“That’s all I need.”
“We’ll see.” He positions himself behind me.
Behind me. As in, directly behind me. As in, close enough that his chest brushes my back when he breathes.
Every nerve in my body lights up.
“Your grip is wrong.” His hands close over mine on the sword hilt. Large. Warm. Completely enveloping. “Too tight. You’ll exhaust yourself in minutes.”
His voice is low, rough, barely more than a rumble against my ear. His breath stirs my hair. His heat seeps through my clothes, spreading across my back, my shoulders, everywhere we almost touch.
“Relax your fingers.” He adjusts my hold, his thumbs pressing into the backs of my hands. “Firm but flexible. The blade should feel like an extension of your arm.”
Focus. You’re supposed to be learning.
Easier said than done. His proximity is making it impossible to concentrate on anything except the solid wall of muscle behind me and the way his hands dwarf mine.
“Balance comes from your core.” His palm flattens against my stomach—just for a second, just to demonstrate—and heat shoots straight to my core. “Not your arms. Power from here.”
“Right.” My voice comes out strangled. “Core. Got it.”
“Your stance is too narrow.” His foot nudges mine, widening my base. “If I pushed you now, you’d fall.”
“Maybe don’t push me then.”
“Enemies won’t be so considerate.”
He guides me through the first movement—a basic slash that should be simple but feels impossibly complicated with his body pressed against my back. Every adjustment brings new contact. His thigh against mine. His arm brushing my arm. His chest solid and scorching through the thin fabric of my shirt.
He smells incredible. Smoke and pine and a darker, wilder edge that makes my pulse quicken and my breath catch.
“Your hips.” His hand settles there—brief, correcting. “Turn them toward the target. Power comes from rotation, not just your arms.”
I turn my hips, trying to focus on technique instead of the heat of his palm still burning through my shirt.
“Focus.” The word is a growl against my ear. “You’re leaning into me instead of the blade.”
“Hard to focus with you breathing down my neck.”
“Would you prefer I stand elsewhere?”
No. Absolutely not. Stay exactly where you are forever.
“I’d prefer you stop being smug about being good at everything.”
His mouth curves. I can feel it against my hair. “I’m not good at everything.”
“Name one thing.”
The pause stretches. His hands tighten on mine, just slightly.
“Staying away from you.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. Heavy. Loaded. Full of everything neither of us has said out loud.
I don’t respond. Don’t know how to respond. My heart thumps so hard, he must be able to feel it.
He steps back. Creates distance that feels like loss.
