He steps inside without a word. No sound but the soft click of the door closing behind him. The room feels smaller instantly, the space between breaths heavier.
He’s in a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled once to the forearm, the top buttons undone. No tie. Just dark slacks and that quiet confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself. His hair’s slicked back, clean, the kind of effortless that takes effort.
He looks like sin dressed for a meeting.
Dima doesn’t need instruction. He nods once, wipes his hands on a towel, and steps aside.
“You’ve got her.”
Anton’s gaze doesn’t leave me as he walks forward. Every step measured, silent. The closer he gets, the more I can smell him—warm, expensive cologne with something darker underneath. Smoke. Leather. Heat.
I should look away, but I don’t.
He stops in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. He’s taller than I remember, or maybe I’m just more aware of it now. The air between us feels heavier, warmer.
“Again,” he says.
My throat’s dry. “You mean with you?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Who else?”
He steps closer, until the edge of his shirt brushes my forearm as he adjusts my grip. His fingers are cool against my skin, guiding, firm but not harsh.
“Your elbow,” he murmurs. “Tuck it in. You leave it open, they take you down in seconds.”
His breath ghosts over the side of my neck, hot against the chill of sweat. It’s not even a touch, but my body reacts like it is—muscles tightening, pulse jumping in places I don’t control.
Calm down. Calm down. Calm— Jesus, he’s literally teaching, not seducing. Get a grip, body.
I swallow hard, the sound loud in my own ears. Didn’t even realize I’d been holding it there, that knot in my throat. His eyes catch mine, steady, unreadable.
I do what he says.
He moves around me—slow, deliberate. Every adjustment is a touch: the shift of my wrist, the curve of my shoulder, his palm pressing briefly between my shoulder blades to straighten my posture. Each correction lights a spark where his skin meets mine.
He steps back, finally, eyes holding mine. “Better,” he says.
Before I can relax, he shifts—weight low, steps in fast.
“Show me what you’ve got.”
It’s pure reflex. His hand comes for my wrist, but I pivot before I think, drop my weight, twist out of his grip the way Dima drilled into me. I fake a stumble, bait him forward, then drive my knee up—not hard, just enough to make him flinch.
It works. His eyes flick down, his balance shifts, and for one ridiculous second, I’m the one in control.
Then he reverses it—hand snapping to my waist, pulling me flush against him, my back to his chest. The move is clean, efficient. He’s not even breathing hard.
I am.
“Not bad,” he murmurs, voice low against my ear. “You made me adjust.”
So I didn’t win. But I made him react. And from Anton, that feels like a trophy.
I twist in his hold, half-hearted, just enough to create space between us.
“So what? You’re proud of your little student now?”
He doesn’t answer, only studies me—eyes sharp, mouth unreadable. Then he lets go. I stumble a step back, breath still ragged.
