Page 43 of Isle of Beauty

I’m sweaty, furiously hitting but still, Marcel doesn’t let go of the defensive hold. Until he does and I land a blow to his face that pushes him to the side lines. With a bleeding busted lip, he smiles at me and bow. My shoulders drop and I let go of my fists, bowing my head lower than his. My muscles burn and I’m breathing heavily.

“Ten minutes break and then, we resume. Lisandru, you’re with Lana.”

“My name is Pierce.”

Oh fuck.

“Your name is Lisandru, Mr. Bartoli. Don’t make the mistake of forgetting where you’re from and what you came back for.” Marcel sneers in a menacing tone that would have a lesser man cower.

He doesn’t need to raise his voice or crowd the taller man to get his point across. Pierce almost flinches at his words and I wonder if there’s more meaning behind them than I’m aware. Marcel is a stranger to Pierce so I must be imagining the tight line of his mouth.

Julian whistles low while Giulia and Dom chuckle. I pinch my lips together to keep myself from smiling and getting my own scolding, but I don’t miss how Pierce bows his head and nods before he moves to retrieve his towel and wipe the sweat off his brow.

My guess is that he realised recently he was Heir to a fucking fortune and doesn’t really care what he needs to do to get it. Pierce never looked like he toed with my line of the law but a lot can change in three years.

A lot has changed for me. Some days, not even sunshine Giulia can get me out of the darkness that threatens to consume me. I just wallow in self-hate, remembering all the young women I was blind to see and help. Remembering all the times I allowed him to touch me. And all the times I did the same.

The column of Pierce’s throat works when he drinks from the water bottle he just opened. I can’t help but fixate on the movement, my own throat parched all of a sudden.

Between thoughts of Eduardo and Pierce’s body on display in front of me, I’m not going to get my head out of my ass in order to spar with skill.

We prowl to each other, waiting for the other to move, while the rest of our audience watches, enraptured by the spectacle.

Tension crackles in the air. People fade into the background until all I can see is him, the light dusting of hair on his chest, his tapered hands a testimony of his training, his tongue darting on his lower lip for just a second. The air is cool on my skin but that’s not why goosebumps erupt all over my body.

I’m already out of breath and I haven’t even moved yet.

I can’t stand my body’s reaction so I attack. Years of training are the only reason I can get a good punch to his gut, turn around him and kick him in his left leg, just at the level where the tendons hold his knee. It will hurt like a bitch, and I get pure feminine satisfaction at hearing him grunt and noticing his recuperation time. It’s worse than mine and today, that’s the victory I need.

Marcel throws his hands up with frustration at my low blow and Pierce’s form.

“You two fucking deserve each other. Tomorrow, same time,” he says as way of goodbyes and leaves the dojo. Everyone follows when nothing entertaining happens and none of us want to concede to the other, leaving us alone, our panting breaths the only sound resonating around us.

Pierce and I keep sparring until I swipe his legs from under him. He flops on his back ungracefully and I jump to pin him to the ground, pressing a small blade hidden in my hair pins under his jaw.

“I win,” I smirk, victorious.

He gives me a slow sexy grin. “I think I do, mo cara.”

His hips push slightly up and I feel him between my legs, growing impossibly hard. Wetness pools at my core. Two can play this game. I press down harder on his cock.

His grunt of need should make me gloat in victory but I moan softly instead.

Pierce’s eyes turn dark and predatory seconds before he swiftly wraps his hand around my ponytail and directs my lips to his. He rolls us over and pins me to the mat, his groin settling between my thighs like he belongs there. The blade falls off my hand and I don’t do anything to get the advantage again.

The thin fabric of our clothes adds delicious friction between our bodies and I lose control of my senses completely, letting him take from me. I never want him to stop. Instead of pushing him away, my nails drag against his naked back to leave angry red marks. My marks.

It’s his turn to moan and the sound snaps my composure. I bite his lip until blood pools on my tongue. He reels back and his shocked eyes take me in, hair dishevelled, skin heated.

“You bit me,” he exclaims, half in shock, half in awe, like me marking him up with my teeth is all he’s ever missed.

“You kissed me,” I pant.

“You deserve worse, mo cara.”

“Then give it to me.”

His smile is wicked and almost scary but my lust-addled brain doesn’t register it. I only know that I need to relieve the ache between my thighs and I have my eyes set on the man who could burn my world down.

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