CHAPTER 15
SLOANE
The sharp thud of my fists against the punching bag echoes through the semi-empty gym. Left. Right. Hook. Every impact releases a fraction of the frustration I've been hoarding for days.
It's six in the morning, too early for most of the Tsarina's guests. That is exactly why I picked this time. I need space. I need to sweat. I need to expel this restless energy keeping me up at night because of Dimitri.
I hate him.
I hate the way he makes me feel.
The hotel gym is ridiculously luxurious, just like everything else in this place. Mirrored walls, state-of-the-art equipment, and a polished wood floor that smells of citrus cleaner. Low-volume electronic music marks the rhythm of my strikes as I work the bag.
One-two-three. Breathe. One-two-three.
Cooper's contact lenses weigh on my conscience like lead. The game is this Saturday. This Saturday I'll officially betray the Morozovs' hospitality. This Saturday I'll use Dimitri as a gateway to his world.
One-two-three. Harder.
My tank top is already soaked with sweat, clinging to my skin. My hand wraps are starting to loosen. I'm hitting too hard, without proper technique. I don't care. I need this.
Right now, I'm just looking to vent.
"You're doing it wrong."
The deep, accented voice startles me. The bag swings back, almost knocking me over. I turn, already knowing who I'm going to find.
Dimitri is at the entrance of the boxing area, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He's wearing black sweatpants and a light gray t-shirt that's seen better days. His eyes rake over my sweaty body without trying to hide it before snapping back to my face.
"Don't remember asking for your opinion," I reply, regaining my composure while readjusting my hand wraps.
"You didn't," he says, dropping his bag on a nearby bench. "But if you're going to use my gym, I'd prefer you not get injured via poor technique."
"Your gym?" I arch a brow. "Is it in your name?"
"In this building, everything you see is ours," he replies with that innate arrogance that irritates and fascinates me in equal parts.
He approaches the bag and stabilizes it with one hand. I notice his hands are wrapped. He probably came to train too.
"Your stance is wrong," he continues. "You're putting too much weight on your front foot and your shoulders are too tense."
I roll my eyes.
"I've been training for years. I know what I'm doing."
"Years doing what exactly? Aerobics classes with boxing gloves?" His smile is unbearably condescending. "Because that isn't real kickboxing."
Irritation ignites something inside me. Who does he think he is?
"Could you shut up? I was doing perfectly fine until you got here."
"Show me your left hook," he says, ignoring my comment. "On the bag."
"Is that an order?" I ask defiantly.
"Consider it an assessment."
I sigh dramatically, but I position myself in front of the bag. With a quick movement, I throw my left hook. The bag sways slightly.
"Pathetic," he murmurs.
"Excuse me?"
"Your wrist is limp, your elbow is flaring out, and you aren't rotating your hip," he lists off. "If you hit someone like that, you'd break your hand before hurting them."
Rage flares in my chest, hot and familiar.
"You know what? Not everyone has the benefit of being trained since the cradle."
It's a low blow, but I'm too irritated to hold back. His expression hardens, but he doesn't take the bait.
"If you really want to learn, I can teach you."
"Now you want to be my trainer?" The laugh that escapes my throat sounds forced even to me. "Three days ago you said my bodyguards were staying because I can't defend myself."
"And I stand by that," he replies, gray eyes fixed on mine. "But I could teach you."
Something changes in the air between us. An offer. An opportunity. Something else.
"Why would you do that?" I ask, my voice softer.
He shrugs, but there's tension in the gesture.
"Because at the rate you're going, you'll end up injured. And you're my responsibility. I mean, my brother's."
The word "responsibility" hits me like a cold slap. Of course. I'm an obligation. A problem to manage.
"No, thanks," I say dryly, turning around. "I don't need your help with anything."
I start unwrapping my hands. Training is over. This conversation is over.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, the irritation evident in his voice.
"Weight room," I answer without looking at him. "Maybe I'll find someone there who wants to train with me without being a condescending prick."
I haven't taken three steps when his hand closes around my wrist. The contact sends an electric current through my entire arm. I spin to face him, prepared for a confrontation.
I wasn't prepared for his proximity. He's inches away from me, so close I can count the darker flecks in his gray irises, smell the minty scent of his morning breath.
"No one else is going to train with you," he says, voice low and guttural. It isn't a question. It's a declaration.
"No?" I challenge, lifting my chin. "And who's going to stop me?"
His fingers tighten around my wrist—not hurting me, but reminding me of his strength.
"Me," he replies simply.
We stare at each other, neither willing to yield. I can feel his breath, see the rapid pulse in his neck, feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Teach me then," I say finally, surprising myself as much as him. "Show me what you know, Morozov."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. He releases my wrist slowly, his fingers brushing against my skin in the process.
"Get on the mat," he orders, pointing to the padded area in the center of the gym. "And take off those sloppy wraps."
I'm not entirely clear on why I obey him, but point is, I end up face-to-face with him exactly where he indicated.
The blue mat sinks slightly under our weight. Dimitri moves with the fluidity of a panther, positioning himself in front of me. As I remove the wraps, I observe his stance: relaxed but alert, weight perfectly distributed, ready to move in any direction.
"First thing," he says, "is stance. Everything starts there."
He steps closer and, without asking permission, places his hands on my shoulders. His touch startles me, though I try not to show it.
"Relax the shoulders," he murmurs, his thumbs pressing into tension points I didn't even know I had. "Breathe from the diaphragm, not the chest."
His hands slide down my arms, adjusting the angle of my elbows. Each touch sends little electric shocks through my skin.
"Feet need to be like this," he continues, using his own foot to nudge mine slightly. "Weight distributed, ready to move in any direction."
He steps behind me, so close I can feel the heat of his body against my back. His hands settle on my hips, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound that would give me away.
"When you strike, the power comes from here," he says, his fingers pressing lightly, guiding a rotation of my hip. "Not from the arms. The arms are just the conduit."
His voice is low, almost intimate, reverberating against the nape of my neck. He's so close I can feel his breath in my hair.
"Show me what you can do," he says, finally releasing me and stepping in front of me again. "Hit the air. Jab right."
I adopt the stance he taught me and throw the punch, conscious of his evaluating gaze.
"Better." He nods. "Now with the left, then combination."
For the next few minutes, we work in silence. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. A dance of contained violence, with Dimitri occasionally adjusting my posture with touches that last a second longer than necessary.
Touches that drive me absolutely crazy.
"Now against a real target," he says finally. "Me."
"You want me to hit you?" I ask, skeptical.
A crooked smile appears on his lips.
"I want you to try. I'll block you. You need to feel real resistance."
I take my stance, more confident now. I throw a jab that he blocks with ease, followed by a cross that doesn't even graze his guard.
"Faster," he orders. "Less telegraphing. Don't show me what you're doing."
I intensify my attacks, combining strikes, looking for openings in his impenetrable defense. It's like hitting a wall. Frustration mixes with adrenaline.
"You're holding your breath," he observes. "Exhale with every strike."
Suddenly, without warning, he counterattacks. A smooth but firm jab that almost reaches my chin.
"Never drop your guard," he warns. "Not even when you attack."
Something changes in our dynamic. It's no longer a training session. It's a fight. It's a game. It's something else.
My strikes are more decisive now, my body moving more fluidly. I see a flash of approval in his eyes that lights me up inside.
Then, in a move I don't anticipate, Dimitri grabs my arm, twists his body, and takes me down. I hit the mat with a dull thud, the air escaping my lungs. Before I can recover, he's on top of me, pinning me with his body.
His legs on either side of my hips. His hands pinning my wrists on both sides of my head. His face inches from mine.
"Never expose yourself like that," he murmurs, his voice husky and eyes darkened.
I can't answer. The weight of his body on mine, the heat radiating from him, the proximity of his mouth... it all steals my words.
"You should... you should let me go," I manage to articulate finally.
"I should," he agrees, but he doesn't move.
Our breathing syncs, fast and heavy. I can feel his heart hammering against mine, just as fast as my own. His eyes drop to my lips, and something primal wakes up inside me.
"Dimitri..." I whisper, not knowing if it's a plea for him to stop or to keep going.
Something in my voice seems to snap his control. With a low growl, he tilts his head and covers my mouth with his.
DIMITRI
Her taste hits me like a drug straight to the brain. Salt, sweat, and something sweet that is purely her. Her lips, soft and warm, open beneath mine in a surprised gasp that I take advantage of to deepen the kiss.
My whole body catches fire, every nerve, every muscle tense toward her. I let go of her wrists to tangle one hand in her hair, undoing her ponytail, while the other slides down her side, feeling the curve of her waist, the expansion of her ribs with every quickened breath.
I expected her to push me away, to reject me. Instead, her free arms wrap around me, one hand on the nape of my neck, the other on my back, drawing me closer, as if she wanted to melt into me.
The kiss becomes desperate, hungry. Months of fantasies condensed into this moment. My tongue explores her mouth, memorizes every corner, dances with hers in a battle where we both want to surrender.
I slide my lips down her jaw, to her neck, that neck I've dreamed of marking. Her skin tastes of salt and adrenaline. I bite her and she arches her back, pressing her hips against mine in an instinctive movement that almost makes me lose my mind.
"Fuck," I groan against her skin when I feel her body undulate beneath mine, seeking more contact.
Her fingers have slipped under my t-shirt, short nails lightly scratching my back, sending shivers down my spine. I return to her mouth, hungry, needy, as if I could devour her.
I'm completely hard, pressing against her without trying to hide it. Part of me is terrified of what's happening, but it's a tiny part drowned out by the overwhelming desire consuming me.
Her hand slides to the nape of my neck, tangling her fingers in my hair and tugging slightly. The sharp little pain sends a direct jolt to my groin. I groan into her mouth and roll my hips against hers, pulling a moan from her that vibrates between our lips.
Reality hits me like a bucket of ice water. We're in the hotel gym. It's almost seven. Someone could walk in at any moment.
I pull back abruptly, leaning on my arms to look at her. It's the most erotic image I've ever seen: lying beneath me, her messy hair framing her flushed face, her eyes glassy with desire, lips swollen and wet. My mark on her neck, reddish.
"This..." I start, my voice rough, unrecognizable.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to regain some control.
"It shouldn't have happened," I finally say, forcing myself to pull away, to sit beside her on the mat.
She sits up too, running a hand through her hair in an attempt to tidy it. Her breathing hasn't returned to normal yet. Neither has mine.
"Not at all. It was a mistake. The lack of sex took over," she says, uncomfortable.
We stare at each other for a few seconds that feel eternal. Then, Sloane stands up and takes a step back. It seems she has more willpower than me.
"I have things to do, Morozov," she says, her voice thick with tension. "Thanks for... the workout. See you around."
And with that, she turns away from me.
I watch her walk away, the natural sway of her hips hypnotizing me. When she disappears through the door, I run my hands down my face.
I'm fucked. Completely, hopelessly fucked.
What the fuck is happening to me with this woman?