Page 95 of Bitter Truths

But every sound he makes—his breathing, the quiet grunt of effort—sends heat pooling low in my belly. When he moves to the bench press, lying back and gripping the bar, my eyes trace the lines of his body like they have a mind of their own.

The weight moves up and down in a steady rhythm, his chest rising and falling beneath it. A thin sheen of sweat starts to glisten on his skin, and I find myself matching my breathing to his without conscious thought.

This is extremely pathetic. I’m supposed to be a trained fighter, not some horny little omega panting over a shirtless alpha.

But my body doesn’t care about any of that. It recognizes him on a level that bypasses all logic and all self-preservation. Every cell screams that he’s mine, has always been mine, and clearly, I’ve been starving for him all this time.

I attack the bag harder, hoping the physical exertion will clear my head. Instead, I become hyperaware of his presence behind me—the sound of weights clicking against metal, the rustle of fabric as he moves.

“Your form is incredible,” he says, and his voice is closer than before. Dangerously close.

I turn to find him standing just a few feet away, drinking water from a bottle. A droplet escapes, trailing down his throat to his chest, and my throat goes tight watching its path. The urge to follow that trail with my tongue hits me so hard I have to grip the bag to stay upright.

“Thanks. Lots of practice,” I say, though my voice wavers.

His eyes darken as they follow the movement of my throat when I swallow. “Show me what else you learned while you were away.”

The words are innocent enough, but the way he says them—low and rough—makes them feel like a dare.

Which reminds me… there’s a good chance Owen is going to combust when he figures out someone else has touched me.

“Like what?”

“Want to spar?” His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before meeting my eyes again.

My pulse kicks into overdrive. The space between us feels charged, electric. I don’t know if this is the best idea…

But…

“Okay.”

He moves to the mat area, and I follow like I’m under a spell. This is supposed to be about training, about working off aggression. It has nothing to do with the way his muscles move or how badly I want to touch him.

Keep telling yourself that.

We circle each other on the mat, and immediately I know I’m in trouble. Every movement he makes sends heat spiraling through me. When he feints left and I counter, our bodies brush for just a second—enough to make my breath catch and my skin burn where we touched.

“Come on, Princess,” he pushes, his voice dropping to that register that makes my knees weak. “Show me what you’ve got.”

I lunge forward, going for a takedown. He’s faster than I expected, catching my wrist and using my momentum against me. But I adapt quickly, hooking my leg behind his and sending us both tumbling to the mat.

I end up on top of him, straddling his waist with my hands pinned to his chest. The position awakens my core like a lightning bolt—it’s extremely intimate, the air between us is charged, and I’m where my body has been wanting to be for… too many years.

His chest rises and falls rapidly beneath my palms. I can feel his heartbeat, fast and erratic, matching mine. The black sweatpants do nothing to hide his body’s reaction to our position, and my clit tingles with anticipation.

“Bianca.” My name sounds rough on his lips, like a prayer and a curse combined.

I should move. I should get off him and brush it off. Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn by the magnetic pull that’s always existed between us.

He sees the movement, and his hands come up to grip my hips, holding me in place. Not pulling me closer, not pushing me away. Just anchoring me there while we stare at each other.

I bite my lower lip. “This isn’t smart.”

“I know.”

“We’re playing with fire.”

“I know.” His thumbs trace small circles against my hip bones through the fabric of my leggings, and I bite back a whimper. “But you’re not moving.”