Page 37 of Crossing Lines

His fingers brushing against mine and the contact sends a jolt of electricity through me, but I pretend not to notice, focusing on the way he carefully winds the fabric around my knuckles. His hands are sure and steady, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the rough calluses that speak of years of training.

“Too tight?” he asks, his voice low, almost intimate, as he glances at me.

I shake my head, mesmerized by the way he works. There’s something incredibly intimate about the way he takes his time, ensuring the wrap is just right. As he finishes, his fingers linger on my wrist for a fraction too long, sending a thrill down my spine.

“There,” he says softly, his gaze meeting mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. “All set. Now hit me.”

I’m not sure if I can really catch him off guard. But I refuse to back down now from a challenge. My heart pounds a little faster than usual as I throw out my right fist. He easily dodges out of the way, as if he could see me telegraph my move a mile away.

And that’s how the rest of our little session goes. He blocks every strike I throw at him, his eyes never leaving mine. It’s infuriating how much control he has. Tension crackles in the air between us, like a live wire waiting for a spark.

I see an opening—just a small one—but it’s enough. I go for it, a punch aimed at his side. But he’s faster, his hand coming up to block me with ease. Frustration flares in my chest, hot and consuming, and before I know it, I’m lashing out. Wild, reckless, abandoning any kind of form or technique I’ve picked up over the years. I just want to land a hit, to wipe that damn smirk off his face.

But he catches me in one fluid motion. Taking my arm, he twists it just enough to stop me, and pulls me in close before my back hits the mat. His weight presses medown, but it’s not crushing. With his breath hot against my neck, all the fight drains out of me.

His gaze locks on to mine, the teasing glint replaced by something darker, something that makes my pulse quicken for an entirely different reason. His hips shift, and through his shorts, his hard dick drags across the bare skin of my thigh. I shiver, needing to feel him without any clothes between us. The attraction that’s always between us burns hotter than it’s ever burned before. And fuck it, I’m tired of resisting. There’s a list a thousand miles long on why we shouldn’t do anything, and yet, I can’t seem to think of a single reason to care right now.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges, each word sending a ripple of awareness through me. The way he looks at me—intense, searching—makes it impossible to breathe normally. “I’m not your enemy.”

“Aren’t you?” I retort, my breath coming in quick bursts. Every molecule of air between us is charged, as if the air itself is waiting for something to happen. “You represent everything I hate.”

“Oh?” His thumb brushes against my cheek before he cups it fully. “And what’s that?”

“Temptation.” The word slips out before I can stop myself, heavy with meaning. In a rush of defiance and longing, I lift my head and slam my lips against his, fueled by all the frustration and attraction that’s been simmering since we first met.

It’s impulsive, instinctual, and so fucking stupid to kiss him. He weaves a hand through my hair and immediatelytakes control, delving his tongue inside my mouth to explore, to claim.

His kiss is like wildfire—a hungry, desperate thing.

Every nerve in my body comes alive as sensation threatens to overwhelm me.I’m drowning in him,lost in the intoxicating depth of this moment. I’ve never had a kiss like this, where I feel like something is being rewired in my brain, my body. I’ve also never felt this amount of pleasure and bliss from the simple act of kissing. It’s terrifying that he has this kind of power over me, to make me lose control, to forget about everything except him.

I break away, panting. “Do you have to be so good at this?”

“Kissing?” He laughs. “Yes, I do, especially if it keeps you coming back for more.”

“More?” I push against his chest, desperately needing to regain my footing afterthatkiss. “No, this was a onetime thing only.” I’m not even sure if I mean that, but regaining some control, some sort of boundary I can hide behind while my brain clears seems like the safest thing to do.

“Sure it was,” he says easily, popping to his feet, as if he doesn’t believe me.

“I mean it. We should forget this ever happened.”

He holds out a hand to help me up, but I bypass it and get to my feet by myself.

“I know you mean it,” he says. “But I can guarantee that I’ll never, ever forget the best kiss of my life. Even when I’m ninety, I still won’t forget it.”

“I doubt your wife will appreciate you thinking about another woman at that age.”

“And what if you were my wife?”

“In your dreams.” I roll my eyes, not believing his words for a single second. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“No reason.”

“No reason, my ass.”

“You never did land a punch on me,” he taunts.

I punch him in the arm softly. “I did just now.”

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