Page 23 of Willow and the Wraith

She tried again, then wobbled, off-balance, and he instinctively moved to steady her.

“Sorry,” she said, a sheepish smile on her face. “I’m not very coordinated.”

“It takes practice.”

“How long have you been practicing?”

“Since I woke up in that cell.”

She gave him a horrified look.

“But you were just a child.”

A defenseless child, which was why he’d thrown himself into learning everything he could about fighting, training himself to become stronger, faster. It hadn’t helped, not at first, but eventually he’d been able to break free from the chains of his slavery.

“Which is why I’ve had a lot of practice,” he said evenly, keeping his voice neutral.

He moved into a series of quick fluid kicks, not his fastest but fast enough to get the point across. He spun around to see Willow staring at him, her eyes wide. Had he frightened her? Then he noticed the flush on her face and the stiff little peaks of her nipples pressing against her shirt. Definitely not afraid.

He felt his own body tighten in response and mentally cursed. He needed to focus. This was supposed to be a teaching session, not a repeat of the previous night. But his gaze seemed to be drawn to those small tempting mounds. Fuck.

“Again,” he ordered, his voice harsh.

She gave him a startled look but obeyed - or rather, she tried to obey. As soon as she attempted the move, her foot caught on the edge of a mat and she stumbled, falling backwards with a startled yelp.

He was at her side immediately, and she gave him a shocked look. Then to his astonishment, she burst into laughter.

“Well, that was graceful - but I did warn you I wasn’t very coordinated,” she chuckled, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Can we try again?”

Her determination caught him off guard, and an unwilling smile twisted his lips.

“It is the only way to get better.”

He automatically extended his hand to help her up, but the moment their fingers touched, memories of the previous night flooded him - the taste of her lips, the feel of her body against his. Desire surged through him, hot and urgent. Instead of pulling her up he wanted to join her on the mat, to strip away her clothes and explore every inch of that small tempting body.

Gritting his teeth he forced his body under control and helped her up, doing his best to ignore the way her small hand fit so perfectly in his, soft and warm against his calloused palm. She smiled up at him. He could see the echo of desire in her face as well, but there was something else - a trust that stirred something deep within him, a fierce protectiveness he’d never experienced before.

Or had he? A forgotten memory threatened to surface, accompanied by a spike of pain through his head.

“Is something wrong?” she asked quietly, moving closer to him, her face warm and concerned.

He desperately wanted to accept the comfort she offered but he couldn’t give in to his weakness - to her.

He forced himself to drop her hand and step back. The sudden loss of contact left him feeling oddly bereft, which only added to his frustration. He’d never felt so off-balance, so utterly at war with himself.

“No,” he snapped.

Her eyes searched his face, and he was acutely conscious of how close they were still standing, but she didn’t move away. Instead her hand brushed his again, and he went rigid. The scent of her arousal wrapped around him, enticing and intoxicating. It would be so easy to give in, to lose himself in the sensual promise of her body and the tenderness of her touch.

He never hesitated. Never lost control. Until now.

He needed to step away, to bring this ridiculous session to an end. He needed to maintain his control, to push aside the yearning to hold her in his arms, to touch and taste and -

“Am I interrupting?” Malacar asked as he walked into the room.

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