8. The Games We Play
Chapter 8
The Games We Play
His presence is like a vacuum, sucking all the musky air out of the room, making it hard to breathe. Making it hard to fucking see .
I don't want to be affected by this man, but his energy is undeniable. With a snap of his fingers, he can make the world stop, jump, rollover.
And honestly, that kind of control... it's fucking hot.
"You're back.”
My chest rises in my sports bra as he devours my glistening body, his greedy gaze bouncing along my soft curves.
And I like it.
I like it when he looks at me like that. It's like he's bestowing me with some of his all-encompassing power.
And in my position, I'll take all the power I can get.
My conversation with Luisa verified that I'm not welcome here. That I'm an outsider. Sure, everyone has been kind and courteous to me this past week, but they had no choice. But as long as Milo wants me, I hold some of the cards. The more power he gives me , the less power he has .
It's like a twisted game of tug-of-war; as long as my hands are on the rope and I'm still standing, I haven't lost.
I won't lose.
Blinking, I add, "How was?—"
"Show me what you have learned, Kiara," he rasps, reaching for the hem of his shirt. He slowly pulls it over his wide shoulders, purposely taking his time, knowing that he's drawing me in, sucking me into his black hole. I bite my lip, my mouth dry as I absentmindedly study his sculpted figure.
With a flick of the wrist, he drops his shirt on the padded floor. He strides toward me, shadows from the recessed lighting bouncing around the hard ridges of his chest, the ripples of his abs, the defined V that leads to the large mass bulging from his joggers. With every step he takes closer to me, a muscle on this perfect body twitches, so tempting, so fucking refined.
He licks his lips, reaching for the boxing gloves in my hands and tossing them aside. "Wha—" I clear my throat. "What are you doing?"
"Taking the training wheels off.” Mischief grows in his irises he leans into my ear, his chest flush against my breasts. His stubble grazes my jawline as he whispers, "Hit me, Kiara. I want to feel your hands against my body."
Power.
"I don't want to hurt you, Mr. Di Vaio," I say in a taunting tone. "I've learned a few tricks."
His chest rumbles like the beating hooves of wild animals, his baritone laugh reverberating through my body.
"Trust me, Kiara—” He snakes his hand around the back of my neck, tugging it backward, and his black eyes burrow into mine. "I am a very difficult man to hurt."
Based on the various scars scattered across his chest and slicing through his tattooed arms – he's lying. He's made out of flesh and blood, just like me. But I won't argue. I'll let him have this one.
"Have it your way.” I detangle myself from his iron grip, roll my neck, and stretch out my arms. "Ready?"
He smirks, widening his stance. "Come and get it, Kiara ."
I get into position, praying that I don't make an idiot out of myself. I'm sure he'll be able to block all my punches but the idea of getting to touch him is causing a flurry of excitement to course through my veins.
I cast him a sly smile. “As you wish.”
Pointing my thumb to the floor, like Gio taught me in order to not break a finger, I swing my left fist forward to jab Milo's chest. He catches my hand in his palm.
Fuck.
I repeat the action, Milo grinning each time he blocks my throws. He's barely even trying. This is so embarrassing.
"Good form.” He drops my hand, my arms already getting tired. "But try harder. Hit me. "
"Yes, sir ," I say through my teeth, annoyed that he can sense which direction I'll be swinging from.
His eyes light up from the moniker. Hmm . He liked that. How telling. Having caught him off guard, I take the opportunity to test out a different approach. My right foot turns inward, my hip following through as I cut my right fist across the air, slamming his shoulder. This time he staggers backward. I smile, pleased with myself.
"Distracted?" I cock my head to the side, clicking my tongue. "Come on now, sir . Get your head in the game."
His jaw clenches, evidently furious that I landed a shot but there's a very small trace of amusement tugging on his lips. At least I hope it's amusement .
"Clever.” He repositions himself in front of me. “Again.”
And so, I do. Over and over and over again until I'm panting and frustrated. It's like he can anticipate my every move.
I grunt, shifting my weight from my left heel to my right. Forming a ninety-degree angle with my elbow, I attempt to pop Milo with a right hook. He side-steps my attack and I stumble forward. My heart races with exhaustion, my fists starting to hurt from the repetitive motion, but his goddamn smug face is pissing me off.
Enough!
With one final swing, I turn my right hip and shoulder, and punch upward, knocking my fist against Milo's chin in an uppercut. Hah!
When I land the punch, a fire ignites in Milo's eyes as he drags his thumb across his lips, a smear of blood on the pad.
Shit .
"My turn," he taunts, latching onto my forearm. He spins me around, his dick pressed up against my ass.
Oh, God.
"What do you do now, Kiara?" He squeezes my body against his, both of my wrists trapped between his one hand. His hot breath blows against my ear as I squirm, inadvertently creating friction against his most vulnerable body part. A groan escapes the back of his throat, but he doesn't acknowledge it, instead he asks, "How do you escape?"
Trying to free myself, I writhe against Milo's body, his cock hardening against me, growing, revealing his cards. Yes. This is power. I have the power. Well—I inwardly chuckle, based on the sheer size pressing up against my ass and my sudden urge to grab it, I guess he has a little power too.
But unfortunately for Mr. Dark and Dangerous, I have phenomenal self-control.
With all the strength I can muster, I spin my body around, trying out a release technique Mateo taught me. Clearly, I wasn't paying enough attention because when I twist in his arms, I fumble, my feet crossing with Milo's, knocking me off balance, and I plummet backward on the rubber floors, taking him down with me.
"Get off.” I peer up at Milo who's straddling me, the fabric separating our bodies not thick enough, or too thick; depends on which side of my brain is talking. The side that hasn't fucked in six months says it's the latter.
"Make me.” He pushes his hips forward and his dick twitches against my sex as he pins my arms above my head, a wicked smile on his face. Fuck . I'm losing power. "What's wrong, gattina ? Distracted ?"
Bastard.
"I don't know what to do," I admit in a breathy tone, flexing all my muscles, attempting to move his steel body off me but he doesn't budge. Terrifying realization dawns on me. This isn't good. If this were a real attack, I'd be fucked. "Help me. Tell me what to do."
Milo curses in Italian as he takes a deep breath, loosening his grip on my hands but not dismounting me. "Slide your elbows to my knees. Keep them on the floor. At the same time, thrust your hips up. Fast ." He wants me to thrust? He rolls his eyes, picking up on my hesitation. "Just do it, Kiara."
"Fine!" I expel a sigh and follow his directions. With the combination of movements, Milo jolts forward, bracing himself with his hands .
"Oh my God!" I exclaim, wiggling my fingers. "My arms are free." I pause, frowning. "But you're still on top of me."
"Yes," he says, staying in position, his chest hovering above my face. Mmm . He smells sweet. Like vanilla-infused oak. Or sherry cask scotch. "Now, grab my left arm, trap it, and push me off to the side."
"Push you?" I let out a scoff. "You're like one hundred and ninety pounds."
"Kiara, my weight is currently all in my knees. You are simply distributing the weight.” His tone edges on annoyed. "You can do it. Trust me."
Trust me. Hah. Like it's that simple.
"If you say so,” I mutter, jerking his arms and almost effortlessly tossing Milo to the side. I roll out, surprised that his technique actually worked. My eyes widen with astonishment as Milo stands up, adjusting the band of his sweatpants, an impressed look on his face. "I did it!"
"You see? Easy.” He holds out his hand and helps lift me to my feet. "You did well, Kiara. Not excellent, but well."
"Apologies for not mastering the art of self-defense in five days.” I grab a towel and bottle of water off the bench press. "I think I did fairly well under the time constraints."
Milo's gaze focuses on my lips as I pop open the nub of the water bottle with my teeth. "Yes, very well.” He rubs his chin. "But I do hope your arms training was more—" He pauses as I wipe the water dripping down the side of my mouth. "Fruitful."
"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised by just how fruitful it was," I say, padding the towel on my breasts. I need a fucking shower. He heads to the door. We're going now? "Aren't you forgetting your shirt?"
"If you can walk around half-naked, so can I," he says, exiting the gym. "I'm a feminist, you see."
"I have clothes on," I note with a head tilt. "I'm hardly naked."
"You might as well be." His gaze sweeps across my body as his fingers scoop up the strap to my sports bra. "There is not a lot left for the imagination."
"Oh, but there is, trust me.” I let out an amused chuckle when Milo's eyes harden. Smartass. "Are you sure you trust me with a gun, Mr. Di Vaio?"
"Do you feel like shooting me, Kiara?" he smirks, leading me toward the range that's across the hall from the gym.
"Always, sir," I coo as we enter a large cement room with an angled backstop on the far wall. Gio explained to me that it's built that way so bullets ricochet up. I'd hate to be the poor bastard that learned that the hard way.
Milo selects a Beretta 92 FS from the armory, his go-to apparently. "You will use this." I watch in awe as he grabs a magazine off the counter, inserts it into the well, and racks the slide; his movements graceful, fast, like it's ingrained into his muscle memory. "Here."
I take the pistol from Milo as he places protection over our ears. I re-grip the Italian-made gun at the base, hovering my index finger over the trigger. The paper targets hang ten yards away.
Milo stands behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders, applying pressure to the blades. "You must relax, Kiara," he whispers and my body melts against his touch. "You need to hold the Beretta with a firm grip but allow for a bounce-back, understood? Anticipate a recoil."
"Okay.” I aim at the target, taking a deep breath as I focus my vision on the red dot in the center of the paper. I pull the trigger and shoot off ten rounds, my shoulder jolting back after each fire. It's an exhilarating feeling, cathartic, something I'm scared to grow accustomed to .
"Let's see how I did.” I remove the earmuffs and flick on the mechanical rails. The target flies toward us, most of the shots in the center of the target. I spin to face an impressed Milo, unable to hide my prideful grin. "Pretty good, right?"
He shrugs as if I didn't just kick some serious Beretta ass. "Not bad." He walks back to the armory and retrieves two more pistols. "With these now. You must learn to be... flexible ."
"A challenge? Fine." I roll my eyes, grabbing the Ruger GP100 revolver from his hand. This one was my favorite to shoot this week. Made me feel like I was in a Western. Reach for the sky.
For the next thirty minutes, I showcase my impeccable talent for firearms. I never thought I'd enjoy firing a weapon, I'm a pacifist, but damn, this shit is fun as fuck.
"I must hand it to you, Kiara," Milo says at the end of the session. "You are a fast learner, not many women can handle the strength and power of a . 357 magnum."
"Yes." I shoot him a coy smile. "It appears I like my weapons how I like my men, Mr. Di Vaio. Ironic, is it not?"
Knight to F3. A little Sicilian defense. Why not?
" Very ironic indeed."
"So?" I lean against the edge of the counter. "Did I pass your little test?"
Without saying a word, he disappears down the hall, leaving me alone and confused. Was I supposed to follow him? Words, are they that difficult to use? I linger by the post for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. Just as I'm about to leave, Milo returns with a black case in his hand.
"Your graduation gift.” He opens the case and he places it on the table. I eye the tiny pistol laid across the foam rounds. Is he fucking with me? "Perfect for you."
I scoff as I pick it up. "You're giving me a hooker gun ? Seriously? What about the revolver? This—" I shake my head, offended. "It's a toy."
He expels a melodic laugh. "This is not a toy, Kiara." He takes the miniature gun from my hands. "This is a Ruger LCR .38 special. It is—" He cocks it. "Reliable." Aims at the target. "Concealable." And fires. "Powerful."
"Ow!" My ears ring from the lack of protection. "Fuck, that's loud!"
He's unfazed as he draws closer to me. "It is small but—" He tucks the pistol into the band of my leggings, his fingers sweeping my skin, teasing it, forcing a shiver to seize my spine as he whispers, "You can hide it... anywhere ." He pulls away, a devilish smirk on his face as he scans my tense posture. "A problem?"
"No," I peep, exhaling a shaky breath. Now I really need a shower. "Not at all."
"Fantastic," he states, knowing quite well that he's rendered me a hot mess. Asshole. "We leave for Spain tomorrow. Luisa will help you pack."
I blink. "And what are we doing in Spain? What should I pack?"
"I will tell you when the time is right.” A knowing grin spreads on his face. "As for clothing, cocktail dresses. Nothing too revealing, of course."
I snort. "Is that for my benefit or for yours? Worried about a little competition?"
He stalks toward me and grabs my chin; his thumb coaxing open my bottom lip as his hauntingly intense gaze feasts upon my shaken features. "The only person who should be worried is you, Kiara. You do not want to defy my wishes."
My breath hitches. "Maybe I do."
His grip tightens around my jaw as he drags his large hand to the base of my throat, applying minimal pressure that sends heat to my core. "No, sweetheart ," he rasps. "You don't."
But I do.
I really fucking do.