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The movement draws my eyes to her breasts. To her hard nipples that press against the thin fabric. I can’t tell if it’s the gym’s AC or something else. Either way, my cock notices and hardens as my gaze drops to the way her yoga pants do things to her ass that should be criminal.

“We’re fixing a problem,” I reply, stepping toward the heavy bag.

“What problem?” She crosses her arms, and the movement pushes her breasts together. Fuck.

“Your punch is pathetic,” I say, smirking.

Her jaw drops. “Really?” She arches an eyebrow. “Because I seem to remember that I left marks on you. Actual marks, Domenico.”

“There’s a difference between leaving a mark and landing a punch that means something.” I circle the bag, running my palm over the leather.

“I meant something when I hit you,” she volleys, and the flash in her eyes makes my palm twitch in anticipation of later.

Grinning, I shake my head. “Stand here.” I position her in front of the bag, close enough that her knuckles nearly brush the leather. “Your feet need to be shoulder-width apart. And move your dominant foot back.”

She shifts her weight. The yoga pants cling to every curve of her thighs, her ass, and my palm itches to grab her. I step behind her instead, close enough that my chest nearly touches her back.

“Like this?” She glances over her shoulder, and her hair brushes my jaw.

“No.” My hand closes around her wrist. Her pulse jumps against my fingers. “Fist tight. Thumb outside, not tucked under. You’ll break it that way.”

I adjust her hand, feeling the fine bones of her wrist, the heat of her skin. Then my other hand finds her hip, and I turn her slightly, angling her shoulder toward the bag.

“Drive from your hip, not your arm. The power comes from here.” My palm slides from her hip to the small of her back, pressing firmly. Her breath catches. “Turn your body into it. Don’t just throw your fist and hope.”

I step back.

“Give it a go.”

She throws a punch that lands with a dull thud, the bag barely moving.

“That’s worse than before.”

She glares at me. “You try being coordinated when someone’s standing behind you, breathing down your neck.”

Moving closer, I press my chest against her back, my thighs against the backs of hers. One hand circles her waist, the other takes her fist, reshaping it. “Now feel how your body moves when I do it.”

I drive her fist into the bag with my body behind hers. The impact travels through both of us, and she makes a small, surprised sound that I want to fucking swallow.

Fuck. I’m hard as a goddamn rock from the way her ass fits against me, from the heat of her skin. Or maybe it’s her goddamn fire I’m attracted to. No, it’s more than that.

Over the last three days, I’ve grown addicted to hearing her tell me what she wants instead of swallowing it because she thinks she doesn’t deserve to be heard.

Need is dangerous. More dangerous than possession, because possession is simple. If it’s mine, I keep it. Need is complicated. Need means I can’t function without it, and I’ve spent forty-five years making sure I don’t need anything I can’t control.

Too late for that.

“You’re not paying attention,” Kira says, pulling me back to the gym, to the bag, to her body pressed against mine.

“I’m paying perfect attention.” My hand slides from her waist to her stomach, feeling the muscles tense under my palm. “Try again.”

She throws another punch. The bag moves an inch.

“Better.” I don’t step back. “Again.”

She throws three in quick succession. Each one slightly better than the last, her body remembering what I showed her. By the fourth, she’s getting it—the rotation, the drive, the way her weight shifts from her back foot to her front.

And then she changes everything by looking over her shoulder with those hazel eyes and saying, “Am I doing okay, Daddy?”