Page 40 of The Beast Who Begged Me

I slam a fist into the nearby punching bag. “Stop it.”

“Make me,” he hisses, and he leans over slightly, weight shifting forward, clearly telegraphing his move⁠—

And then he springs at me.

My reaction is automatic. I grab him by the shoulders, intending to push him back. But I forgot who I’m dealing with, because what he lacks in pure strength, he makes up for in sneakiness. He moves with me, using my own momentum against me so that I lose my balance. We stumble, and I twist frantically as we crash onto the blue mats in a heap of tangled limbs, trying to avoid crushing him beneath me.

He ends up on top, straddling my hips, looking down at me. His face is flushed, his breath coming in pants. His eyes are gleaming gold.

“You’re still holding back,” he says breathlessly.

I flip him, intending to leave him there on the blue mats while I walk away, try to cool things down. But I freeze once he’s underneath me, the sensation too familiar, too welcome, to let go of.

And then his hips roll up into me.

“Get off,” he murmurs.

It sounds more like a plea than a command.

I try to roll away, but he hooks a leg around mine and holds me in place. His dick is hard against my thigh, a solid length straining against the thin fabric of his sweatpants. And mine is responding in kind.

“Get off,” he pants again.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I manage to grit out.

His hands come up to grip my shoulders, but not to push me away. To hold me there. “I told you, Dami, I’ve always been able to take care of myself. I don’t need your lessons. But maybe you could do with a few of mine.”

He arches up again, a slow, deliberate grind of his cock against mine, and I roll off him at last, get to my feet.

“You can’t get away from me,” he says, scrambling up after me. He’s breathing heavily now, and he’s too gorgeous like this. It’s not fair. The anger, the defiance, the flush on his cheeks. “Come on, Orsini,” he says, circling me. “You wanted to do this. You wanted to teach me. So teach me.” He lunges, but I sidestep him easily.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe he really can protect himself. That tongue of his is a knife, and he’s been using it against me with mastery. Cruel cuts flick from it as easy as the sharpest switchblade.

And I’m happy to take each laceration. Want more, in fact.

He comes at me again, and this time I throw him to the ground, carefully, helping him fall, but it only provokes another slash from his blade. “You think I’m weak,” he spits from the floor, “because I can’t kill a man with my bare hands. But who’s more powerful, Dami? The attack dog or the man who holds the leash?”

He launches himself at me again, shooting up from the mat. I let him slam into me, let him think he’s winning for a second. He’s strong in that wiry way. But he’s no match for me, not in brute strength.

And I’m no match for him in anything else.

I push him hard enough that he stumbles back, and he hits the wall with a thud. I’m on him a split-second later, my hands flat against the wall on either side of his head, my body pinning him there.

He’s looking up at me, and I’m trying to remember the angry words that were rushing up in me a second ago. But all I see is the pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat, the parted lips, the gold eyes glowing with defiance.

“You need to run before anyone gets this close to you,” I say at last. “Don’t ever let them corner you.”

“You still don’t see it, do you, Dami?” He raises one hand, places it flat against my chest, right over my heart. “You’re the one who’s cornered.”

His hands slide around the back of my neck. I look down into his face. Into his eyes.

“Break my hold and walk away,” he says. “Or…”

“What the hell do you want from me, Clemenza?” I growl, low and rough so the microphones won’t pick it up.

“Maybe I want to torture you.” He presses up against me, flush from balls to chest, burying his face in my neck.

“If you want to torture me, there’s an easier way,” I tell him. “Send me away from you. And tell me to never come back.”