My cock is so hard, I’m surprised I haven’t jizzed in my pants.
I let her go. She stumbles, almost falls, but catches herself on the railing. Her hair is a mess now, face flushed, lips parted. She looks at me like she wants to kill me, or fuck me, or both.
I step into her space again, crowding her until her back’s against the mirror now. I pin her there with nothing but my eyes.
“If you want to run,” I say, “now’s your chance.”
She doesn’t move.
I reach up, slow, and flick away a bead of sweat from her temple. “I like the chase.”
I wait for her to say something, to tell me off, but she just stands there, chest rising and falling, hands clenched into fists.
I turn and walk, grabbing my shirt, boots stomping loud on the wood. The door slams shut behind me, the sound echoing long after I’m gone.
As I hit the hallway, I pause. Listen. I hear her curse, sharp and beautiful, then the soft thud of her palm hitting the wall.
She’ll come after me. They always do.
But this one? She might catch me.
I hope she does.
Chapter 5: Dahlia
I’mstillshakingwhenI rip the fencing jacket off, half the zipper’s teeth popping open in my haste. My skin is hot, flushed where the padding clung to me, my shirt is sticky and irritating. My sports bra is soaked, and my hair’s sticking to my neck. I want to throw it all in the trash. I want to smash something. I want to find him and run that sword right up his ass.
Storming towards the door, I slam my hand into it hard enough to make the hinges shriek, then I’m out in the corridor, shoes squeaking on the waxed floor. The rage has teeth and it’s eating me alive. My palms still throb where I hit the glass. The ghost of his hands on my body is annoying, skin prickling with every remembered touch.
It’s only when I step outside that I remember it’s winter—crisp, biting wind cuts straight through me. I stop, drag in a lungful of cold air, and force myself to count. Four, three, two, one. I’m still mad. If anything, I’m madder.
He’s there, of course. Leaning on the side of the building, posture casual, arms folded so his sleeves ride up and show the ink down his arms. He looks like he’s been waiting for hours, not minutes, and the smirk he gives when he sees me is the kind that could start a war.
Of course he’s also tattooed, muscular as fuck and has a smirk that would melt lesser girls.
I stride straight at him, no hesitation, closing the distance until I’m close enough to smell the sweat from earlier. He doesn’t flinch when I jab a finger into his chest, hard enough I feel the muscle tense underneath.
And of course he’s solid as a brick shit house and now my fucking finger feels broken.
“What the fuck was that?” I hiss, eyes narrowed. “You think you can come in and manhandle me like some street rat? You’re lucky I didn’t break your arm—”
He cuts me off by grinning wider. “Try next time.”
My head buzzes, vision tunneling to that single point where our bodies meet. I push him again, harder. “You think you’reuntouchable because you’re the Board’s attack dog? You’re not. My father could have you off this campus before sundown.”
He finally looks down at my hand, then up at my face. “Say his name,” he murmurs.
It knocks the air out of me. I don’t want to say it, but it’s a reflex. The need to obey. “Bonaccorso. Aurelio Bonaccorso.”
He repeats it, slow and mocking, tasting each syllable. Then he leans in, crowding my space until I step back, so the wall behind bites into my shoulder blades. “I don’t give a shit about your bloodline,” he says. “I care about what isn’t inside you right now.”
My brain short-circuits. For one raw second, I think he means rage. But his eyes are pinned to my chest, and I realize the cold has done its work: my nipples are hard as diamonds against the soaked fabric of my bra. The embarrassment shoots straight to my face, a heat flooding in under the chill.
I try to side step, but he plants a palm on the wall beside my head, caging me in. “Get out of my way,” I say, but the words come out breathless.
“Not until you admit you liked it.”
“No.”
