His entire wing locks.
The membrane goes rigid, the bone spurs freezing in place.
He stumbles slightly, his balance thrown off by the sudden immobilization.
And I'mright there.
Pressed against his side, my hands on his body, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
His amber eyes meet mine.
Molten gold.
Burning.
"Again," he says.
So we do it again.
And again.
And again.
We move across the training floor, our bodies colliding, separating, colliding again.
I strike.
He blocks.
I pivot.
He counters.
It's brutal.
Exhausting.
And absolutely, devastatingly intimate.
Because every time I touch him, every time my hands find those pressure points, every time our bodies slam together on the mats, the line between tactical and sexual blurs a little more.
His skin is burning hot now.
His amber veins flaring so bright they cast shadows across the glass walls.
My hands are slick with sweat.
My thighs are trembling from the repeated exertion.
And I can't stop.
Can't pull back.
Can't do anything except keep moving, keep striking, keep pushing him harder.
"Enough," he says finally.
His voice is rough.
