Page 21 of Widow's Walk

“If you want to fight, you fight me,” I repeat.

“Come on,” she purrs. “You’ve been dying to hit me.”

I don’t take the bait. “Not now.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

“You’ve been going at this for a while. You’re drained, and I won’t go easy on you. I want you at one hundred percent.”

The look in her eyes turns razor-sharp. “I want to sparnow.”

I fight the smile itching my lips. “You sure,joon-kharâsh?”

Her nostrils twitch. The endearment I’ve claimed for her hits a nerve. Which is all the reason to keep using it.

She steps inside the ring as if it belongs to her, and I follow suit. We begin the dance, circling each other.

It’s she who strikes first, her flurry too rapid for how long she’d been burning through her stamina. Every movement is crisp and calculated.

A fist lands and blood blooms at the corner of my mouth. I grin through the sting, knowing she wouldn’t hold back. But I underestimated her, and she’s wearing a grin like she knew I would.

“Sorry,” she pants, eyes glittering as she watches me wipe away the blood with the back of my hand. “Am I supposed to be going easy on the mafia prince?”

My grin is slow as I mentally remove the gloves.

I lunge, and even though I said I wouldn’t be easy on her, I still refuse to hit her. So, my strategy is simple: wear her down and wrestle her into submission.

Our arms end up locked, and her sweat is slick against my skin. There’s a static jolting between us with the proximity. Shegracefully maneuvers out of our entanglement, and I grunt from the shot she took at my ribs. Not from pain, but shock.

We continue for only a little while, and as soon as I see the steam leaving her, I take that moment to take her down. We hit the mat hard, in a tangle of limbs and sweat. She tries to scramble away, but I’m faster.

Grabbing her thighs, I drag her delicate body underneath me and use mine to weigh her down. When I catch her wrists to crank them over her head and slam them to the mat, there’s a sickening and subtle crunch under my grip.

I pause, but she doesn’t. She uses my hesitation to her advantage and wiggles an arm free to jab me in the chest with her elbow, knocking the wind out of me. But not enough to disarm me.

I recover quickly, regaining control and locking her down again. I bare my teeth with frustration simmering under my skin. “Are you done?” I snip vehemently, panting hard.

She’s grinning up at me, taking in shallow breaths. “Now, that was fucking fun.” There’s a sheen of sweat over her face, and blood trickles out of her nose and into her mouth. I gawk at it in fascination, wanting to follow the trail with my tongue. “Not bad for a mafia prince.”

She darts her tongue out to lap up the blood painting her upper lip, and that’s it for me. I crush my mouth over hers and kiss the fuck out of her. Her blood is as sweet as I imagined it would be, yet it leaves a sizzle on my tongue as I inhale her.

It isn’t tenderness. It’s another battle for the upper hand. Our tongues thrashing with dominance and our bodies undulating with sexual frustration as if I were already deeply rooted inside of her.

As if we’ve done this before.

Made to do this.

Made to fight.

Made to fuck.

The kiss deepens, and finally, the line between battle and surrender disappears entirely.

I can’t get her tight shorts down fast enough and she’s just as eager to hold my heavy cock in her hand as she’s pushing my pants down. I hiss when she wraps her small fingers around my length and gives it a firm pull. Just one touch and I’m throbbing.

Her hands snake under my shirt to roam over my torso. I whip my shirt up over my head and practically fumble with my cock to spear her. I’ve never felt so flustered in my life. Never. It’s beginning to fuck with my head, which in turn enrages me.

Growling through gritted teeth, I grip her dainty wrists in my hands and slam them back above her head as my hips meet her thighs when I bottom out. It’s like I can suddenly breathe, and the fog recedes a little so I can take back control of my own body and take ownership of hers.

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