With both hands, I grab his wrist, pulling his arm just far enough away to slip beneath it as I spin to face him. But he’s faster and grabs at my wrist, yanking me off balance, and suddenly I’m falling. I hit the mat with him on top of me, his weight pinning me beneath him. One hand captures both my wrists and presses them above my head.
“How about now?” His voice is rougher, darker. “Yield?”
“Never.”
I try to buck him off, but he’s positioned himself perfectly to neutralize my leverage. His free hand comes up to grip my hip, holding me still, and the movement brings our bodies into fullcontact. The fight drains from my body all at once, replaced by an entirely different feeling.
Because now I can feel every inch of him. The hard planes of muscle. The heat of his skin through our clothes. The way his body fits against mine like we were designed to mold together just like this.
“Don’t do that again.” He growls.
“Why not?” The challenge comes out breathier than I intend.
We’re both breathing hard now. His face is only inches from mine. I can feel the heat of him through our clothes, can see the way his pupils are dilated, can smell his cologne and sweat mixed together, unique and delectable.
“We’re supposed to be sparring, not —” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
“Not what?” I push, knowing full well his thoughts are as dirty as my own right now.
His gaze drops to my lips. His eyes are nearly black with desire when they meet mine. “Not this.”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. His hand is still on my hip, thumb resting against my bare skin where my shirt has ridden up, and neither of us seems capable of breaking apart.
“Chloe,” he says, his voice rough, warning.
“Don’t.” But I don’t know if I’m telling him to stop or desperately not to stop.
His hand tightens on my hip. His thumb — accidentally or deliberately, I’m not sure — brushes against the strip of exposed skin where my shirt has ridden up, and that touch sends electricity through my entire body.
“I’ll admit, you’re good,” he murmurs. “Better than I expected. But not good enough.”
“Not good enough for what?” I’m not sure if he’s talking about fighting anymore.
“Good enough to be safe without protection.” His thumb moves again, a deliberate stroke this time, and I make a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a whimper.
I should push him away. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Should remember the risk of exposure, the fact that Basili himself said the kiss on the balcony was a mistake. But my body doesn’t listen to the logic. It’s responding to the weight of him on top of me, the heat of his body, the way his hand is still on my bare skin.
This is dangerous. This whole situation is dangerous. We’re alone in a gym, pressed together on the mats, and the way he’s looking at me suggests that fighting is the last thing on his mindright now. I know it’s the furthest thing from my mind as I look at his lips, so close, his face mere inches from mine.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. I can’t, I don’t want to either. His hand flexes on my hip again, and this time his long fingers wrap around my petite hip bone, squeezing. He shifts his weight, settling more firmly between my thighs, and the friction makes my eyelids close, and my eyes roll with want.
“Basili —”
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is gruff, low, barely audible. “Tell me to let you go, Chloe. If you don’t, I’m going to —”
“Going to what?” I challenge him, and I can’t help but roll my hips slightly.
His hand moves. Deliberate now, purposefully. Sliding from my waist to my ribs, beneath my shirt, stroking across my stomach. My muscles jump under his touch, and I can’t suppress the small sound that escapes my throat.
“I’m going to forget all the reasons this is a terrible idea,” he finishes. His hand spreads wide, palm hot against my skin. “That I’m supposed to be keeping my distance. That you’re here for Emmanuel, not for me.”
“Basili —” I rasp as I arch my back beneath him. My skin on fire beneath his fingers, my body betraying me completely, seeking more of his touch even as my mind screams warnings.
“Say it.” His lips brush my lips, and I feel the words as much as I hear them. “Tell me to stop, or tell me to kiss you. But don’t leave me in fucking limbo where all I can think about is —”
“Kiss me,” I whine.
His mouth crashes onto mine. Not tentative like on the balcony, this time it’s demanding, raw. No, this kiss is so much more. It steals the breath from my very lungs. Need unleashed after days of staying away from one another.
