Page 24 of The Fighter

We circle each other. She’s looking for an opening, and I’m trying to think of something—anything—other than how beautiful she looks. I’m doing my best to breathe through the wall of heat in my chest, to ignore the desire tightening my groin. I notice everything: the way her bra pushes her breasts together and up, her curvy ass hugged tight by her gym shorts, and those pretty pink toenails.

My cock aches for Alina.

I’ve watched her all week. When she’s teaching classes, I sometimes come out of the office and watch her fight. She’s quick on her feet, agile and lightning fast, as good a street fighter as any I’ve seen.

She uses that speed now. She launches a flurry of strikes, quick, fast jabs at my torso. I sidestep, avoiding the blows, and pull her close in a tight clinch. “Nice try,” I murmur into her ear.

Her eyes flash. “Shut up and fight,” she hisses. I let her go, and she follows her jab with a round kick that I block. She doesn’t back down. She continues to attack with the grace of a ballerina, lunging forward and dancing back, her fists and feet slicing through the air. She aims another kick at my midsection, and this time, I’m not quick enough to avoid it.

She grins victoriously at my grunt. “How’s that for a nice try?”

“Did you connect?” I block her next kick with a lazy grin. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Bite me,” she snarls.

“Was that an invitation, dolcezza?”

She launches herself at me in response. As angry as she is, she isn’t rash. I haven’t gone on the offense yet, but she doesn’t leave herself open. She kicks and punches, her attacks coming faster and fiercer. But I wasn’t boasting when I said she wasn’t going to win the fight. If I were untrained, she’d absolutely take me down, but I’m not. As good as she is, there’s nothing she can bring to counter the weight advantage I have.

She’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling with each breath. I can feel the heat of her body as she presses closer. “Give up.”

“Fuck you.”

Anytime, dolcezza.

I use her momentum against her, deflecting her strikes and controlling the pace of the fight. She knows what I’m doing, and it infuriates her. She tries a single-leg takedown. Dropping to one knee, she grabs my right leg.

Oh fuck.

The single-leg takedown is a basic beginner wrestling move, one I’ve done thousands of times.

But this is Alina. She’s on one knee, her right arm locked around my thigh and her left at my ankle, and the move puts her lips mere inches from my crotch.

My cock is rock hard, the bulge clearly visible beneath my lightweight trousers.

She notices. Freezes. Sucks in a breath. For an instant, neither of us moves. The air crackles with tension. She tears her gaze away from my cock, and our eyes meet. “Tomas,” she whispers.

Her dark hair shines under the overhead light. Her skin glistens with sweat. She is raging fire and glittering ice, a multi-faceted diamond that sparkles brighter the more you look at it.

And I want to do a whole lot more than look.

I want to get close enough to burn.

All thought has fled my brain, and all my rules are out of the window. The voice of caution that has kept me away from her all week is temporarily mute. I stare into her eyes, and I want to sip that lush cognac—drink it with abandon—until my head is dizzy and spinning.

“Alina.” My voice is quiet in that dark room. This is a mistake, yes, but it’s the sweetest one.

Then the spell shatters. Awareness returns to Alina’s eyes, and she realizes the position we’re both in.

A victorious smile tugs at her lips. She thinks she has me exactly where she wants me. “One tug,” she says, her tongue swiping her lower lip. “One tug, and I’ll take you to the mat.”

“I don’t think so, dolcezza.” She’s good, but my body is in a wide, defensive stance, and I have sixty pounds on her. I put some pressure on her back, drop to the floor, and take her down with me. I roll over so she’s under me, my hips pressing down on hers, my forearms caging her in. “Ready to submit?”

17

ALINA

Ready to submit?

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