I kick out at him again and he expertly sidesteps, then grabs me around the knees, hoisting me over his shoulder.
“You’re cheating!” I slap his back with my palm before he puts me down.
“These assholes won’t play fair,” he says, taking a step back from me.
“Uh-huh. Neither will this Brute that I’m stuck with,” I say as I grab his vest and pull him toward me, lifting my knee and jabbing it toward his crotch at the same time.
He grabs my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and using the fact I have one foot off the floor to manipulate my balance. I’m thrown up into the air, and he pulls my body to his until I’m straddling his waist, our faces inches apart.
He wraps his giant arms around me so tightly I’m pinned to him, my arms held behind my back. I’m unable to do anything except keep my thighs banded around his thick torso. I squeeze them, trying to dig my knees into his ribs, but it’s pointless.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, Sinclair. But you’re vulnerable. Look at the way I’m holding you and I’m not even out of breath.”
I scream into my cheeks in frustration and wriggle in his arms. All it does is rub my nipples in my cropped workout top against his vest and make them pucker into tight peaks from the friction.
“I could do whatever I want to you, and you’d not be able to do a thing about it.”
Green irises burn into mine, and I stop fighting. Denver’s grip on me loosens a tiny amount as I lean closer to him. His eyes remain locked on mine as I move closer.
“Anything you want, huh?” I dust my lips against his and his breathing stalls.
Then I grip his bottom lip between my teeth and bite hard enough to make a point. His warm, minty breath entwines with mine and his hold on my wrists tightens behind my back.
I expect him to let me go, to flinch, curse, something.
But he doesn’t.
I pull back, and he runs his tongue over his red lip, his lids hooded as he stares at my mouth.
“Good,” he clips.
“Good?” I echo with a frown.
“If you can surprise your opponent, then it can give you a window to escape.” He places me onto my feet and picks up my towel, handing it to me. “Let’s take five. Grab a drink.”
I do as he says, grabbing my water bottle and walking out of the gym, following him down the hallway and into the main living area of the house. He’s striding ahead of me, and he steps outside onto the giant porch that juts out from the side of the house into the treetops. I get the impression he doesn’t want company.
I lean against the back of one of the couches as I watch him, hands gripping the railing, shoulders tense as his gaze fixes into the distance on the sunset.
His ‘cabin’ is a secret mountain mansion. It’s huge and decorated in a modern, yet understated way. Lots of bare wood and natural textures. It’s fully furnished with an open log fire in the giant living space that Monty has claimed as his area, and huge floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the treetops. It’s also fitted with the most state-of-the-art security system I’ve ever seen, rivaling the vault at Beaufort Diamonds flagship store on Fifth Avenue. Denver had to scan his retina to grant us access to the built-in garage that the house sits on top of.
We could be anywhere. It’s peaceful, surrounded by forest for miles. The roads are small and twist beneath the trees, leading to small country towns that are a world away from the city lights of Manhattan. We passed through one a few miles back on the drive here. If I’d blinked, I would have missed it. It’s probably the closest civilization for hours.
I don’t get it. He must come here more than I realized. Or at least, he did before he got assigned to me.
Lifting one of the photo frames that caught my eye when we arrived, I study it as I sip my water. The woman in it is beautiful. Blue eyes, light brown hair in a ponytail, a smattering of freckles on her nose. Freckles that match that grinning little girl in her arms. Her hair is darker, a deep chestnut like Denver’s. And her eyes… they’re the same green as his too.
He walks inside, and his eyes drop to the frame.
“Sorry.” I place it down on the bookshelf behind the couch.
“It’s fine.” He walks past me and to the kitchen, filling a glass with water and downing it in one. He fills it back up again and drinks the second one, the muscles in his neck contracting with each gulp.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“Dixie.” His expression softens. “And her mom’s name is Lizzie.”
“How old is she?”
