Chapter 54
Chapter Fifty-Four
Lily
The grass is cool and damp against my palms, the scent of crushed clover rising around us.
Killian’s knee is pressed into my breastbone, pinning me to the earth, and his weight is a solid, immovable weight.
His face is inches from mine, his breath a warm gust against my cheek.
I can see the individual strands of his dark hair, the way a few cling to the sweat on his temples.
He isn’t smiling. He never smiles when we do this.
“Again,” he says, his voice low and even. It’s the same voice he uses to explain a joint lock or a pressure point, a voice that carries no emotion, only instruction. “You hesitated. That’s the opening they’ll take.”
I try to buck him off, twisting my hips and digging my heels into the soft ground.
It’s useless. He shifts his weight, a subtle adjustment, and the pressure increases, stealing my breath.
My ribs protest, a dull ache spreading beneath his knee.
I stop struggling, my body going still. It’s the only move I have left.
“Good,” he says, though it sounds more like a diagnosis than praise. “Recognize when you’re beat. Saves energy.” He doesn’t move. He stays there, a heavy, living blanket, pinning me to the lawn behind his house that’s set up like a training course now.
Killian kept his word and is teaching me useful skills for when I come face-to-face with Nico. The sun is setting, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple, but all I can see is the sharp line of his jaw, the dark stubble, the way his throat works when he swallows.
This is the third time this week. He says I need to be ready, that the world isn’t a kind place for a woman, let alone the Nico Vidalia situation.
He says the men who might come for me won’t hold back, so he can’t either.
He’s right, I know he is. But knowing doesn’t stop the heat that blooms in my stomach, a slow, liquid warmth that has nothing to do with the training.
“Get up,” he says, finally lifting his knee.
The sudden release of pressure makes me gasp.
He stands, offering me a hand. His grip is firm, calloused.
He pulls me to my feet with an easy strength that makes my own feel flimsy and inconsequential.
I brush the damp grass and dirt from my biker shorts, my movements stiff.
“You’re thinking,” he says, stepping back. He circles me slowly, his eyes scanning my posture like a predator assessing prey. “You’re in your head. That’s worse than hesitating.”
“I’m not,” I lie. My heart is still hammering against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the quiet evening. The air is thick with the smell of cut grass and woodsmoke from his chimney. I can feel the ghost of his weight on my chest, the memory of his breath on my skin.
He stops in front of me. “Show me your guard.”
I raise my hands, fists clenched, elbows tucked in. It’s the stance he taught me on the first day. He reaches out, not fast, just a deliberate movement, and taps my left elbow. It drops a fraction of an inch. He taps it again. It drops further.
“See?” he says. “A loose thread. They’ll pull it.” He steps closer, his body now just a breath from mine. He doesn’t touch me, but I can feel the heat radiating from him, a magnetic pull that sets my teeth on edge. “What if I do this?”
He makes a quick jab toward my face that I don’t see coming.
I flinch, my hands flying up to block, but my stance is already broken.
My balance is off. He sweeps my ankle with his foot, a clean, efficient movement, and I’m falling again.
The world tilts, a blur of blue sky and dark earth, and then I’m on my back for the second time in minutes.
He lands on top of me, his body caging mine, one forearm braced beside my head, the other pressing my shoulder into the ground.
This is closer than before. His hips are aligned with mine, the hard line of his thighs pressing against my softer ones.
I can feel the thrum of his heart through his chest, a steady, powerful rhythm that sends vibrations through my body.
His crystal blue eyes are now dark and unreadable.
A strand of his hair falls forward, brushing my forehead.
That dream I had of him chasing me through a field flickers in my mind.
In the dream, we were like this, tangled on the ground, the air thick with unspoken things.
But in the dream, his eyes weren’t unreadable.
They were full of fire. In the dream, his hand moved from my shoulder to my face, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
In the dream, he lowered his head, and the space between us disappeared.
My body remembers the dream. A shiver runs through me, a deep, instinctive response. My hands, which are clenched into fists at my sides, uncurl. My fingers find the hem of his T-shirt, the worn cotton soft against my fingertips. I don’t pull him closer. I just hold on, a silent question.
He goes perfectly still. The only movement is the rise and fall of his chest, the slight twitch of a muscle in his jaw.
He looks down at where my hand rests against his side, then back up at my eyes.
I can feel the tension in his arms, the coiled strength of his body holding himself back.
He’s a dam, and I am the water pressing against him, begging for release.
Killian keeps training and sex separate, but right now, I’d give my left kidney to have him buried inside of me.
I’ve given myself to him whenever and however he wants, so there’s no reason why he can’t give in right now.
For a long moment, I think he’ll break. I think he’ll give in to the same current that’s pulling me under.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and my lips part on a silent breath.
This is it. The dream is about to become real.
Then, as if a switch has been flipped, the energy vanishes. He pushes himself up, the movement sudden and abrupt. He’s on his feet in one fluid motion, leaving me cold and empty on the ground. He turns his back to me, running a hand through his hair.
“Session’s over. I’m going for a run,” he says. His voice is rough, stripped of its usual calm. He doesn’t look at me. He just walks away, his shoulders a rigid line.
I lie there, the damp grass seeping through my clothes, the chill of the evening air raising goosebumps on my arms. The ache in my ribs is nothing compared to the ache that blooms low in my belly, a hollow, wanting throb.
He didn’t give in. The dam held. And I am left here, alone with the ghost of his weight. My body hums with a restless energy.