one.
And no freaking way was Cullinane suffering their fate.
Closing his mind to her gender, her size, to desire and everything he wondered about her, he settled deep within, to the part of him that moved on instinct, the animal that knew how to survive any situation. He wasn’t going to injure her seriously if he could help it, but for all of their sakes, he couldn’t let her win.
She’d issued the challenge; now she had to live with the results.
Circling one another slowly, her gaze as intense as he felt, they jabbed and kicked, neither getting a decisive hit. Then he reached out to grasp her and bring this to an end—
And found himself flat on his back on the mat.
Cullinane reacted quicker than she did, though. Her pause for the flash of a triumphant smile was one second too long. Before she could step out of range, he’d hooked one leg around her, dropping her to the mat. He loomed over her, the killing blow at her throat.
Around them the men recovered from the shock of her dropping him. Explosions of satisfaction echoed.
Cullinane only noticed the sudden stillness between them, intensely aware of her body beneath his. In a span of seconds, he’d gone from chagrin to anger to triumph, and his legendary control wavered. Age-old instincts awakened, her slim throat beneath his hand, her pelvis all but joined to his, her fierce will to fight him summoning his own aggression. Watching her eyes darken, a surge of lust rocketed through him.
He knew, in that moment, that she could spell his destruction.
Jillian MacGregor was more than dangerous. And he was doomed, if he didn’t stay away.
Rocking back on his heels, eyes still locked on hers, he slid his hand from her throat, trailing it slowly over one breast. She held his gaze, her chest rising with unsteady breath, taut nipples outlined against her shirt. His hand burned like fire; his mind screamed for release—
He stood quickly. Walked away before he made the biggest mistake of his life.
The room was utterly silent.
* * *
Jillian stretched under the hot water in her shower, remembering the moments after Cullinane had left the practice room. Head held high, she’d risen slowly from the mat, refusing to let them gloat. As she’d scanned the room, she’d been surprised to see reluctant admiration from the men lining the walls. Even Fred, with his cast, had nodded.
She’d lost, maybe more than she could bear to think about, but she’d gained their respect. Now if only she didn’t have to think about those last moments with Cullinane.
Wincing at muscles she knew would be very sore tomorrow, she ducked her head under the water, hoping the impression of him would wash away, too. For those endless, naked moments, she’d felt what she knew he’d felt...a hunger too deep to forget.
She could still feel him over her, large hand at her throat, his fingertips burning a path across one breast. She’d wanted to part her legs and draw him into her, to drive her fingers into the long dark hair and bring his mouth to hers, to fight him and claw until he satisfied the need that built with every new encounter until she wondered how long before she couldn’t hold out anymore.
Jillian slapped both hands against the tile, shuddering at the image, the havoc it wreaked within her. It was wrong— he was wrong. She could not, would not , feel this way any longer. She turned her face full up under the pounding water, praying for it to wash away his imprint, to clear her fevered mind. Damn him, damn him, damn him. She’d never had a reaction like this to any man.
But Cullinane wasn’t just any man. A chill settled into her bones, a visceral fear that he could make her vulnerable, make her fail.
Flipping the control to cold, Jillian shuddered but didn’t step away. If it took shocking her into her senses, by God, that’s what she’d do. She’d worked too hard, struggled too long, to let foolish fancies hold sway.
It was only hormones. A simple, instinctive
And no freaking way was Cullinane suffering their fate.
Closing his mind to her gender, her size, to desire and everything he wondered about her, he settled deep within, to the part of him that moved on instinct, the animal that knew how to survive any situation. He wasn’t going to injure her seriously if he could help it, but for all of their sakes, he couldn’t let her win.
She’d issued the challenge; now she had to live with the results.
Circling one another slowly, her gaze as intense as he felt, they jabbed and kicked, neither getting a decisive hit. Then he reached out to grasp her and bring this to an end—
And found himself flat on his back on the mat.
Cullinane reacted quicker than she did, though. Her pause for the flash of a triumphant smile was one second too long. Before she could step out of range, he’d hooked one leg around her, dropping her to the mat. He loomed over her, the killing blow at her throat.
Around them the men recovered from the shock of her dropping him. Explosions of satisfaction echoed.
Cullinane only noticed the sudden stillness between them, intensely aware of her body beneath his. In a span of seconds, he’d gone from chagrin to anger to triumph, and his legendary control wavered. Age-old instincts awakened, her slim throat beneath his hand, her pelvis all but joined to his, her fierce will to fight him summoning his own aggression. Watching her eyes darken, a surge of lust rocketed through him.
He knew, in that moment, that she could spell his destruction.
Jillian MacGregor was more than dangerous. And he was doomed, if he didn’t stay away.
Rocking back on his heels, eyes still locked on hers, he slid his hand from her throat, trailing it slowly over one breast. She held his gaze, her chest rising with unsteady breath, taut nipples outlined against her shirt. His hand burned like fire; his mind screamed for release—
He stood quickly. Walked away before he made the biggest mistake of his life.
The room was utterly silent.
* * *
Jillian stretched under the hot water in her shower, remembering the moments after Cullinane had left the practice room. Head held high, she’d risen slowly from the mat, refusing to let them gloat. As she’d scanned the room, she’d been surprised to see reluctant admiration from the men lining the walls. Even Fred, with his cast, had nodded.
She’d lost, maybe more than she could bear to think about, but she’d gained their respect. Now if only she didn’t have to think about those last moments with Cullinane.
Wincing at muscles she knew would be very sore tomorrow, she ducked her head under the water, hoping the impression of him would wash away, too. For those endless, naked moments, she’d felt what she knew he’d felt...a hunger too deep to forget.
She could still feel him over her, large hand at her throat, his fingertips burning a path across one breast. She’d wanted to part her legs and draw him into her, to drive her fingers into the long dark hair and bring his mouth to hers, to fight him and claw until he satisfied the need that built with every new encounter until she wondered how long before she couldn’t hold out anymore.
Jillian slapped both hands against the tile, shuddering at the image, the havoc it wreaked within her. It was wrong— he was wrong. She could not, would not , feel this way any longer. She turned her face full up under the pounding water, praying for it to wash away his imprint, to clear her fevered mind. Damn him, damn him, damn him. She’d never had a reaction like this to any man.
But Cullinane wasn’t just any man. A chill settled into her bones, a visceral fear that he could make her vulnerable, make her fail.
Flipping the control to cold, Jillian shuddered but didn’t step away. If it took shocking her into her senses, by God, that’s what she’d do. She’d worked too hard, struggled too long, to let foolish fancies hold sway.
It was only hormones. A simple, instinctive
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