I mimic his stance. “Like this?”

“Just like that Jameson.” His voice is a gentle stroke, soft and sexy and low, and I blush at the sound of it, my ovaries giving another sigh. “Now. Spread your legs—yeah, spread them like that—and step with your lead foot, like this. We call this the power leg.”

With my quivering right foot, I step forward.

“Now raise your hands to a guardian stance.” He nods his approval when I do it correctly, eyes scanning my body. “I’m going to lower my head and aim at your hip, okay? Because I’m bigger, I’ll be able to maneuver you into the position I need you to be in so I can lift you.”

I’m just barely able to nod my consent. My breath is labored and I can scarcely stand the thought of him touching me, let alone manhandling me, without getting hot and aching all over.

Hot and aching and wet. I’ll have to suffer through it…

He regards me, leisurely and cool, taking his sweet, sweet, tortured time studying me. Gauging. Calculating. Painfully slowly.

Under his veiled gaze, my nipples harden and his nostrils flare when those same heated eyes graze my breasts, land and stay there.

“No pearls today?” he asks.

“No pearls,” I whisper.

“Damn shame,” he whispers back.

He lowers his stance again, legs bent at a low angle, on the balls of his feet to find his center of gravity. Advances toward me with his palms outstretched, hands reaching low. Reaching until those large mitts skim the inner thigh of each leg.

My breath hitches when his thumbs stroke that clean-shaven valley between my legs before slipping his hands over my hips to cup my butt cheeks.

“That is not a wrestling technique.” I gasp when he gets a little too close to my crack for comfort, glides his hands up my back and presses with light strokes.

“It should be,” he mutters. “This is more exciting than the first time I had you under me, probably because this time I can see your boobs—they’re fantastic.”

Before I can protest, his large hands are under my thighs, grappling my ass.

My feet are hoisted effortlessly off the ground.

Lifted.

Flipping.

Back flat against the cool plastic, I’m unexpectedly sprawled out on the mat, staring at the ceiling, my loose hair fanned out around me.

My breath hitches when Oz shifts the arm he has hooked under my left leg, the calloused pads of his coarse hands gently gliding up the pale skin of my calf. He strokes it up and down until my breath comes hard.

“There, there,” he soothes. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“You make it look so easy.”

“That’s because I’m good at it,” he teases, hovering above me, arms cradling my head in his large palms, caressing my hair. “And because you’re tiny.”

“I only feel tiny because you’re so big.”

Everywhere.

His right eyebrow rises, mouth quirking into a smirk. “True. I am big.”

Everywhere.

Those coarse fingers float deliberately over my leg, lingering at the baby fine skin near my crotch, palm flat, his thumb stroking my bare bikini line. My intake of breath is sharp; Sebastian’s thumb hooks the fabric at the seam of my leotard, drawing it away from my skin, flirting dangerously close to my…to where I want it most.

Oh lord.

His touch is the barest tremor from a sigh and I feel…so good I could orgasm from it if I let myself.

I feel the heat rising up my chest, resisting the urge to fan the blush on my cheeks. I’ve never found it this hard to breathe, have I? Never found it this hard not to wiggle my hips. It takes all my willpower not to squirm beneath him. Rub. Wiggle.

I bite down a moan.

He’s not my type, he’s not my type, he’s not my type.

“Was it really necessary for me to wear this stupid leotard?” He needs to take his hand out of it before I embarrass myself.

“No,” he purrs. “Of course not, but I also didn’t think it was fair for me to be the only one showing off the merchandise.”

“And I fell for it.”

“Hook, line, sinker. There’s a sucker born every minute,” his lips say while his fingers finally travel to stroke my hipbones.

“Are you calling me naïve?”

“No, but I’m hoping you’re a sucker—because I am.”

“Well that was a tad pervy.”

The air around us is as thick as the cords of his neck, as the rigid length of him that’s pressed against my inner thigh, straining inside the spandex singlet.

“One.” He hums out the count, pounding the mat with the flat of his palm. “Two.” His head dips. “Three. To the victor go the spoils.”

Head bent, his tongue does a leisurely, wet glide between the valley of my plumped breasts; from the scooped neckline of my spandex, he licks all the way up to my clavicle. Slow. Sexy. Nips my collarbone and sucks.

Wet. Hot.

Wet.

Oh sweet baby Jesus holy mother of—

“Stop.” I gasp when he licks my neck. “Sebastian, stop.” I gasp again. God, it feels too, too good. “Rule number nine: don’t do it if you don’t mean it.”

“Oh, I fucking mean it,” he growls into my neck, his tongue declaring warfare on every cell in my body. Behind my ear. Across my collarbone. My aching, desperate body.

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t think I can do this. Not with you. I’m sorry; as much as I…”