Chapter 7 Vincenzo #2
And of course, he’s already there. Because fate is cruel, and Nikolaj Dragovich is worse.
He’s in the ring, shirtless with his tattooed torso on display, hands taped, sweat glistening along his spine as he spars with one of his cousins. The moment he sees me, he stops and fucking grins.
Like I’m exactly what he was waiting for.
“You finally come to beg for round two?” he calls, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.
I step out of my shoes, peel off my shirt, and climb into the ring.
“No. I came to win.”
He tosses a towel at his cousin, who laughs and slides out of the ring with a shake of his head. Then it’s just us again. He circles me slowly. “You’ve been moody all week.”
“You’ve been in my way all week.”
His laugh is low, almost soft. “Careful, Vieri. You say things like that, and I’ll start to believe you’re watching me.”
I lunge without warning. My fist connects with his side, and the impact reverberates up my arm with satisfying force. He grunts, twisting away, then counters with a jab that grazes my temple.
We fall into it. A dance we’ve already choreographed in secret. Blow for blow. Strike for strike. There’s no referee and no audience; just us and the tension that’s been building like a pressure valve set to explode.
He’s good, better than he lets people see.
But I’m better, and tonight—I’m angry. I dodge, step in, and drive my elbow into his ribs hard enough to stagger him.
Then, I hook my arm around his waist, twist, and slam him to the mat.
He hits with a grunt, body twisting, but I’ve already straddled his hips and pinned his wrists to the floor.
His chest rises fast beneath me, and his eyes are wild, bright, and fucking beautiful.
“I win,” I growl.
He huffs a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “If that helps you sleep.”
“You’re pinned.”
He arches a brow. “Because I let you pin me.”
I press down harder on his wrists. “Bullshit.”
He just smiles. “You needed it,” he murmurs. “You needed one thing this week that you could control. And I’m a generous man.”
“You’re a fucking liar,” I snap, leaning in closer, teeth clenched. “You’ve been pushing me since day one.”
“I know,” he whispers. “And look where we are.”
He shifts under me, not to escape, but to press up into me hard enough to make me feel how close we are. His breath brushes my jaw, his wrists stay trapped beneath my hands, but he’s not struggling.
He wants this just like I do, but I can’t have it.
Not him.
Not this.
“You’re not trying to escape,” I say, quieter now, even as my pulse punches at the inside of my throat. “You could’ve thrown me off by now.”
Nikolaj smirks, lashes low over those maddening eyes. “Why would I escape when you’re finally on top of me, Printsessa?”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t call me that.”
“But it fits so well.” He arches up again, dragging his hips so I can feel the outline of his hardening cock pressing up against mine. “Always so cold. So proper. Like if anyone sees you crack, they’ll start questioning your crown.”
I push harder on his wrists, but it’s a mistake. The move brings his mouth inches from mine now.
“This isn’t a game, Dragovich.”
“I know.” His voice dips lower. “That’s what makes it so fucking good.”
His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip and my body reacts without permission. Every inch of me is straining against the urges I’ve fought and rules I made for myself. Against years of buried instinct and the voice in my head that sounds like my father, warning me that men like this are ruin.
But ruin never looked like this before. Ruin never grinned at me like it wanted to be caught. Ruin doesn’t have frostbitten eyes that catch on mine like jagged glass. Ruin doesn’t look at me like I’m something he wants to claim and destroy in equal measure.
He moves one hand to test my grip, and I tighten it again automatically. He lets out a filthy groan, and I know I’ve given him exactly what he wants.
“You like holding me down, don’t you? You want to pretend it’s about control, but this—” he shifts his hips again, “—this is about surrender. Yours or mine, I don’t care.”
“I don’t—”
“Lie better,” he interrupts, then smiles, and it’s filthy. Confident. Dragovich in all his maddening, beautiful danger.
My grip slips and he breaks one hand free, but he doesn’t strike. Doesn’t run. He just lifts it slowly and brushes the back of his knuckles against the side of my throat.
It’s a feather-light touch, yet still burns.
“Tell me what it’s like,” he whispers. “Knowing your whole fucking life was built to hate me. Kill me. Win against me. And instead, here you are—riding the edge of a hard-on because I dared to wink at you in class.”
I shove off of him, standing hastily, and backing away before I forget what world I belong to.
His grin widens as he stretches slowly, shoulders gleaming, mouth bruised from where I landed the last hit. “See? Told you I let you have that win, Prince,” he says lazily. “But only because you needed it.”
“You didn’t let me do anything,” I snarl.
“Sure.” He flashes a grin without looking up. “Just like you didn’t mean to stare at my mouth all week.”
I hurl my shirt at him without thinking and it hits his face. He catches it, laughs, and fucking sniffs it before tossing it aside.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re obsessed.” He says, sweat-slicked and cocky, chest rising and falling. “You should stay. Shower with me. I’ll even let you choose who touches first.”
I don’t dignify that with a response, and storm toward the edge of the ring; leaving him sitting there—smiling like he already knows I’ll be back.
And fuck me…
I know it too.