“You always this grabby when you teach?” she asks.
“No, but there’s always a first time for everything.”
She looks up at me then.
I lean closer, my mouth near her ear, my voice low. “Hesitation is mercy. Mercy is death.”
Her breath stutters.
“Now,” I say, stepping back, “come at me.”
She hesitates. “You want me to stab you?”
I shrug. “If you can.”
“You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
Her chest heaves with uncertainty. Eventually, she lunges at me, but it’s too sloppy. I catch her wrist mid-swing, twist, and disarm her in two seconds, sending the blade clattering to the floor.
She glares at me, breathless. “You didn’t tell me you were going to fight back.”
“No one’s going to wait for permission out there, little orchid.” I pick up the knife and offer it to her again. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine. “Again.”
She moves again, quickly and messily. I disarm her easily. The knife hits the floor again.
“Cazzo!”
“You’re not thinking,” I say, amused.
“I am,” she says. “I’m thinking you’re distracting.”
God, I love this game. I feel absurdly proud.
“Again.”
She tries again.
And again.
She keeps trying, refusing to back down. Each time, she comes back harder, sharper, more precise.
And fuck me, it’s beautiful.
She’sbeautiful. Fierce. Unforgiving. She could slit my throat and I’d die grateful.
I mock her when she dithers. I praise her when she gets it right. She’s getting it. And every second I spend with her like this, every flicker of anger in her eyes, every bead of sweat slipping down her neck makes me want her more.
Not just to fuck. Though, yeah. That too. But it’s worse than that. I want to carve my name into her heart so deep no one else ever stands a chance.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does. Maybe she likes it. Maybe this whole thing is a power play, and I’m the one losing.
She lunges again. I catch her wrist. We collide, momentum tangling us together. My hand stays on her arm a second too long.
“You’re thinking too much,” I say quietly.
“So are you,” she replies.
