“Not a princess, either.” With a mock offended growl, I jab outward, catching him in the stomach—and then wince at the ache radiating up my forearm. His abdomen is like a ridged slab of steel. Before I can recover, Roshan grabs my extended arm and pulls me past him. I stumble, immediately off-kilter.
He grins at my disgruntled expression. “So, as I was saying about stance, you want to make sure your weight is on both feet so that you’re centered but you still have mobility. Stay on the ball of your back foot so you’re ready to move. That way, if I pull you off-balance like that, you can recover or stay upright. Turn your body side-on. Less surface area to defend. Not bad. Here, like this.”
Squinting critically at my position, Roshan steps over to me, his hands falling to my waist and deftly modifying my stance. A burst of warmth blooms beneath his hands, and I set my jaw, trying to think of anything at all but Roshan’s nearness or his strong, long-fingered hands gripping my hips with purpose. Heat unravels in my core at the pressure of his palms.
“Are we going to fight or do boxing charades all day?” I grit out as he crouches to shift my ankle and then adjust my lower leg, a light graze on the inside of my knee nearly scrambling my brain.
“Fighting stance is important.”
“I work in a tavern. You think I don’t know how to stop some overzealous customer from getting too friendly after a few pints? Especially when I’m carrying a tray of glasses?”
An eyebrow launches. “Good then, champ, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Champ?I scowl, stifling my unholy glee at the chance of payback and cracking that princely poise of his. “Pretend I’ve served you some ale and try to grab my ass.”
“What?No.” Roshan’s jaw drops. “Do your customers actually do that?”
Biting back my laughter at his expression, I nod. “Some drunk ones try to but usually fail. Seriously, let me prove it to you.”
“Not a chance.”
Wickedly enjoying myself at his royal expense, I shoot him a look. “It’s just hypothetical.Pretendto reach out.”
After a moment, Roshan obeys half-heartedly, the backs of his knuckles grazing the flare of my hip, and I grab him by the little finger, pressing it backward until he bellows a foul curse and drops to his knees with a yelp.
“You scream like a toddler,” I tell him. “Now yield.”
“I yield!” he bursts out, cradling his bruised finger. “And I’ll have you know that I scream like a man. That was a verymanlyscream you heard. Anyway, where’d you learn that?”
“A little trick my aunt taught me,” I say. “Fingers are the easiest things to break, and that maneuver can deter the largest, most aggressive person.”
Roshan stands. His face is still flushed, but a smile is threatening to break through nearly two decades of ingrained royal etiquette as his sense of humor kicks in. “You have a mean streak, Sura.”
I stare at him, my chest suddenly tight. “That’s what my best friend, Laleh, calls me.”
His face falls. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be familiar—”
“No, it’s all right. You just took me by surprise.” I smile, pleasure bursting through me at the sound of my nickname on his lips. “Plus, we’re way beyond formality now, don’t you think? I mean, you did try to cop a feel.”
His jaw slackens. “You told me to!”
I purse my lips in fake disapproval and stare down the length of my nose, mimicking Queen Morvarid’s superior, arrogant expression. “You know, Prince Roshan, the palace floggers may need tohave a chat with you on the decorum expected of a royal. We do not conduct our splendid selves thus. After all, this is a—”
With a devious grin, Roshan darts toward me. I sidestep him easily, twisting to face him as he comes head-on once more in the small space. Adrenaline shoots through me. I watch his hips, not his face, and at the last second, when he shifts to the right, I mirror the movement. Grabbing his arm to pull him hard, I pivot my body into his, simultaneously thrusting my hips back into his thighs and hauling with all my might on his shoulder. The forward momentum makes him pitch forward, and I straighten my legs. Roshan goes over and down like a sack of potatoes.
His incredulous expression will stay with me until the end of time.
Panting, I throw him a victorious look. “How’s that,champ? Impressed yet?”
“Not bad,” he agrees, and then with a roguish grin, he yanks on my hand, still latched to his forearm. Tumbling forward, I go sprawling right on top of him. With a swift roll, he flips us both over so his body is covering mine and effectively pinning me to the floor with his much heavier weight. “Rule two: always release your opponent and get as far away as you can.” His voice is husky, feathering over my face. “Finish what you start. And don’t gloat—that’s just asking for trouble.”
Instantly breathless, I can only stare up at him, my heart pounding a wild tempo as he stares down at me with amused golden-brown eyes.
“What are you going to do now?” he teases me, and pushes up onto his elbows. “You’re at my mercy.”
Butterflies wreak havoc in my gut, undermining my ability to think, as a slow, insistent burn spreads through me like thickened molasses at the press of his hips on the tops of my thighs. Stars on fire, he’s right there... and I can feel every hard inch of him. My nipples tighten beneath my shirt, and I resist the urge to widen my knees and roll my pelvis up against his, letting him know exactly what I want.
Him.
