I end up crab walking away and do a back walkover to give myself some room. “The streets.”
He tilts his head, avoiding my attempt to gouge his eyes. “Which streets?”
“Here. There. Everywhere, really. You?” I jerk my arm away before he can bite it.
“St. Petersburg. Then Chicago. And anywhere else I got sent.” He’s still grinning and baring his teeth.
I haven’t enjoyed a spar like this in months, maybe years. It’s not like in the garage or hotel room, or even the kitchen a few days ago.
We’re pulling punches, but there’s no hatred here. No desperation. Just energy, force, and the static tingling beneath my skin, buzzing in the air between us and drawing me in.
We trade combinations as we talk.
I shake hair out of my eyes. “How old when you started?”
His fist whistles past my ear. Rather than dodge, I snap at his forearm with my teeth. If he can fight that dirty, I don’t mind joining him in the gutter.
“Eight. Some would say.” He slips past my punch. “You?”
“Nine.” As if he doesn’t know how old I was when I left the Kozlovs. “Why did you start?”
“Because I had to.” He catches my next hit and twists my wrist. “You?”
I use the momentum to spin out. “Me too.”
He looks as surprised as I am, his eyes wide, his grin slipping.
How could we, who had such different upbringings, have similar outcomes, and at the same time in our lives?
What an absurd coincidence.
“Fighting’s the only connection I know.” I’m not sure why I’m admitting this. Why I’m offering him real information.
He nods. “I get that.”
He’s still gripping my arm as if he forgot about our skirmish. He’ll soon regret that.
Instead of getting free, I shove. With most of his weight on his bad ankle, Max goes down but doesn’t let go.
The mat doesn’t cushion much, but his big, sweaty body does.
I land on top of him, sprawled out over his chest. Reflexively, I lift myself up, taking advantage of the position to straddle him.
“Did you really think you’d beat me in my own house?” I straighten my spine, laughter on my lips.
I gaze down, ready to rub my victory in his face, and stop. Those icy blue eyes burn with desire.
That same lust-fueled heat boils through me as I realize I’m straddling him.
I want him to flip me over and pin me to the mats. Rip my underwear off so his hands can explore every inch of me unimpeded, claiming me in ways that terrify and excite me in equal measure.
His hands come up to cradle my hips. Not to move or hurt me, but to keep me in place. He wants this too.
I lean down instinctively, and Max stretches upward. We’re drawn together by a force I don’t understand and can’t control.
At least until his fingers clutch onto my hips and he pushes me away, causing me to tumble sideways. Before I can catch myself, he’s already scrambling to his feet and backing up like I’m the threat.
As he continues to retreat, he winces.
