He moved fast. Bucked his hips up while grabbing my wrist, using the momentum to roll us. Suddenly I was the one on my back with Dom straddling my chest, his thighs locked tight around my ribs. His hands pinned my wrists above my head, and he was breathing hard now, grinning down at me like he'd just won something.
“Still think I'm all talk?” he panted.
I could feel his weight pressing me into the mat. The heat of him. The way his legs tightened when I tested his hold. Five years of trust between us, and this was how we spoke it. Through violence that wasn't quite violence. Through competition that was really just checking to make sure the other was still sharp. Still alive. Still here.
“You are straddling me like cheap date,” I said, keeping my voice flat even though my heart was pounding. “This is your victory?”
“This is me proving a point.”
“Point being?”
“That you're not as fast as you think you are.” His grin widened. “And that you're definitely slowing down in your old age.”
I tested his grip. Strong. Solid. He knew what he was doing. But he'd made one critical mistake. He'd gotten cocky.
I drove my knee up hard into his lower back while simultaneously twisting my wrists inward. The combination broke his hold just enough. I bucked him forward, rolled, and suddenly we were grappling in earnest. No more playing. Just instinct and training and the kind of fight that happened when two predators tested each other's limits.
We rolled across the mat, a tangle of limbs and leverage points. Hiselbow caught my ribs. My knee found his thigh. We were both breathing hard now, sweat making our grips slip, and there was something almost obscene about it. The way our bodies moved together. The way we anticipated each other's moves. The heat building between us that had nothing to do with the workout and everything to do with trust pushed to its breaking point.
I got him in a headlock, but he twisted out of it. He went for an arm bar, but I countered before he could lock it in. We ended up face to face, both on our knees, my hand fisted in his shirt and his fingers wrapped around my wrist tight enough to bruise.
We were both panting. Both grinning now, because this was the most honest conversation we'd had in weeks.
“You give up yet?” Dom asked, breathless.
“Do I look like man who gives up?”
“You look like a man who's about to get his arse kicked by someone younger and prettier.”
“You are neither of these things.”
“I'm definitely prettier.”
“You have blood on your face.”
“Makes me look dangerous.” He was still holding my wrist, still close enough that I could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Could smell his cologne mixed with sweat and that indefinable thing that was just Dom. Solid. Real. Alive in a way that reminded me I was too.
I shoved him back, not hard. Just enough to break the moment before it became something else. Something neither of us could take back.
He went easily, sprawling on his back with that stupid grin still plastered across his face. “Admit it. I almost had you.”
“You had nothing.”
“I had you pinned for at least ten seconds.”
“Ten seconds is not victory.” I stood, offered him my hand. “Ten seconds is me letting you think you won.”
He took it, let me haul him to his feet. “You're a terrible liar, you know that?”
“I am excellent liar. You would not know truth from me if it bit you.”
“Yeah, well.” He wiped more blood from his mouth, still catching his breath. “You're still slowing down.”
I turned back to the heavy bag, but there was something lighter in my chest now. Something that felt almost like relief. Almost like being human again, even if just for a moment.
“Control is not weakness,” I said, settling back into my stance. “You should remember this.”
“My problem is I talk too much. Your problem is you don't talk at all.” He grabbed a towel from the bench, watching me with those eyes that saw everything I tried to hide. “You should let someone hit you back more often. Might make you feel human again.”
