Page 10 of Unbreakable Bonds (The Boston Romance #2)

ALISHA

Seven in the morning. A frustrated puff leaves my lips as I rest my head against the elevator wall. My mind and body are playing wicked games with me.

A shiver runs through me remembering his response—the deep, throaty sound he made before kissing me back with an intensity that set every nerve ending on fire. His lips were perfect against mine, demanding yet gentle. When his tongue pressed against my mouth, asking for entrance...

I woke up.

For the first time in months, my racing heart had nothing to do with fear. The rest of the night I couldn't stop thinking about that dream, about him. About how the best kiss I've ever had wasn't even real.

The soft ding of the elevator snaps me back to reality. Daniel, the concierge, greets me with his usual warmth.

"Good morning, Miss McQueen."

"I told you to call me Alisha." I hand him the box of donuts I brought. Last week, we discovered our shared weakness for these sugary circles of heaven.

His eyes light up when he opens it. "Thank you. You know, you're different from most residents here. You see me as a person, not just an employee."

"They're snobs," I say, wrinkling my nose.

"Does Mr. Walker act like a snob?"

"He..." I pause, thinking of Cole's unexpected kindness during our training sessions. "No, actually. He doesn't."

Walking toward the gym, I feel that familiar flutter in my stomach. I love these sessions with Cole, even though they're slowly driving me crazy. He's patient, professional, and treats me like I'm strong, not broken.

But now, after that dream...

The music hits me first when I enter—something with a heavy beat that matches my pulse.

My eyes find Cole immediately, and oh holy hell .

He's working the punching bag, his grey shirt clinging to his shoulders, defining every muscle.

A thin sheen of sweat makes his skin gleam in the morning light.

My body reacts before my brain can remind it that this man is supposed to be helping me heal, not starring in my fantasies.

He hasn't noticed me yet, so I let myself watch. His movements are precise, powerful. I could swear I hear him mumble something that sounds like my name, but that has to be my imagination.

"Good morning!" I call out, finally announcing my presence.

He stops, turning to face me, and damn —a lock of dark hair is stuck to his forehead, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He grabs his water bottle, takes a long drink, and I definitely don't stare at the way his throat moves as he swallows.

"Morning," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "Didn't realize it was 7:00 already."

"How early did you get here?" I ask, proud that my voice doesn't betray how his presence turns my insides to jelly. Get it together, woman.

"Six," he says, wiping a towel over his face.

Images from the dream flood my mind, unbidden and overwhelming. "No, stop it," I murmur.

"What did you say?"

"Oh... nothing. Let's begin." Focus on training, not on how good he looks right now.

"Okay, but first, let me change my tee."

Before I can prepare myself—or look away like a sane person would—he pulls the fabric up over his head. Oh sweet baby Jesus. My brain short-circuits at the sight of his bare torso.

I try to disengage my eyes, but they have a mind of their own.

Through the mirror, I watch the play of muscles across his back, the way his shoulders flex as he moves.

His body is a masterpiece that demands attention—sculpted abs, defined pecs, and a V-shape that makes my mouth go dry. If I were him, I'd never wear a shirt.

I'm rubbing my neck, trying to cool the heat rising there, when our eyes meet in the mirror. Busted. I drop my head so fast I nearly give myself whiplash, suddenly finding my perfectly tied shoelaces fascinating.

"Are you ready?" His voice has a rough edge to it that wasn't there before.

I glance up at his clean black shirt, grateful he's covered up but missing the view already. "Yep, if you are. What did you have in mind?"

"Let's go over what I taught you last week. First, name the most vulnerable places on the body."

I raise my brow, trying to mask how his teacher voice affects me. "Oh, are we back in school?"

He gives me that stern look that shouldn't be as attractive as it is.

"Fine," I huff. "Eyes, nose, throat, chest, knees, and my favorite place," I say, wiggling my brows, "the groin."

A slight grin tugs at his lips before his hand shoots out to grab my wrist. "How do you free it?"

His touch sends electricity racing up my arm, but my training kicks in. I rotate my arm to the side of his thumb and pull firmly. The movement breaks his grip.

"Well done. You're a quick learner." That pride in his voice shouldn't make me feel this warm inside.

"Yeah, so teach me something new."

"What I had planned is intense. Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"Oh, come on, I'm here for a reason, so show me, Bulldozer."

His eyes narrow at the nickname, something dark and hungry flashing in their depths. "Stand with your back against the wall."

I frown but walk to the glass and do as he asks. "And now?" My voice comes out breathier than intended.

My heart kicks into overdrive as he approaches, his voice dropping lower with each step. "It often happens that an attacker tries to corner their victim or push them against a solid surface."

When he places his hands next to my shoulders, effectively caging me between his arms, my breath catches.

The position mirrors my dream so perfectly it makes my head spin.

His scent—that intoxicating mix of citrus and pure male—surrounds me, and suddenly the room feels too small, too hot, too everything.

My body can't decide if it wants to lean in or run away, and that confusion is more dangerous than any fear I've felt before.

"W-What a-are you doing?" I stammer, fighting to keep my nerves under control. But it's not fear making my heart race this time—it's something far more dangerous.

Sensing my distress, he removes one hand and lifts my chin. His expression is dark and hungry, and holy hell , no man should have this much power over my body temperature. Get a grip, Alisha.

"Breathe, Alisha." His deep, warm voice wraps around me like a caress. "Is it too much?"

"No, p-please." I touch his wrist, needing an anchor. "I want to do this. Continue."

His eyes search mine for a long moment, like he's reading a story written there. Then he nods, replacing his hand beside my head. "If both of the attacker's arms are up," he says, his voice professional but rougher than usual, "you can straighten your palm and hit him in the armpit."

I try to focus on the lesson, I really do. But how am I supposed to concentrate when he's this close? When every breath brings his scent deeper into my lungs? When his proximity is making my skin tingle like I've been struck by lightning?

I lift my head, thinking looking at his face might help. Big mistake. Now I'm staring at his lips, remembering how they felt in my dream. They're moving as he explains something, but all I can think about is how they would taste in reality.

Cole stops talking, and when I drag my gaze up to his eyes, the intensity I find there steals my breath. There's tenderness there, yes, but also something darker, hungrier. Something that makes heat pool low in my belly.

"Alisha?"

"Hmm..." It's all I can manage.

"What are you doing? Stop biting your bottom lip, will you? You're so—"

With his face inches from mine, desire whispers through me. Kiss him. One kiss , it hints, and we'll know if reality is better than the dream . My body begs for it, but before I can move, he pushes himself away like I've burned him.

He strides to his water bottle, taking several long drinks. His knuckles are white where they grip the plastic.

"Cole, I—"

"Sorry," he cuts in, his voice tight. "I have to go. I forgot I've got an important meeting this morning, and since you're not focused, I'm going to shower. We'll continue tomorrow."

With a quick side glance that carries too many emotions to name, he grabs his wet shirt and walks out, leaving me alone with my racing heart and tingling skin.

I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, pressing my fingers to my temples. "Shit."

After ten minutes of trying to get my body under control, I grab my phone. I need help. I type our girl code "OSP" (Opposite Sex Problem) into our group chat. My fingers are still trembling as I hit send.

Because how do you tell your friends you're falling for the man who's supposed to be teaching you self-defense?

The man who's seen you at your most vulnerable?

The man who makes you feel safer and more dangerous all at once?

The man who, for the first time since that night, makes me want to trust again—and that terrifies me more than any nightmare ever could.