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She turned from him and continued with her movements as if he was not there. That stung. Yesterday’s squabble possibly the cause. He did not feel proud of it, no. He lost his temper as it had been hard to deal with her defiance and his thwarted desire all at once.
She shrugged. “To defend myself.”
“Let us see how good you are.” He defied her before he could think better of it. He undid his tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves and kicked his shoes.
She turned to him anew, a neutral expression on her unflawed face. “Be my guest.”
It was not uncommon for women to wrestle though they mostly came from the labour strata, he knew. Many fighting clubs in town presented female matches that used to attract many male patrons. That she, a countess, did it surprised him.
He climbed up the ring and glanced at her. She undertook defensive stance, upper body bent forward, feet apart, arms held in the air. They measured each other for long seconds. He hesitated concerned with how much force he should use. He made a move towards her, minding not to be too forceful. She took him in full, using his weight against him and throwing him on the wooden planks. He fell with an unexpected thud, stupefied.
“Not very good, you say.” He commented as he stood up, on alert.
“That was what I said, yes.” She retorted tartly.
They engaged again, and she dodged every one of his advances. He came on to her, she tried a kick, he grabbed her foot and overthrew her. She met the boards without a sound.
“That is a tad different from men’s wrestling.” He observed, while she regained her feet.
“More adapted for women.” She readied for another strike.
The next engagement had them holding one another, attempting to send one to the floor again. His hand placed on her tiny waist, at the same time hers detained him at his chest. For a moment, they glared each other impassive, electrical undercurrents flashing in the air. They did not make it and both fell, she over him. Sweat ran down their necks when their eyes clashed as opponents. And then became heated with something else. Annabel clambered up to her feet leaving him to deal with his… secondary reactions.
Defensive stances, they ogled one another attentive for the next move. He delved in her liquid eyes and, for a heartbeat his concentration faltered, his blood forgetting the fight to heat at a whole different stimulation. She blinked rapidly as if she felt the same.
Both got a grip when they came at each other again. They knew what to expect and kept their ground as neither overcame the other.
Romulus was enjoying himself overly much. The chance to touch her now and again a perk. She proved to be a respectable opponent, nevertheless. He found it difficult to overcome her even if shorter and less muscled than him. Amazing. He charged one more time.
She never yielded, giving blow by blow, kick by kick and held her ground for a long time. Their match undecided until he got distracted by her falling hair in midnight strands. She took advantage of it and threw him down, winning the match.
Standing over him, a magnificent amazon, all haughty and proud, he rejoiced. Oh, but the woman revealed to be a box of surprises.
And then she placed her delicate foot on his chest. What the…!
Their glares meshed tenacious. Her hair fell in ringlets around her face, hands on her waist, nothing short of a general.
“Apologise for yesterday, my lord.” Came the boon for her victory.
“You leave no ground uncovered, do you?” His lopsided smile told of admiration.
“Exactly.”
“Please, accept my apologies, my lady.” What else was he supposed to do? He had exceeded himself, anyway.
“Apologies accepted, my lord.”
At the precise moment she would withdraw her foot, he held the satiny skinned limb and in a quick turn, put her to the ground and pinned her there. She might have won, but she also had him incinerating with want.
She stared at him with indignant shock at once transformed in something diametrically different.
His mouth descended on hers ravenous, invading her in a kiss he had wanted to repeat since the blasting last one.
In between moans, her hands came to his dishevelled sleek hair as she pulled him to her with the same greediness as him. Undisguisedly carnal, their mouths wide open, their tongues devouring, their bodies seeking each other, there was no room for holding back. Anabel arched into him as he cradled his hard ridge into her. He continued ravaging her, while his hand traced her flaring hips, her ribs on her coarse white shirt.
He came up for air and their ragged breathes resounded in the armoury, their eyes returned to each other, hers darkened with desire. Her scent of woman and arousal flooded his nostrils. He wanted them naked, mingling their drenched skins, he craved to drink in her, all of her.
“I should have taken you under that tree.” He murmured hot, his fingers unlacing the strings on her neck. “I should have taken you every damned day of that summer.” His palm snuck into her shirt and covered her pebbled round breast, only to have her thrusting it into his palm. Her long lashes came down with delectation. His finger squeezed the eager bare nipple, she sighed. “Should have gotten you with child.” He rumbled on her neck. “You would be bound to me forever.” Gaping her too big shirt, his mouth found her dusky nipple.
