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“I don’t just work out when I’m frustrated. I spar.”
“Like some kind of warrior in a fantasy book?” I can’t help laughing.
“Exactly like that.” He walks over to a wall and picks up a gigantic stick that’s taller than him.
I hide more laughter behind my hand. Who fucking spars these days? “You want me to fight you? With sticks? Like we’re pre-teen boys?”
“I want to teach you to defend yourself.”
Some of the worry I’ve felt about potentially being kidnapped for a ransom returns, making me shift from foot to foot. “Is someone still after me?”
“There’s been no new whispers. I’m not really worried. But it’s never a bad idea to learn some self defense. We can take it slow.”
“And you think that’s the place to start?” I nod towardthe stick in his hands with a half-smile.
“No. I just thought you might enjoy beating something with a stick.” He’s grinning as he holds out the smooth piece of wood and motions at the heavy punching bag in the corner. “We can do some self-defense training tomorrow. Right now, I just want you to work off some aggression so you don’t give me another heart attack with your scream therapy or whatever the fuck that was.”
I take it from him. “I don’t hate this idea.”
Going over to the punching bag, I wind the stick back like a baseball bat and let loose. It barely moves. Cyrus chuckles, which just makes me irritated, so I hit the bag again, throwing all my strength into it. All I manage to do is lose my footing and almost fall on my ass. Cyrus is full-on laughing now.
“All right, hotshot,” I say. “Stop laughing and teach me how to use this fucking thing.” I toss him the stick.
He catches it with ease while striding toward me. “Step back.”
I cross my arms and move to the edge of the mat, watching him. One moment he’s still and the next he’s a blur of movement. Graceful, controlled movement. Movement that has me feeling hot and sweaty without having done much of anything.
“Show off,” I snark.
He crooks a finger in a come-hither motion. My belly erupts with a fluttery feeling of anticipation. I cross over to him, and he gives me back the stick, positioning himself behind me. Close behind me.
“Soften your knees.” For the briefest second, his knees tap the back of mine, and my legs buckle. His hands come to my hips. “Relax,” he whispers as he gently, but firmly, uses his hands to guide me to twist forward and back. The little motion is stiff at first, and then, as I lean into his touch, it becomes more fluid.
“Like that,” he says, voice just a touch breathless. “Just like that.”
He doesn’t let go. His hands tighten. He moves closer. With his chest against my back, his thighs bracket mine. His hips grind. The hard length of him presses into me, and I arch my back just enough to push my ass against it.
His breath hisses, a response that gives me far too much pleasure. So I do it again. He groans and drops his head to my shoulder, muttering a curse.
I place one hand over his on my hip and slowly guide his hand across my belly, up to my breast.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he groans.
There’s something illicit in the way his words come out, barelyabove a breath, strangled like he’s fighting against every syllable. He’s not pulling away like he would have before our kiss yesterday, but he’s also not making any effort to take over or take things further. It doesn’t make sense. We’re both consenting adults, alone, clearly attracted to each other.
There’s a moment where he puts enough space between us that I think he’s going to back up and withdraw yet again, but instead he spins me, pushing me back against the giant punching bag. His hand slips under my shirt. Skin on skin, a jolt of electricity. My head drops back, and he kisses a path up my neck, muttering my name over and over, like he’s trying to convince himself I’m real.
Teeth skim my neck, his hand reaching up under my bra. “Fuck, Finley, your tits feel so good. And your nipples… so tight and hard. Are you wet for me, too?”
“Stop messing around and find out.”
In one smooth motion, he kicks my legs out from under me, catching me before I fall, and slowly lowering me to the mat. He pushes up my blouse and bra at the same time, not bothering to take them all the way off before his mouth is on me, tongue circling my nipple, then sucking it, hard and hungry.
Each draw on my breast is like an arrow shooting arousal straight down my spine to my core. So good, but not nearlyenough. I buck my hips against his. He moves to my other breast, evening out the sensation, but not giving me what I want.
“I thought you were going to find out if I’m wet,” I tease between moans. “Touch me, Cyrus.”
His gaze flicks to the window, almost… nervous? As if someone could see us from so many floors up. I try to draw his attention back to me, but he stands. A spike of anger hits me like a gavel. “I thought we were done with this cat-and-mouse thing.”
