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“We’re training you, not me.”
“Then I need a real opponent, not a pussy who’s too scared to go all in.”
“You calling me a pussy, beautiful?”
“Yeah, I am. Big, bad mafia soldier too scared to go up against the princess.” We both know it’s bullshit—there’s nothing about me that terrifies him—but it’s fun to pretend as he stands there, taking my beating.
He laughs, and it captures my focus on the briefest of moments, allowing him to take control.
His fist finds my stomach in the lightest punch I’m sure he’s ever thrown in his life.
“Pussy,” I hiss, returning his hit with an uppercut to his jaw.
A savage roar fills the air before he finally lets go of the shackles holding him back and we really start going at it.
“Oh my God,” I pant after a good fifteen minutes of sparring. His arms are around my body, much like when he dragged me out of the house this morning, as sweat pours from me and my hair sticks to my face.
“Get out of it,” he demands.
“I can’t,” I pant, my entire body trembling from the exertion.
“Stamp on my foot for a start, beautiful. If it’s hard enough, my grip might slip. Then go for the balls. Quickest way to take a man to his knees, but I guess you already knew that.”
“I’m not kicking you in the balls,” I argue.
“You should after the way I’ve treated you,” he confesses darkly in my ear.
“Maybe. But it’s still not happening.”
“Fine. We’ll pretend, but only because I need my D fully functional. It’s the only thing I’m letting you off with, though.”
“Fine.”
I stay still for the longest time in the hope that he loses focus as the sun climbs higher in the sky and the gulls begin to emerge for a day of squawking and stealing food wherever they can find it.
When I sense him relax a little with his chin resting on my shoulder, I lift my foot and slam it down as hard as I can without any shoes on.
His gasp of shock rips through the air and his arms loosen enough for me to spin. I don’t lift my knee, although I can’t deny that I’m tempted, just to see how this might play out if I took it more seriously. Instead, I slam my fist into his stomach, causing him to bend over—I think the move is to humour me, because I can’t imagine it actually hurt—giving me the time I need to pull the knife I know is hiding in his pocket.
I flip the blade open as he stands to full height once more and pride flares in his eyes.
“Fuck yes, Angel,” he says with a wide smile, his chest heaving and his skin glistening in the morning sun.
Heat courses through my veins as he looks at me as if I’m an entirely different person for a few seconds.
I’m so lost in his eyes that I don’t realise he’s moved until his knife is ripped from my fingers and I’m lifted into his arms.
“You’re fucking perfect, Calli,” he tells me a beat before he captures my lips and walks me… somewhere.
He lays me down, and when I open my eyes I find only the clear, blue sky above me.
He drags my legs around his waist and slides his hands up my thighs, taking his t-shirt with them until he’s dragging it over my head, leaving me sprawled on the outside table bare.
Pushing up onto my elbows, I watch as he shoves his sweats down and grasps his hard cock.
“Watching you with a knife gets me so fucking hard, Angel,” he confesses as he rubs the head of his cock through my wetness and thrusts inside.
My body trembles but I stay exactly where I am, watching as he claims me in the most primal way.
