Page 72 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
“I can see why you’d avoid it, then. I wouldn’t want to feel less. I’d rather feel . . . more.”
Her eyes rested directly in his, unblinking, hoping for an acknowledgment of their covert dances. Maybe on some level, she wanted proof that she wasn’t imagining it all.
He was quiet, and she wondered if he perceived her hidden meaning. But he only answered, “Understandable. Shall we start?”
Bristol nodded, and pushed away musings she’d been having for weeks, especially at night when she crawled into bed and wished she wasn’t alone.
She removed her jacket, tossing it on a bench. “I haven’t had a formal lesson in over five years,” she warned.
“That’s all right. I’ll walk you through it.”
He grabbed both sticks and threw one to her. They took it slow at first, simple drills to warm up. Left. Right. Block. Jab. And then faster. It all came back to her. There was something graceful about it, almost like a dance, but powerful and dangerous too. The raw wood dug into her palms. Sweat beaded on her brow. They moved on to more complicated moves, rolling, swinging, and springing back to their feet.
Later, when they combined exercises, he used the same move that had landed her on her back before—hooking her around her knees. Bristol cursed at herself for literally falling for it again and promised herself it wouldn’t happen a third time. She went on the attack, and then he stopped the exercise, showing her where her footwork was catching her up, and explained that her eye work was revealing too much to her opponent. “Never take your focus off their face, but see everything else at the same time. It’s not hard to do.”
Easy for you to say, Bristol thought.
“Only look away if you want your opponent to think something is there.”
The exercises sped up, their sticks meeting, the sound cracking the air, her eyes locked on his while anticipating his sidesteps, his lunges, and noting his fighting idiosyncrasies.
“How am I doing?” she asked breathlessly.
“Good. But you should never—”
And then she jabbed him.Hard in the gut.He doubled over, falling to one knee, holding his side and wincing.
She stepped closer, hovering over him, and smiled like a hunter viewing her fallen prey. “And never get caught up in conversation with your opponent? It’s terribly distracting. Sticks 101, Your Majesty. I think you might be dead.”
He lunged upward, and she stumbled back several steps until he pinned her against the wall, his stick pressed across her shoulders, his chest heaving against hers. “And never fall for a feint.” His voice turned husky. “Who’s dead now?”
But she had no answer. No words. Everything inside her melted into something hot and messy and hungry.
She was certain he wasn’t thinking about sticks anymore, either.
His breath was warm, his lips only inches from hers. No invisible veil between them. Her skin burned where his knuckle grazed her skin. The heat that swelled in her every night when unseen palms pressed to her own was now an inferno.
And she wanted more.
“What’s stopping you?” she finally whispered.
The moment stretched tight, his body leaning in, his hips barely brushing hers. The fire inside her spread, begging to explode.
He swallowed. She could almost feel his heart pounding in his chest, but then he shifted his grip on the stick. He blinked and stepped back, releasing her. “Let’s give it another try,” he said, shaking his head.
She stared at him, her lungs hollow.
She wasn’t ready to move on. Not this time. “Give what another try?” she asked. “We’re simply moving on after what just happened? Are you denying there’s something between us?”
There, she’d said it. It was out in the open now. There was no going back.
His voice turned sharp. “We’re practicing sticks. That’s all.”
That’s all?Bristol searched for words, her mind a jumbled whirl. Was he trying to convince himself or her?
He walked away and picked up the stick she had dropped, then held it out to her. “Well?”
That was it? Back to practice, as if nothing just happened? Like all the past nights of dancing and wanting didn’t exist? Like he hadn’t felt anything just now? How long did she have to pretend?
