Page 76 of Ruthless Lord
“Hey!” I finally release his leg. I’ve been stretching him for longer than necessary, mostly because I can’t keep my hands away. “I’m insulted.”
“You shouldn’t be. Just means you like the way it feels with me.” He pushes himself up into a sitting position, shoulders slumped, big arms hanging loose in his lap. “If I had my choice, I’d rather have you. But fighting will do for now.”
I watch him finish up the stretches. I don’t offer to help. But I have to admit, watching him like this, I have a newfound respect for what he does.
I still think fighting is stupid and beneath him, but it’s something he loves. Clearly, he puts a lot of time and effort into keeping his body in top shape. This stretching routine alone is grueling, and I can’t imagine caring about anything enough to go through something like this several times a week.
Yet here he is, still going, even years past what’s allegedly his prime.
When he’s done, he strips off his shirt, just as Big Boss pokes his head back into the room. “Five minutes to the fight,” he says and quickly retreats.
Stefano grunts and rolls his shoulders. “I should go down.”
“Any way I can change your mind?”
“Take off your clothes and I’ll stay.”
I cross my legs. “Good luck down there.”
He looks at me and I can’t tell how serious he is. Would he really skip a fight to sleep with me? Or is he trying to get me to drop the rule?
I know the second I do that, I’m totally done.
If he can touch me whenever he wants, there’s no way I’ll resist him forever. Sooner or later, he’ll break me.
I don’t want to give him that chance.
Stefano strides out of the room. I stay on the couch, my good mood vanishing without him to watch. I find a bottle of wine behind the bar and pour myself a glass. I doubt Albert will mind.
I find a good spot at the bottom of the balcony. Down below in the ring, my husband circles a man half his age. He prowls, graceful and beautiful. Stefano looks like he’s a fish in water, home after a long absence, and when they come together and clash for the first time, I’m startled by his speed and strength.
He takes a beating. He gives out even worse. And as the two men strike each other, I realize something important.
Stefano isn’t old. He’smature. There’s an enormous difference between the two.
He hasn’t given in to age. He could’ve rolled over and accepted fate a long time ago, but instead he struggles against the inevitability of decline. He keeps himself in incredible shape purely because he wants to, and that’s the mark of a man who knows himself. That’s true maturity. Coming into his own body, accepting who he is.
And here I am trying to make him change.
When Stefano’s fist finally shatters the jaw of his much younger opponent, I make up my mind.
I can be more like him. Or at least half like him.
I need to find my own maturity.
The crowd roars as I retreat back into the box. My hands shake as I pour another glass of wine. The door opens before I finish the glass and my husband’s standing there on the threshold, staring in at me, body red and glistening with sweat, face bloodied and beautiful, like a Viking returned after a long raid.
“Shut the door behind you,” I tell him softly, coming around the bar.
“Did you watch?”
“Against my better judgment.”
“And?”
“You were good.”
“I know.” He doesn’t move when I stop inches in front of him. He smells like himself, but more. Musky and deep and warm. “I thought you’d leave before I got back.”
