"The boy has good instincts," he continues. "But instinct only goes so far."
I pull back just enough to look up at him. "And me?"
Something dark and hungry flashes across his face. "Your instincts..." His thumb traces a path along my jawline. "Are better than you give them credit for."
He releases me and steps back, reaching for the blade at his hip—the same one he'd shown Erisen earlier. The metal gleams in the moonlight as he offers it to me, handle first.
"The first lesson is in how you hold it," he says, voice dropping to that low register that seems to reverberate directly through my bones.
I take it, surprised by the weight. His fingers brush mine as he adjusts my grip, positioning my thumb along the flat of the blade.
"Balance is everything," he murmurs, moving to stand behind me. His chest presses against my back as his arms come around to guide mine. "Feel how it wants to move with you, not against you."
His proximity wreaks havoc on my concentration. I'm acutely aware of everywhere we touch—his breath warm against my neck, the solid wall of his chest against my shoulders, his hands enveloping mine. Heat pools low in my belly, a sensation I'd forgotten my body was capable of.
"Like this?" My voice emerges breathier than intended.
His fingers tighten slightly over mine. "Almost." He shifts my stance, his boot nudging my feet farther apart. The movement brings his hips flush against me from behind. "Power comes from stability. From knowing exactly where you stand."
My breath hitches at the contact, and I feel him go still, recognizing the change in my response. No longer just a student learning a lesson.
"Esalyn." My name in his mouth sounds like something dangerous, something sacred.
I turn my head just enough to see his face, finding his golden eyes heavy-lidded, fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness. The knife suddenly seems irrelevant in my hand.
"I think," I whisper, "I'm losing my balance."
His free hand slides to my waist, hot even through the fabric of my shirt. "Then I'll have to hold you steady."
The knife trembles slightly in my grasp as his other hand leaves my wrist to brush my hair aside, exposing the sensitive skin of my neck. I feel him hesitate, giving me time to pull away.
I don't.
But his lips never meet my skin like I expect. Instead, he recaptures my hand, still gripping my waist so that his arms are around me. The leather wrapping of the knife feels cool against my heated skin as he guides my arm through a careful arc.
"Feel the weight," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my ear. "Let it become an extension of your arm."
I try to focus on the weapon, on the deadly grace of it, but all I can concentrate on is the heat of him pressed against my back, the way his chest expands with each breath. My control starts to unravel as his thumb traces small circles on my inner wrist.
"You're not focusing," he observes, and there's something like amusement in his voice. "Maybe you need a more direct approach."
His hand leaves mine, taking the blade with it. I nearly protest the loss until I feel cold metal sliding down the center of my body. My breath catches as the flat of the blade trails between my breasts, over my stomach, coming to rest between my legs. The hilt bumps against me, creating the barest hint of friction exactly where I need it most.
My hips move of their own accord, grinding slightly against the pressure. Heat floods my cheeks at my own brazenness, but when I glance back at Domno, his golden eyes have darkened to molten amber.
"I'd love to take care of you too," he says, his words careful but edged with hunger. "If you want."
The question in his tone pulls at something in my chest. Choice. He's always giving me a choice.
I nod, unable to find my voice.
He releases my hip, moving the blade from one hand to the other. And then his dominant hand works between my skirts, fingers finding the bare skin of my thigh with unerring precision. Then, he moves higher until he can feel how soaked I am. His fingers stroke me through the fabric of my underwear and my head tips back against his shoulder as I whimper, my hips jerking. He takes that as a sign and pulls the fabric out of his way.
I gasp as he touches me, his calloused fingertips tracing patterns that make my knees weak. He stretches me with one finger, then two, his movements measured and deliberate as he learns what makes me shiver.
Then he withdraws, leaving me cold and wanting. I'm about to protest when he steps away from me, only to come before me. He grips my chin, kissing me deeply, but he breaks it all too quickly. With fluid grace, he kneels and drives the knife into the ground before me, the metal gleaming in the moonlight.
"Get on your knees," he commands, voice rough. "Show me how much you want this."
