“And then…we practice.”
I swallow hard, the protest dying in my throat as the air thickens between us, charged enough to crackle.
“We practice?” My heart is pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.
He steps back slightly, granting me enough space to breathe, but his eyes hold me pinned. “Giving up control.”
My eyes widen, lips parting, though the words stay stuck. The truth is, part of me—as terrifying as it is—wants to know exactly how that feels.
I clear my throat, forcing my focus back to the session. “Let’s move on. Hip rotations. Hold the stretch.”
He complies, but his eyes stay locked on me, fire flickering behind them.
“You’re tight here,” I say, pressing at his side.
His mouth curves, and he mutters, loud enough for me to hear, “Not the only thing tight right now.”
My head snaps up. I shoot him a glare, but he only smirks. I turn away before he can see the flush creeping up my neck.
“Let’s work on stability,” I say, stepping back, trying to reclaim the upper hand. “I’ll show you something different.”
His brow ticks up, amused. “You gonna try to take me down, Trouble? You want to roll Jiu Jitsu?”
“That’s not what I had in mind,” I shoot back, arching a brow. Then, with bite, “But I could absolutely take you down.”
“Is that so?”
Instead of arguing, he steps in and lets his eyes sweep over me. Not a casual glance. A slow, deliberate inventory. Hair, throat, shoulders…lingering at the lines of my scrubs. His gaze drags over my hips, my legs, back up again, taking his time.
My pulse spikes for all the wrong reasons.
“What do you weigh, Trouble?” The question is low, almost conversational, but the way his voice curls around it makes it anything but harmless.
“Coming in hot, Magic Man,” I snap, ignoring the heat climbing my neck. “No one ever tell you it’s bad form to ask a lady her age and weight?”
He doesn’t even blink. Just that faint, infuriating smirk. “You’re heavier than you look—it’s all packed muscle from what I can tell. Hundred forty? Fifty?” A quick final look, then he pins me. “I’m up by eighty, Trouble. Still game?”
The brat dig still stings, and his spot-on weight call only adds salt. “Try me.”
His gaze catches fire. “You’re on.”
He drops into a crouch, playful and cocky. It’s only a game. Even though it feels anything but.
I move before he can blink—drop low, hook behind his knee, drive my weight into his center of gravity. I feel the moment his balance falters, the tiny hitch of surprise in his breath. He still thinks I’m that scrawny fourteen-year-old he used to pin in the sand.
And now he doesn’t anymore.
One sharp shift of my hips, and he’s flat on his back, eyes wide, breath knocked shallow. I’m straddling him, my knee pressing into the solid plane of his chest, my palms planted on top. Heat radiates between us—his and mine—filling the space faster than either of us can name it.
I grin down at him, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing how hard my pulse is kicking.
“Tap, Magic Man.”
For a beat, he just stares up at me—chest rising hard under my palm, darkness bleeding into his eyes. Then, slow and reluctant, his fingers tap the mat.
“Not bad.” His voice is rough, gravel and smoke. “You’ve built some strength since we last played.”
“You underestimated me,” I shoot back, though my pulse is thundering so hard, it’s all I hear.
