“This is just practice,” I remind them. “I want to show you what you’re capable of. He has thirteen inches on me and about eighty pounds.”
“Of muscle,” Tristan murmurs, and I shoot him a look.
We crouch.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he taunts. “You want to touch me, Bailey? You don’t need an excuse for that.”
I lunge, fast and low, dropping my shoulder and ramming him in the stomach. The breath leaves his body before he’s even on the ground. He falls onto his back and locks his thighs around my waist before I can straddle him.
His eyes spark with something unholy.
I sneak a foot under him and twist my torso for leverage, break his hold, and flip us. His stomach pushes against my thighs.
“Not so cocky now, are you?” I growl.
His gaze skates over my face before he laughs breathlessly. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
We’re a mess of clawing hands and straining limbs until I finally twist him onto his stomach and wrench an arm behind his back. We’re both panting.
The girls clap.
“Give up,” I whisper in his ear. His smoke and pine scent is in my nose, and every muscle in his torso strains against me. I’m reminded of how deliciously warm he was against me last night. How he caged me with his arms and how small and safe I felt.
“Tristan.”
“Not a chance in hell,” he says huskily.
“Then apologize for insulting me.”
He laughs and goes limp under me before he turns his cheek to the mat, and I catch the lift of his lips, the slow sweep of his lashes.
“That wasn’t an insult,” he murmurs. “And I like this too much to stop.”
The words send heat spiraling in my stomach. It sounds like Tristan is flirting with me.No.That can’t be it. He’s just naturally charming.
I leap off him. He takes a second before he rises, and when he does, his eyes simmer with something I can’t name. He passes a hand over his face before he turns back to the girls and sketches a bow.
“Who wants to practice?”
All the hands in the room go up.
Thirty minuteslater we’re winded and lying on the mats. Catering dropped off breakfast for us, and the girls are tucking in to breakfast tacos and orange juice like it will evaporate at any moment.
“Teenagers.” Emory grins broadly at me.
I thought they’d ignore us because we’re deeply uncool adults, but instead, they’re circled around us like we’re the center of the world.
Tristan sits next to Sasha, who is permanently pink from his presence.
“What’s your favorite subject?” he asks, his head cocked slightly toward hers. I’ve seen him adopt this pose with Sienna when she’s in a bad mood. It reminds me of what cats do when they feign disinterest at the times they are most intent.
She avoids his gaze. “Chemistry,” she says quietly. “Math is my second favorite.”
“You do that experiment with the soda bottle and the Mentos yet?”
“Yeah, likeyearsago.” Her tone communicates how lame he is for asking.
