He leaned his head to the side. “I’m the hero?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re the heroine?”
“Yes.”
He smirked. “So, there will be a sex scene?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
He shrugged. “You said you wrote erotic novels.”
“Yes, but. . .I don’t know how erotic this book will get.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” I shrugged. “Life is writing the book.”
“Hmmm.” He closed the distance, leaving only an inch between us. “There will definitely be a sex scene.”
“Oh really?”
“The book just might be eight hundred pages, before it will happen, but the sex will be there.”
I blinked. “Eight hundred pages?”
“You think sex will happen before then?”
I cleared my throat. “Well. . .if it’s a good book and erotic of sorts. . .the sex scene should come earlier.”
His voice deepened. “Then, we should make that happen.”
As usual, he had me at a loss for words.
I swore he breathed me in, before whispering, “But only when the heroine is ready.”
He leaned my way a little, almost as if he was testing me, seeing if I would run. And then he came closer, but passed my lips and whispered in my ear, “Are you ready?”
His chest brushed up against mine. My pulse spiked. My breathing shifted to panting. My body warmed.
“Ebony?” He brushed his lips against my ear. “Are you ready?”
“F-for what?”
“Training.” He moved away and gave me a wicked smile.
“Training?”
“I told you I would teach you how to further defend yourself, and have you practice on the guns.”
You know damn well you were talking about sex.
My heart had not stopped beating fast in my chest. And my nipples had stiffened a little. How long had they even awaken in all these years? The few times, my body had come alive, it had been through writing a sex scene. Never did it react from something happening in real life.
I cleared my throat while my body blazed on fire. “That’s right. . .training.”
“Let’s go.” He left me there in his studio, among the paintings he’d done of me and the kids. He walked off, right as my hormones twisted and tangled.
I caught my breath.
For a second, I yearned for him to kiss me. Whether it had been a good idea or not, wasn’t the question. I’d craved his touch.
Is that good or bad?
When my breathing calmed, I hurried out of there, but not before glancing at the canvas with my face on it. Not before marveling at the images of my kids enjoying life.
Yoshiro, what are you doing to me?
For the rest of the day, we trained in the other house. We fought in the open space of the living room. He taught me a few self-defense moves to make sure Wyatt never got more than a foot close to me. Yoshiro let me hit him. Kick his legs. Shove him down to the ground. Yank at his long hair.
And although it didn’t look like any of it affected him, I felt weird assaulting him.
Yoshiro pushed me further, telling me to hit harder. Urging me to have no limits. Go for the eyes. The balls. Bite off Wyatt’s lip, if I had too.
He taught me about all the sensitive points on the body and all the areas that would bring a man to his knees.
And throughout all of the training and fighting, he touched me.
There was moments where I was in his arms. Strong and muscular, they wrapped around me. Sometimes the biggest struggle was not getting out of his hold but wanting to leave those muscular arms in the first place. Sometimes, I loved the way he grabbed me from behind and pulled me against him. Sometimes, it was hard to focus on the fact that we were fighting.
Little by little, I was getting used to Yoshiro’s touch, and realizing that I loved it. Enjoyed the feel of his hands against my skin. His grip. His closeness. His rock hard body pressed against mine.
And although it was all to show me how to protect myself, when he held me, I felt utterly in his protection. Safe and secure.
Hours later, I almost frowned, when he decided to end it.
Sweat covered us. His hair was messy. My dreadlocks fell all over my head. Part of his shirt had been ripped, exposing that chiseled six pack of his.
We both collapsed onto the floor, close to each other, but not touching.
“You did good.” He let out a long breath. “We may only need to practice one more time.
. It’s clear you know how to defend yourself.”
Panting, I looked at him. “No. I want more.”
He turned that heated gaze my way. “You want more?”
“Yes.”
“You like this?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
He licked his lips. “Why?”
Both exhausted and on the floor, we studied each other in the silence of that space.
And then barking sounded close.
The kids chatter came next.
“Is it up here?” Jalen yelled. “What if this is someone else’s house?”