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Sweat gleams on his smooth forehead, and his shirt clings to his muscular body.
He calls a time-out and walks to the side of the court, where he lifts his shirt over his head, revealing a rock-hard chest and a stomach of deep dips and grooves.
Nico has the body of a perfectly sculptured Benvenuto Cellini statue. Golden skin gleams with sweat, and as much as I try to keep my eyes off him, the little traitors go rogue and sweep over his athletic form thick with slabs of muscle.
I turn away, determined not to give him the pleasure of knowing I’m looking, but not before I take in the powerful shoulders and bulging arm muscles pumped with blood.
I know what he’s up to. He’s trying to distract me. Get me off my game.
Cheater.
When he walks back onto the court, I decide to beat him at his own game and lift my tank over my head and throw it to the side.
His gaze drops to my shoulders and slowly inches down to where my heart beats rapidly behind my breasts. With excruciating slowness, his gaze trails lower, down to my belly button, and back up my body again, landing on the white lacy bra. His eyes flare, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
When he finally lifts his gaze, I smile sweetly.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Are you trying to distract me?”
“Is it working?”
“Not in the slightest.”
My smile is fixed in place. “Hmm.”
“Scared I’m going to beat you?”
“We’re tied, remember.”
“And you think this will stop me from slaying you?” He gestures to my near-naked torso. “That’s a cheap trick.”
“Says the man who took off his shirt first.”
“It’s a new shirt. I’ve put on more size since I bought it, and now it’s too tight. It was hindering my game.”
“You know, a poor sportsman blames his equipment for his poor game.”
He looks at me like I am the bane of his existence. “Can we finish the game?”
“Sure.” I lift my arms above my head to adjust my ponytail, knowing it pushes my boobs higher. Nico can’t help himself and watches. I flash him a winning smile. “Pervert. It’s your serve.”
His serve is violent and powerful. In fact, the tempo of our game is fast and intense. He grunts with every hit of the ball, and I feel every single one of them land right between my thighs.
We volley violently. Both grunting. Both increasing our pace. It’s like wild and intense fucking. We both want to make the other come undone and use all the energy in our bodies to make it happen.
I lurch for the ball, but my foot lands badly, and I crash to the court with the grace of a bus going over a cliff. Pain shoots through my ankle as I roll it and land on my ass.
“Dammit.” I sit up and begin to rub it.
Nico drops down next to me. He reaches for my ankle to inspect it. “You’ve probably twisted it.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I mutter, the pain easing a little as I continue to rub it.
Before I realize what is happening, Nico lifts me in his arms and carries me toward the door. “What are you doing?”
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m helping you.”
The way he holds me so effortlessly in his arms. I feel… secure.
“Put me down,” I demand. Because it will be a cold day in hell before a De Kysa ever makes me feel that way. “Or so help me God, I will scream bloody murder.”
“Fine, have it your way, princess.” He drops me to my feet, and pain shoots through my ankle. When I wince, he swiftly lifts me into his arms again. “Happy?”
Without another word, he lifts me up again and carries me into the viewing room and sets me down on one of the leather chairs while he retrieves an ice pack from the refrigerator. Crouching, he takes my foot in his hands and wraps the ice pack around my ankle. His touch is soothing and tender, and I watch silently as his tattooed hands move around my foot so he can inspect it.
He’s taken lives with those hands. He’s made people pay for their crimes against the De Kysa name with those hands. Probably squeezed the life from his rivals with those strong fingers. Yet against my skin, they feel soothing and comforting.
“You’ll live,” he says, lifting his gaze to mine. “For today, anyway.”
I can’t help but laugh through the pain. “Is that your attempt to distract me from the pain—a threat on my life?”
“It worked, didn’t it? You’re laughing.”
He walks back to the court to pick up my shirt from the sideline and hands it to me. “You might want to put this back on.”
“Why, are you finding it too distracting?”
“What if I am?”
His answer surprises me, and tiny pulses take up between my thighs. His dark gaze sweeps over my chest and across my stomach. I like him looking at me like that because I can see what it’s doing to him. It’s written all over his face. He wants to touch. But he’s fighting it. Not to mention, he’s annoyed by it.
