She leans forward, her arms arcing gracefully, extending to the side in a seated hamstring stretch. A sliver of skin flashes at her waist, teasing me before she pulls herself deeper into the stretch.
Fuuuck.
My cock hardens at the perfect sight.
Decidedly unprofessional. What would Reese think?
My phone vibrates insistently, notifications from the cabin party crowd demanding attention. I silence it.
Teaching Reese Sinclair to fence is exactly what I need.
It’s the perfect credential to present at my disciplinary review.Look, I’ve changed so much that America’s darling actually hangs out with me.
And maybe she intrigues me. There’s an intensity to her that those polished interviews miss completely. I want to discover what other surprises she’s keeping under wraps.
“Different look,” I say, pushing through the door, allowing myself one lingering glance at how her oversized workout sweats make her somehow magnetic.
“I was not going to keep wearing that costume.”
“This is better,” I admit, holding up my hand. “I brought you a proper blade.”
She arches one perfect eyebrow. “Thought those were under lock and key.”
“I can be very persuasive when motivated,” I say, letting the steel sword dance between my fingers before extending it to her. I can’t resist showing off a little. Old habits. “And I may have a key to the armory.”
Our hands brush as she takes the sword, sending an unexpected spark of awareness through my fingers. Her pupils dilate. No matter how much she tries to remain professional, her small tells give her away—the quick, nervous sweep of her tongue over her bottom lip, the way she blinks a fraction too fast before glancing down.
“Of course you do.”
I grin, not concealing how eager I am to be here. I have nothing to hide from her that I don’t already keep hidden from everyone else.
We circle each other on the exercise mats. “Let’s start with the scene you need to nail for tomorrow,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Show me where you’re getting stuck.”
“You saw me on set today. Every time I try to use this thing, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to think, let alone look like a real thief.”
“Show me,” I repeat.
She doesn’t hesitate, launching into her monologue.
“They’ve underestimated me my whole life. While—the king—our king—” She takes an unsteady step forward, the sword wobbling in an awkward arc. Then she moves the blade through the air in front of her, hesitant. She bites her lip, her brow furrowed, too in her head. “See what I mean? This is impossible.”
“Not impossible. Go through the entire scene from the top. Don’t stop even if you fumble.”
Her gaze sharpens, like she’s deciding whether to listen or not. But then she drops the sword at my feet and strides across the room. Frustration flickers across her face as she tucks her hair behind her ear.
She begins her advance, but her footwork is wrong—leading with the back foot instead of the front. Her recovery to pick up the blade shows poor form—back curved, no power from her legs.
The misbehaved part of me itches to show her exactly how it’s done, slide behind her, press close, and guide those tense muscles through every motion. But I hold back, keep my hands in my pockets. She needs to move through this on her own, even if watching her struggle is delicious torture.
“Hey, Sheriff.” She points the sword at me and stumbles with the choreography, hacking stiffly at the imaginary soldiers surrounding us.
Her stance is all wrong, her core disengaged.
“They’ve underestimated me my whole life. While our king eats his feasts—” She’s supposed to be moving, fighting off the sheriff’s soldiers.
Instead, she’s planted like a statue.
What the fuck has Nick been doing?Probably too busy ogling her.
