His arm muscles ripple as he braces himself above me, his prop sword pressed to my throat. We’re both breathless, huffing and puffing in sync.
If anyone saw us like this, they wouldn’t think we were just running lines. They’d assume exactly what any person would assume seeing a shirtless man on top of a woman in the woods.
Goodness.
Heat pools low in my stomach as the weight of him hovers just above me. If I arched my back, I’d feel him against my thigh. If I leaned in just a little more, I’d finally know what he tastes like.
His hand steadies my shoulder, his fingers firm. The damp forest floor grows thick; my body feels like vines are going to pull me down into the earth. “By the saints…” he whispers, and shivers zoom down my spine. “You’re a woman?”
“Your observational skills are remarkable, Sheriff.”
Kiss him,that bad-girl voice in my head sings.You know you want to.
No! I can’t. Because if I do…well, so many things could go wrong. What if he wants to stop training me? Though I doubt that. Dante would probably start giving me very different kinds of lessons if we kissed. The scarier fear blooms to mind—what ifhe leaks whatever this thing between us is to the press and tries to take over my moment like Ricky did?
And last, but certainly not least, what if I kiss him and like it?What if I want to do it again? And again?
I blink, pulling myself together, and say, “You didn’t mess up any of your lines. I’m so proud of you.”
“And your choreography and delivery are perfect,” he huffs out, making his abs tense where his stomach meets mine. “We must be excellent teachers, Professor Sinclair.”
“Maybe I won’t need you for much longer.”
“Ah, I take that back. Your footwork is a mess, and that fall? Never seen anything worse.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, the sound turning into a shriek as his fingers find my sides and tickle mercilessly. My sports bra rides up; more of his skin rubs against me.
Then neither of us says anything.
I have over six feet of Olympic-trained muscle holding my five-foot-four body in place. His thigh shifts, nestling into my core, one hand cradling my head against soft pine needles. My core is hot, coiled, and tight. He can tell. I’m certain he can, because he’s looking at me likethat. I glance away.
“Love it when you resist what you want.”
“Resist?”
“Maybe you like the pain as much as I do. My little masochist.”
I swallow, my heart beating so loud I swear the earth is vibrating beneath me. “Is that what you are?”
“When it comes to you, I think so. But the way I like to play,” he says, thumb ghosting across my jawline. A shiver runs through me at his touch. “The control. Release. The space between wanting and having.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means learning to trust. Ropes. Blindfolds. The kind of surrender that strips everything away until there’s nothing left but pure sensation.” I can’t suppress the small gasp that escapes my lips. “The kind that changes you.”
“I—” The last three years of my life have been a desert of self-imposed celibacy and late-night dates with my trusty bedside companion. But something about Dante has awakened a creature inside me, one that purrs and stretches and demands attention.
“Imagination running wild?”
“Just a little bit.” I laugh, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Though I’m about as far from a masochist as they come. I mean, I can barely handle a paper cut, let alone…” I trail off and let my finger trace one of the intricate designs on his neck, suddenly hyperaware that my acting lessons have abandoned me entirely, leaving me with nothing but my increasingly unhelpful hormones.
“My tattoos?” he asks, mercifully saving me from my awkward rambling. “You like them?”
“They’re beautiful,” I manage. “Must have hurt, though.”
He rolls off me, and I immediately miss his warmth, a small frown tugging at my lips. But then he’s reaching down, his strong hands gripping mine as he effortlessly pulls me to my feet.
He takes a moment to brush leaves from my hair and clothes with gentleness. Handing me my Berg bottle.
