain Planet with his save-the-day complex—was just gearing up to take me through another round of hell.
"Ready to switch gears?" Ansel asked and rolled out a padded mat with a thud that echoed in the huge training room. "We're going to work on your close combat skills."
"Because being a human punching bag is exactly what I need after Kylo's torture fest," I muttered under my breath and stepped onto the mat with legs that felt like jelly.
Ansel didn't miss a beat. "You'll thank me when you can take down a guy twice your size."
"Or when I kick your ass for making me do this," my smirk was more playful than venomous.
He demonstrated a series of moves—blocks, strikes, evasions. I tried to copy him, but my limbs were clumsy attempts at shadowing his fluid motions.
He corrected my stance. "Imagine your opponent, anticipate their next move."
"Hard to imagine an enemy when all I see is you," I locked eyes with him. “Unless you’re volunteering?”
"Perhaps I am," the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.
"Then bring it, Lake," I challenged.
Our close combat training quickly escalated into something more, a dance of bodies and emotions. With each move, I felt the tension between us building.
As we moved together, his hands guided me. He was close, too close, his warmth radiating against my skin. I could feel every muscle in his body as he effortlessly pinned me down, his breath hot against my ear as he whispered instructions.
"Focus," he said as he released me and stepped back with a smirk on his lips.
My mind was anything but focused. All I could think about was the heat between us, the way our bodies moved in perfect synchronization. It was exhilarating and dangerous all at once.
Ansel's voice broke through my thoughts. "You're getting better," he said with approval.
