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I whirled, then hiccuped, startled to find him behind me, his torso aligned with my back. Male warmth. Skin and sinew. The scent of sweat and leather and sky. His everything pressed to my every-freaking-thing.

His palm landed on my hip. “Interesting demonstration,” he murmured, his breath scaling my earlobe. “But for this lesson, we need to be close.”

Lot of responses sprouted in my head, especially in my body. And I realized, or maybe I remembered, how badly I wanted this. How badly I wanted to master this, to be fluent in weapons, to forge them in ways no one ever had before.

This was the first real step. I wanted it, wanted him to work me, to whip me into shape. I wanted it all so badly that my teeth gnashed.

“Hold them like this.” He maneuvered my fingers into the right position around the handles, conscious of my burnt stump and that my remaining digits would need to compensate. Without that extra finger or a replacement part, I’d have to adapt.

He adjusted the rest of me. This inched our bodies nearer, small and massive touches, his chin in the crook of my neck.

The axes hadn’t been blunted, so right now, he only wanted me to reacquaint myself with the weapons, for my hold on them to become effortless. I gripped them tighter, my timber skin flaring, desire building, awakening.

Where the desire pointed, I couldn’t say.

Aire whispered instructions, inspirations. He showed me how to change my grip with each stance, then ordered me to do it again.

And again. Once more. Another try.

Then he showed me how to move with the hatchets, how to maneuver without dropping them, how to shift quickly and balance myself. My grip wavered numerous times, but we just started over.

With his body attached to mine, we moved in tandem, slow in the beginning, then picking up speed. He framed me, our bodies twisting and bending, the axes becoming weightless in my grasp.

I lost track of the seconds, the minutes, the hour.

We stopped, whisking into a final stance. His chest thumped against mine. My right breast heaved against his bicep.

The gilded hair on his forearms rose.

A giant moment of silence followed, with the stars snickering down on us, the fog swooning through the glade, and the creek simmering nearby. I curled into him, my hair brushing his throat.

His chest hitched. Was it my active imagination, or had he held his breath?

The left palm clasping my waist tightened its hold, his thumb running once along the inward curve. My woodskin overheated, even as I came down from the power high.

Aire’s forehead landed on my shoulder, his arm slinging around my waist. “Good,” he rasped.

I nodded. “Really fucking good.”

He chuckled. “Sometimes I don’t know how to be around you, and other times, it’s as clear as day. I am inconsistent in your presence.”

“That was the plan.”

He poked my side. I yelped and elbowed him, and when he retaliated with another jab, I dumped the axes and spun, trying to tackle him. We wrestled, and I can’t remember when it happened, but our laughter filled the glade.

I lost, of course. Aire had me pinned to his pecs in seconds, the humor waning, likely due to my tits being crushed against him, the lumber yielding to his flesh. Any moment, my nipples would get hard enough to dent him.

Aire cleared his throat while I shuffled back, both of us still heaving.

Dammit. A belated, achy protest ruined the spell, my joints wailing, unaccustomed to being abused like this. Come morning, I’d need another hot stone session.

After we gathered our weapons, he escorted me to my bungalow, the trip taking longer than it should. We’d become friends, but the dynamic had changed tonight. What we’d just done had been strangely intimate. Raw and honest.

Not once had I thought about the acorn.

We halted at the door, where I tucked a crimped lock behind my ear, and Aire watched the movement. “Tomorrow night—”

“I’d love to,” I said.