She edges forward; two steps, no more. Her gaze lands on me.
And she does it—she smiles. Small. Nervous.
For half a second, I feel my own mouth twitch, like my body didn’t get the memo that I don’t do smiling. I shut it down fast.
My eyes drag over her anyway. The clothes.
Tight, clingy. The curve of her waist. The way those pants hug her ass like a fucking spotlight. My cock stirs instantly, traitorous, and it takes every ounce of discipline not to adjust myself in plain view of my men.
Chyort.
Lev pushes off the wall, grinning widely when he sees Mary.
“Boss, did we order a yoga instructor? Because this one looks ready to teach us downward dog.”
She blinks, glances down at herself. Fingers tug at the hem of her top, like it might grow longer if she pulls hard enough.
“I didn’t… pick this,” she murmurs. Small. Almost apologizing. “Boris packed it.”
Lev laughs loud, delighted. “Perfect.”
Dima stalks into the space behind her, already changed from this morning’s work on Viktor. Long sleeves now—black, fitted. The kind that hug every ridge of muscle across his chest and shoulders. He rolls his neck, cracks his knuckles.
“Ready?” Dima asks Lev.
“Always.”
They don’t waste time on warm-ups. Lev throws the first punch—hard, fast. Dima ducks, comes up with an uppercut that would crack ribs. They dance around each other like wolves, all brutal grace and controlled violence. Fists connect with wet smacks. Grunts. The sound of air getting punched from lungs.
Mary sucks in a sharp breath. Her teeth catch her lower lip, biting down. Color floods her cheeks as she watches them. All that masculine power on display, sweat starting to gleam on skin, muscles shifting under fabric.
Her weight shifts, foot to foot. She looks at me—quick, nervous. Like she’s waiting for me to fix this somehow.
I don’t. My jaw locks. Because all I want is to rip those pants off and bend her over the nearest bench.
My balls tighten with the image of her last night—wanting, begging. The way she looked spread beneath me, all that soft skin flushed and trembling.
I clench my jaw and turn around, pretending to inspect a rack of assault rifles like they’re the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen. Because standing here with a hard-on while my men beat the shit out of each other isn’t exactly the intimidating boss image I’m going for.
Behind me, the wet smack of knuckles meeting flesh continues. Grunts. The shuffle of feet on concrete.
I hear her footsteps—soft, hesitant. Getting closer.
“I…” Her voice is right behind me now. “What should I do now?”
I turn. She’s close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo over the gym’s sweat and oil. Those amber eyes look up at me, waiting.
God, she’s beautiful. Her lips slightly swollen from last night, making them look plump and soft. Her cheeks flush rosy from the heat in the gym. Or maybe from watching my men beat the hell out of each other.
Before I can answer, Lev stops mid-punch and walks toward her.
“Come here,printsessa,” he flirts. “Don’t be shy.”
My fingers curl around the gun rack. Lev guides her toward the center of the space, his hand hovering just above the small of her back. Not touching. But close enough.
Mary swallows. She risks another glance at me, quick as a flinch, then down again. Like she wants to bury herself in the floor. Like last night is painted all over her skin, and she knows I can see it.
My cock stirs, remembering exactly how soft that skin feels.
