Moonlight bathed the open training yard in silver, turning polished wood dummies and taut ropes into ghostly sentinels. The chill air carried the faint scent of pine, but between them, the heat was undeniable. Hinata stood at the center of the yard, breath steady, heart pounding. Across from her, Raikage A's silhouette was all power and promise.
He called her name softly. "Show me your stance."
She raised her arms in a gentle defensive posture—one taught in Konoha but never tested against a master like him. His gaze roamed over her form, appraising, hungry.
"Relax your shoulders," he instructed, stepping closer. The sound of his boots on stone echoed in the hush. "Breathe through your core."
His hand hovered near her collarbone, guiding her breath. Electricity crackled in the air—his chakra pulsing like distant thunder. Hinata's pulse mirrored the rhythm, her skin tingling where his fingers brushed her neck.
"Good," he murmured. "Now strike."
She moved—swift but hesitant—her fist meeting his open palm. The impact sent a jolt through her arm, and she stumbled backward. He caught her by the waist, steadying her with effortless strength. Her chest pressed against his, the warmth of his robe seeping through her thin training tunic.
"Again," he whispered, voice low.
This time, she struck with more confidence. He guided her wrist, aligning her elbow. When her knuckles grazed his skin, she felt a spark—part lightning, part longing. His breath was hot against her temple.
He circled her, demonstrating a fluid strike that ended with his palm at her throat. "Like this," he said, pressing gently. She gasped, the breath caught between pain and pleasure. His eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, nothing else existed.
Then he released her, stepping back. "Your turn to watch."
He moved with lethal grace—each punch and block a silent poem of power. Sweat beaded on his brow, droplets sliding down his chest. Hinata's gaze followed every muscle, every ripple of strength. When he paused, the air between them shimmered.
She advanced, emboldened. Their sparring grew closer—skin brushing skin as they exchanged controlled strikes. A misstep brought her against him; her back pressed to his chest. His arms wrapped around her, guiding her movements. She felt the rigid planes of his torso through his robe, the steady beat of his heart against her spine.
His breath ghosted across her ear. "You've improved," he said, voice husky. "But there's still more I can teach you."
Her hands slid up to his shoulders, fingertips tracing the ridges of muscle. "Teach me everything," she whispered.
Lightning danced in his eyes. "As you wish."
Under the moonlit sky, their training became a dance of desire—every strike, every touch, forging them closer in body and soul. And in that silent yard, the only lesson that mattered was the one they learned together.
To Be Continued…