Page 50 of Protect Thy Enemy

“Fine,” she says, stepping toward the ring. “But don’t hold back.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

We climb into the ring, and the space between us feels too small, too charged. She moves with purpose, her stance solid and her gaze focused.

I throw the first jab. It’s light, testing, but she dodges easily, her lips twitching like she’s holding back a smirk.

“You’re slower than I thought,” she says, circling me.

“Careful, Williams,” I reply, my voice tight.

She throws a quick hook, her glove grazing my ribs, and I catch the faint gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Been boxing since I was able to pick up a pair of gloves,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “West’s dad trained us.”

West again. The thought of her sparring with him close and familiar, riles in a way I can’t explain. It’s the same way I felt seeing her with Beckett.

I press forward, my movements sharper now, forcing her to keep up. She blocks a hit, her breath coming quicker, and for a second, I forget why this was a bad idea.

“You’re holding back,” she accuses.

“Because you’re still distracted,” I shoot back, stepping closer.

The next swing brings her closer. So close I catch the swiftest scent of vanilla. Her hand brushes against my chest as she blocks, her breath warm against my neck. For a second, everything else falls away.

Her eyes meet mine, and the air shifts again, heavier this time. Her chest rises and falls, her lips parting slightly as she looks up at me.

I don’t move. Neither does she.

We’re too close, breathing the same air, locked in some silent dare neither of us started—but neither of us is willing to end.

It shouldn’t be happening. I know that. But the tension between us is coiled so tight it’s hard to think straight. Everything else falls away. Just her. Just me.

My eyes flick down to her mouth. Her lips part slightly, and I catch the soft, unsteady inhale she tries to hide.

Her hand is still on my chest, fingers splayed like she forgot she put them there. Like she doesn’t want to move.

I should say something. Step back. Break whatever this is before it snaps.

But I don’t.

Because her touch is seeping into me, quiet and electric, and my body’s already decided what it wants.

My cock is rock hard, straining against my sweats, the outline visible in the space between us. If she looked down, she’d see just how far past the point of control I am.

And the worst part?

I want her to.

“Grant,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, and it’s enough to pull me back.

“Go home, Williams,” I say, stepping away, my voice harsher than I intended.

Her hand falls to her side, and her eyes flick to mine. She’s embarrassed or maybe even hurt, but she doesn’t argue. She nods once, turning on her heel and climbing out of the ring.

The door swings shut behind her, and the following silence is suffocating.

I rake a hand through my hair, forcing myself to breathe.

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