“Where did you learn to fight like that?” I asked. Voice rough.
The grin faded. Something shuttered in his eyes. “Around.”
“Around does not teach you to move like trained killer.”
“Maybe I had good teachers.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter?” He moved to the water station. My eyes tracked the bounce of his cock with each step. “You wanted to see if I could handle myself. Now you know.”
I did know. And it changed things.
“One more round,” I said. “Full contact. No holding back.”
His eyebrows rose. “You sure about that?”
“Are you?”
“Oh, I'm sure.” He set down the water bottle. “Question is whether you can handle losing twice in one night.”
“Will not lose.”
“Confident.” He moved back to the center of the mat. Dropped into a ready stance. His cock still hard. Still obvious. “I like that. Makes beating you more satisfying.”
I matched his stance. We circled each other. Predators assessing. My cock throbbed. His cock twitched.
Looking for excuses to touch.
He moved first. Fast. Low kick aimed at my lead leg. I blocked, countered with a jab. He slipped it, came inside my guard, drove his palm toward my solar plexus.
I caught his wrist. Twisted. He spun with it, used the momentum to drive his elbow toward my face.
I ducked. Released his wrist. We separated.
Circled again. Both breathing hard. Both achingly hard.
“You telegraph your kicks,” I said.
“You drop your right hand when you jab,” he countered.
We engaged again. Faster now. Trading strikes. His style was fluid. Dangerous. Every movement purposeful.
Every touch deliberate.
I caught his leg mid-kick. Swept his other foot. He went down but grabbed my shirt as he fell, pulled me down with him.
We hit the mat hard. I landed on top, his legs wrapped around my waist, his hands gripping my shoulders.
Our cocks pressed together. Hard lengths separated only by fabric. The friction made us both groan.
Suddenly we weren't fighting anymore.
His legs tightened around me. Pulled me closer. His hands slid from my shoulders to my neck, fingers threading into my hair. Not gentle. Possessive. Claiming.
“Viktor,” he breathed. His hips rolled up, grinding his cock against mine.
The friction was maddening. I bit back a groan.
