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I look forward to his visits more than I care to admit for other reasons. He’s teaching me other things, like how to fight, punch, kick, and throw. If Maison knows about it, he doesn’t say anything—not that Maison and I have done much talking. Our making up has lasted a full week, and we’re always touching each other. With the weight of our secrets finally off our shoulders, we can just exist and be together. He barely lets me out of his sight, but the boys are planning another big hunt—which makes my stomach clench.

The thought of them both leaving me has me thinking all the darkest thoughts. I need them to take me with them.

Today I have a surprise for Micah. As I hide from behind the tree line, I angle myself so I can have full access to the rocky shore. I’m hoping he falls for my trick. My heart races when I see him, and he stalks toward the beach with his head down. He arrived, just as I predicted, and once he realizes I’m not there, he turns his head from side to side.

Ha.

I creep down to the next rock while his back is turned. The soft waves of the water lapping against the rocks hide my sound and the wind hides my scent.

He looks right at me, but I’m already well hidden again, and I can still see him. His expression hardens, then a half smile forms on his lips. I have to suppress the swell of pride I get when he reacts like that.

That smile… Micah never smiles.

He takes a couple of calculated steps in the other direction, his body rigid and ready, wearing his hockey sweater. He doesn’t know where I am, but he now knows I’m coming for him.

I creep down to the shore, getting much closer, timing the breeze perfectly as I crunch over the rocks. I duck beneath a boulder just as his head turns.

“London, London, London,” his voice is barely more than a whisper, but it carries right to me. When his head turns away from me, I pounce. He blocks my punch, but I surprise him for once. I kick him, connecting right in his gut and jump at him, in a full offensive attack, using all the moves he showed me the past week.

He pushes me back, then turns and faces me with his eyebrows arched. He likes this game as much as I do. I keep pushing at him, and we spar for a few minutes. He let’s me punch and kick him, only blocking my hits enough so I don’t hurt him, not that I really could.

I lean into my last punch, targeting his face, and just as I expect, he blocks my hit. My other hand ready, I whip my spear around and shove it into his side, digging in just enough to let him know I won.

I grin. “I got you, Micah.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. He grabs my wrist and the spear out of my hand, twists me around onto the ground, and presses his body on top of mine. My hands in his iron grip above my head while he props himself up with his other hand.

Fuck, he’s strong and fast.

“No, you don’t,” he grumbles as he takes in my now heaving chest, glistening with sweat. Only a loose tank top between us, and my nipples are now hard under my shirt.

He pauses, his hand still holding my wrists as I lay beneath him, waiting for him to do something else as I catch my breath.

He’s so close to me, I feel his heartbeat, and it seems to match my own.

Why isn’t he letting go?

His eyes trail up to my neck, my lips. His expression is unreadable, hidden behind what I know is a wall of emotions waiting to break free. His lips are just one inch from mine, and a week ago, I would have pushed him off. With him following me to the plane and keeping his hands off me, all I can think about now is his hands on me.

I shift my hips as his erection pulses on top of my inner thigh. I can barely resist grabbing it. He’s incredibly turned-on right now, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I am, too. He shifts his hips to meet mine, and instead of tensing like I should, I relax, just as I did when he carried me, broken from the plane, and as I did that same night when it was the two of us.

He’s not touched me since, except for sparring. I close my eyes and open my hips so he can dip further into me, waiting for him to kiss me—wanting him to kiss me. His body is like fire on top of mine.

Fuck. What am I doing?

He needs to get off me.

He lets go of my hands and I let them drift to the hard lines of his back. When he doesn’t kiss me, I dare to open my eyes, and a flicker of hesitation rolls over his face.

Or perhaps it’s pain.

He always looks so sad, and I remember what Naomi was doing to him—her mouth wrapped around him, his face contorted with pleasure as she sucked him off. I want to experience making him feel that way—to pleasure him with my mouth. The only time I haven’t seen pain in his eyes was when his hands were inside me on this rock, or when he was looking at me when he was with Naomi.

The silence between us feels painfully long. Eventually, he grazes his fingers over my lips, and a surge of electricity runs through my body.

“Micah,” I whisper. Without thinking, I wrap my teeth around his fingers and tease him with my tongue. A silent invitation for him to do more. His body is crackling above me, so alive. He keeps his fingers steady for a moment before his eyes flicker, and he pulls them away, pressing himself up and peering down at me. I sit up, leaning back on my wrists, and I swallow a pit in my throat.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.