“The gym, of course. Silly me, I should have known you had a gym.” I say sarcastically as I follow him through the mansion, down a long hallway I haven’t explored yet, and out a side door that leads to an entirely separate building.
The gym, like everything else here, is impressive. State of the art equipment, floor-to-ceiling windows that let the natural light in,and in the back, a dedicated training area that is fully matted specifically for grappling and sparring.
“This is where my men train,” Basili says, leading me to the mats. “And where I train when I need to clear my head.”
He shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over a nearby bench carefully. Then he starts rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle and covered in intricate tattoos.
I should look away. Should focus on stretching, preparing myself for whatever’s to come. But I can’t stop watching as he finishes with his sleeves and starts loosening his tie, pulling it completely off and adding it to the jacket. The movement makes his shirt ripple tightly across his chest and shoulders, and I’m suddenly very aware of how solid his body is.
How lethal. How attractive.
“See something you like?”
My eyes snap up to see Basili watching me with undisguised amusement, a knowing smirk playing at his lips as he kicks off his own shoes. Heat floods my cheeks, and I force myself to look down at my shoes, kicking the sandals off.
“I was just — that is —” I stumble over my words, which only makes his smirk widen further.
“You can look, Chloe. I don’t mind.” He moves onto the mat, gesturing for me to join him. “Though you might want to actually focus. I’d hate for you to get distracted and hurt yourself.”
The teasing in his voice sparks irritation, which helps to burn away my embarrassment. I step onto the mat, rolling my shoulders to loosen them.
“I won’t be the one getting hurt.”
“Now, now, no cheap blows to the testicles. That’s just desperation, not defense.”
I put my hands up. “Scouts honor.”
“Alright then, show me what you’ve got.” He settled into a ready stance, weight balanced, hands loose.
I don’t give him time to prepare further, or to strike first. I move in fast, going for a quick jab and duck to test his reflexes.
He blocks it easily, countering with a strike that comes all too close.Shit, he’s fast.
We circle each other, exchanging jabs and strikes. I dance on my toes, moving light and fast, not predictable but tactical. And I can see the exact moment the glow in his eyes changes from amusement to genuine interest as he realizes I’m not completely helpless. I actually know what the fuck I’m doing.
I feint left, then drive right, managing to get inside his guard and land a solid kick to his ribs. Not enough to hurt, but enough to prove a point.
“Not bad,” he says, and I can hear the tone of respect in his voice. “But you’re tired already, beginning to telescope your moves. I can see them coming.”
“Is that so?”
I drop low and sweep his legs. He goes down — actually goes down, flat on his back — hitting the mat with a fall that turns into a roll, and suddenly he’s back on his feet, hands at the ready like it never happened.
“Better.” He’s grinning now, actually grinning ear to ear, and it transforms his face from dangerously handsome to devastatingly attractive. “Again.”
We keep going like that, engaging again and again, this time more seriously. He’s testing me, I realize, pushing me to see what I’m actually capable of. And I’m meeting him move for move, using every technique Jay drilled into me over.
This becomes our battlefield. We circle, strike, block. I manage to land a few hits. He counters harder, faster, and I realize he isn’t holding back. He’s purposely not landing blows that would hurt me, perhaps, but he’s not holding back while controlling his strength, and a thrill shoots straight through my core.
That shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but it is.
But Basili has a decade on me, more training, and significantly more upper-body strength. When he finally gets his hands on me, he uses it to his advantage.
He catches my wrist during a strike, uses my own momentum to spin me around, and suddenly I’m trapped in his arms. My back against his chest, one arm banded across my collarbone, holding me immobile.
“Yield?” he asks, out of breath.
“No.”
