I’m left sitting on the mats, my body still thrumming with arousal and adrenaline.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter 19
Max
My ankle throbs in time with the pulse in my pants, both in sync with my heart.
Nika’s strong. I knew she had skill, but even after fighting a few times, I never expected her to win this spar without cheating.
Even injury-free, I still might’ve lost. She’s that good.
From the mats, she studies me with those dark eyes that notice too much, sprawled out like a teenager’s ultimate wet dream. Her panties ride low on her hips, slightly wet from sweat and desire. Her shirt’s twisted and pulled taut against her tits, showing off her hard nipples. Her lips part, revealing her straight white teeth.
I want to give in so badly.
My hands shake with barely contained lust. I curl them into fists, my nails biting into scraped palms. The pain helps center me as I force myself to glance at the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but her. “Get up.”
She stays still. “Max, what?—”
“Get. Up.” I grab her arm and hoist her to her feet. She’s all lean muscle and violence cloaked in creamy skin.
“What are you?—”
I lock the cuffs around her wrists again. She stiffens, staring at the metal, and I haul her back up to the main house. When she stumbles on the stairs, I lift her without slowing. At the top, I set her down.
She manages the rest of the way to the room gracefully before catching herself on the footboard and spinning to confront me. “You’re overreacting.”
Ignoring her, I drag her wrists to the headboard, my hands working automatically. Zip tie, loop, secure. Muscle memory kicks in from a hundred missions, a thousand restraints.
Once she realizes I’m securing her to the bed again, her eyes widen. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Max, you don’t need to?—”
I step back, but the sight of her bound and waiting, her skin flush with life, freezes me in place.
Her silky white hair spreads across dark, rumpled sheets like feathers. Her chest heaves under a t-shirt still damp with sweat from our fight.
Yep, the fight. That’s the cause of this.
If I ignore her hard nipples and the way her thighs grind together—and take some serious blows to the head—I might even believe that.
Fuck me.
Even without the brain damage, I’m pretty damn close to losing control.
All I want to do is stretch out over her and bury myself between those writhing legs, to test her strength and flexibility.
Her hips swivel, and my mouth waters until reality comes crashing back.
This woman got Sasha killed. Plotted his downfall and convinced us to condemn an innocent man. He lived his last days believing his own family hated him. If not for Anika Kozlov, I never would have shot him.
I jerk my gaze away because I can’t process the rage and hunger that’s tangled up in her expression or in my own body. I need to get my shit together. Washing the scent of her off my skin will help.
I cross to the en suite with a sliding barn door. The shower is all glass, chrome, and luxury. Grabbing the panel as I pass through, I yank it closed with too much force. The door slams into the frame, rattling the hardware.
I don’t care if the thing breaks. That’s what I do. I break things. It’s who I am.
I strip off my clothes, dropping them on the black tile floor. My body hums with adrenaline and arousal.
