CHAPTER TWENTY
SARAH
I’m panting and dripping with sweat. That’s how every day starts for me now. Another wasted morning, if you ask me.
James is right behind me, adjusting my stance again, saying something about keeping my palm up and driving the punch through my wrist. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s corrected me already.
“It’s all in the wrist, Sarah,” he keeps saying, like my wrist has some kind of magical power that’s going to save me from all the horrors out there.
I roll my eyes. Yeah, sure, because if I throw one perfect punch, I’ll suddenly be Wonder Woman.
We’ve been at the lake house for more than three weeks now, and ever since my head wound healed and the cut on my back faded to a thin red line, James has dragged me into this ridiculous training routine every single morning.
I know it’s because of what Axel said to him in the parking lot. I see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his shoulders stay tight all the time. He’s terrified that someone from his past might find me.
“Fighting’s pointless when I’ve got zero muscle,” I huff, yanking the strap of my black tank top back up as it slips off my shoulder. “If I punch someone, I’ll probably just break my hand.”
“Not if you do it right. The strength’s in your wrist,” he replies, so matter-of-fact it makes me want to scream.
I clench my fists, tempted to punch something that’s not a cushion. I’m already pissed at him and this whole training thing, because it feels like we’re getting absolutely nowhere.
I glare at the cushion we’ve strapped to a tree as a makeshift punching bag, trying to focus. We’re tucked away in the woods, far enough from the lake house that no one interrupts us—or, as James puts it, “so nothing distracts you.”
“No matter how much it hurts, always fight back. Got it?” he says, stepping closer. Too fucking close. His muscular chest presses softly against my back, and he’s wearing that damn flannel shirt. Why does he have to look so fucking good in that thing when I’m trying to stay pissed at him?
Every time his body brushes against mine, shivers shoot down my spine, wrecking my concentration. And I have to stop myself from melting into him right then and there.
Sometimes, James seems blissfully unaware of what he does to me, especially when he leans right up against me, casually taking my elbow to correct my stance. Again! This isn’t training. This is torture.
Focus, Sarah. Focus. You’re supposed to be punching, not daydreaming about… other things.
“This isn’t going to change anything,” I say with a scoff, folding my arms. “Last time, when I cut my back on that fence, the pain almost knocked me out.”
“Pain’s temporary. You can always bounce back.”
“I should be pirouetting. Not learning to punch people.”
“You’re still a ballerina. Just one who’s learning to kick ass.”
I sigh loud enough for the birds to hear, take a breath, and punch the cushion again. It barely moves.
Oh, come on, Sarah. That’s embarrassing.
“Dammit,” I mutter. “This is stupid. I’m done with this whole training crap.”
“That’s not stupid. You’re just being stubborn,” he says, his voice infuriatingly calm. “And yeah, you look cute when you make that face, but you’ve got to learn how to defend yourself.”
He had to call me stubborn, didn’t he? If I was pissed before, now I’m downright fuming. And sure, maybe he’s right, but admitting that would just feed his already massive ego, and there’s no way in hell I’m giving him that satisfaction.
“I always have my pocketknife,” I say, lifting my chin like that’s gonna shut him up.
“Yeah, I know. And you’re better with that knife than I’ll ever be. But how useful was it in the parking lot? You told me you couldn’t even reach it.”
His words hit like a pin to a balloon, deflating my confidence.
I roll my eyes, already tired of this conversation. “But it’s usually enough—”
“I’m not putting your life in danger with ‘usually enough,’ Sarah! If you can’t get to your knife, or your gun’s not an option, you have to know how to fight!” he cuts me off, voice rising with that growling edge he gets when he’s pissed.
But I don’t care about the way his jaw clenches, or even his stupid pinewood scent, or how his brows draw together in that way that somehow makes him look ridiculously hot. I’m too annoyed for any of that.
“I said I’m done.”
His eyes narrow, and I can tell he didn’t see that coming. But I don’t care. Not this time. If he’s frustrated, welcome to the club.
“Sarah, throw the damn punch!” he snaps.
I glare at him, my eyes burning with defiance. “I’m going home.”
He stares down at me like he’s daring me to try.
So I do.
But before I can take a single step, he grabs my arm and yanks me back.
“No, you’re not.”
“Let go of me, James. I don’t want to do this anymore, and you’re not gonna make me!”
His arms wrap around me, locking me in place, and his body feels way too good for someone I’m trying to stay mad at.
“Do you know what day it is?” he suddenly asks, his arms still caging me against his chest.
I swallow hard. The heat between us is electric, the kind that makes the air heavy and impossible to ignore.
“Yeah, I know.”
One year. I remember everything about that afternoon. The walkie-talkie crackling through the air. My back pressed against the shelf. The heat of his body. The sweetness of his kiss. The way his hands gripped me.
“Tell me. I want to hear it.” His words come out rough, deep, demanding. And suddenly, even blinking feels like a distraction.
“The day I became yours.”
James lets out a guttural groan, and I melt. Totally and hopelessly.
“Damn right. So, when I say you have the strength to do it, you’re gonna fucking do it.”
His breath brushes my skin, hot and irresistible.
I turn my focus back to the target. My fingers curl into a fist, tight enough for my nails to bite into my palm. James’s hands are still locked on my hips, grounding me, keeping me steady.
I suck in a breath and throw the punch. A real one this time, just like he said, letting the power snap from my wrist. My knuckles slam into the cushion, driving it hard against the tree. My arm vibrates from the impact, but damn, it feels good.
A grin spreads across my face as I glance up at him. “I did it!”
James exhales sharply behind me. “Fuck, that was hot.”
Before I can even process what he just said, his hand slides from my lower back to my shoulder. His fingers hook around one strap of my tank top. His touch burns straight through the fabric.
“Do it again,” he orders.
I ball my fist again and slam it into the cushion strapped to the tree. It caves with the hit.
James lets out a low moan right next to my ear, and my breath stutters. Then his other hand finds the second strap of my top.
“Again,” he growls.
My heart is pounding, but I obey. I clench my fist and throw another punch. The impact thuds against the cushion, and I hear another groan from James, darker this time.
Then, with one smooth pull, he tugs both straps down my arms. The fabric slides over my shoulders, past my elbows, stopping just at the waistband of my shorts.
My skin—hot, sweaty—is bare to him now, and I’m not wearing a bra.
His breath hitches.
“No bra?” His voice is husky, thick with desire.
I can’t even see his face. He’s still behind me, pressed up close, but I can feel him everywhere. Every hard line of him molding against me.
A mischievous smile tugs at my lips. “You should be asking about my panties.”
He spins me around so fast, it knocks the air out of me. My hands hit his chest, and my skin sparks where it meets his. His hand drops to my shorts, fingers hooking into the waistband before yanking them down.
A gasp escapes me, my heart pounding ten times harder as my shorts hit the ground, and my tank top slips down with them, leaving me completely naked in the middle of the woods.
James takes a step back, just enough to really look at me.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
His gaze, dark and fucking starving, devours every inch of my naked body, like a man who hasn’t eaten in weeks staring at a feast. It lingers on the scar on my thigh from when I fell off a horse back on my dad’s ranch.
Then it moves to the tiny freckle just above my breast. And lower still, to the way my loose braids brush over my hard nipples and skim my belly.
There’s something about being completely naked while James is still fully dressed that heightens everything.
My gaze drops to his lips, and I bite my own. Heat pulses between my legs, hot and aching. My cheeks burn, but I don’t look away.
His eyes flick up to mine, curious but amused. “Why?”
I smile through the heat building inside me. “It’s our one-year anniversary, and I’m your present.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Then his hands are on me, and it’s like fireworks going off inside me.
I was gonna surprise him after lunch, take him up to the roof. But out here in the woods? It’s even better. It feels like home out here, like we’re back at the ranch.
He grips my thighs, lifting me, wrapping my legs around his waist. He steps forward, and my back crashes against the cushion tied to the tree. There’s no space between us. None.
He catches my bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it before pressing his tongue inside my mouth, kissing me, stealing my breath and giving me his in return.
And nothing is hotter than that.
Than him.
“Now, I’m gonna give you your present.”