Page 22 of Wristlocked
She moves to the edge of the mat, until her wrapped arm is stretched above her and she’s on her toes.
“Outside first on one.”
“I got it.” She shakes her head, adjusting her grip. The calluses on her palm scrape against my skin, raising goosebumps. I close my eyes, shutting out the sight of her in those damn booty shorts. She wore dance fishnets instead of leggings to help my grip if we ever make it to knee or thigh hangs. It doesn’t mean anything except that she does actually know what she’s doing, but it’s driving me crazy not to run my hands over them, to explore the contrast between the rough weave and her silky thighs.
“Three, two,” I count it down. We step out together on the “one” and push off smoothly. She makes it through the first turn with good alignment, and I rotate my shoulder and ground my feet, prepping for the spin and catch. This time, she follows my lead without fighting me, and when I launch her into the spin, she fucking nails it, tight and flawless, long ponytail whipping around like the trail of a Fourth of July firework. On her second rotation, I brace against the mat and throw my arm out to catch her, but she doesn’t open up in time to slow her momentum and barely snags my fingers. I try to follow her, to absorb some of the impact on her shoulder and release her hand, but she holds on and drags herself back to center.
“Fuck.” She yanks free of her wristlock.
“Actually, that was better. How’s the shoulder?”
She gives it an experimental roll and grimaces. “Fine.”
“You’re a shitty liar. Let me see.”
She goes still when I reach for her and wrap one hand around her bicep, probing her shoulder gently with the other. There’s no immediate swelling, but when I dig my fingers in deeper and shift the joint in the socket, she sucks in a sharp breath.
“That hurts?”
“Yes.” Something in her voice snags low in my gut, and I raise my eyes to hers. Her face is flushed, a bruise from one of our collisions already blooming over a freckled cheekbone, and her eyes are a night sky drowning in black. She stares back at me, defiant and fearless, and I can smell her skin, clean sweat and warm spice, like ginger and cinnamon. Without thinking, I squeeze her shoulder again, curling my fingers into the space between the bones, and the sound that escapes her clutches me like a fist around my cock. My brain short-circuits, all the filthy things I could do to make her moan again crashing through me like gravity.
She reaches for my face with her free hand, pressing her thumb to the swollen cut on my lower lip. I catch her fingers, and when she tries to pull away, I tighten my grip, watching her breath hitch and her pupils dilate.
“You like it when it hurts.” It’s a revelation, not a question, but when she doesn’t respond, I sink my teeth into the pad of her thumb where it still grazes my lip. “Tell me you like it.”
“I like it,” she gasps, and I draw the flesh into my mouth, sucking hard.
She tastes like ruin and desire.Fuck.I release her before she can drown me, then lean in for the kill.
“Does your pretty boy know how to hurt you till you beg to come for him?” I whisper, and she reels back, shock and anger flooding her features.
“That’s none of your business,asshole.”
“I didn’t think so.” I smirk. “And you like the fact that I’m an asshole.”
“You don’t know shit about me. Or Lyot.”
The image of him on his knees with his cock in his hand and her standing over him like an avenging goddess flashes throughmy head. I raise an eyebrow at her, and she blushes but doesn’t retract her claws.
“You think he doesn’t make me come? Sixty seconds, remember? You were just too chickenshit to watch that part when you had the chance.”
“Maybe so.” I shrug. “But I know you’re here right now and he’s nowhere to be found. And I know you’re wet for me when I’ve barely touched you.”
“Like you were hard for us when I had him on his knees?”
I don’t bother to deny it.
“I might get hard for you, princess.” I give my dick a slow stroke, drawing her eyes to the obvious bulge in my tight gym pants. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m not the groveling type.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe I should ask Celeste Sullivan whatyoulook like on your knees.”
This time her claws find purchase, and I have to force myself to swallow the hot flare of anger that follows the blood.
Ironically, it was Celeste who taught me I could wage war far more effectively with words and sneering disdain than I could with fists and steel-toed boots. I got in one fight the first week I was here before she sat me down in her office and told me that, while my temper might be a part of my “charm,” if I couldn’t learn to channel it more productively, I’d be done in Vegas.
“Destroy whoever you want,”she’d said, standing over me with a fist in my mohawk, forcing me to meet her eyes. “But for God’s sake, be smart about it. Don’t leave a mark for the world to see and judge you for.” She was trying to protect me, in her way, meaning she was protecting her investment. She wanted me unpredictable—that was good for business—but not truly dangerous, especially not to her or her school. Still, it was a lesson worth learning, and I wrap myself in its cold armor now.
“Is that your way of asking me to slap that pretty mouth of yours?” I drawl, keeping my voice indifferent but letting a little anger smolder in my eyes, knowing the effect it’ll have on her. “Nice try, princess, but despite what you seem to believe, I’m not that easy.”
