Chapter 5 #3
And the way his muscles flexed as he moved his body with a deadly grace made my stomach knot.
When his hand brushed my arm to adjust my position, my pulse skipped in a way that had nothing to do with fighting. As I glanced up at him, and he stared back at me, for a second it seemed like neither of us remembered how to breathe.
Then, he moved again, fast. Reaching for my wrist, I knew he expected another weak dodge. This time, I let my instinct take over. I twisted out of his grip, pivoted my hip, and swept his leg out from under him.
He hit the mat hard enough to grunt.
I froze. Shit. “Oops.”
Enzo blinked up at me, stunned. Then he narrowed his eyes, a slow smirk forming. “You’ve done this before.”
I shrugged, feigning innocence. “Beginner’s luck?”
He hopped up, even though I knew the fall knocked some wind out of him. “Try again,” he challenged with that cocky grin of his.
So I did. And this time, I didn’t hold back. The air filled with the sound of movement — the dull thud of feet, the soft slap of hands meeting forearms, the rhythm of inhales and exhales. When he caught me mid-strike, our faces were inches apart.
“Lesson three,” he said, voice low, rough with exertion. “Never let them get their hands on you.”
For a few seconds, I thought he might kiss me. His eyes darted from my eyes to my mouth and I had to stop myself from leaning up to close the gap between our lips.
Then, I used the distraction to counter his hold and flip him over me. I followed him to the ground, pinning him beneath me. “Lesson four,” I mimicked, fighting a smile, “Don’t get distracted.”
He smirked, and in that moment, he was the sexiest man I’d ever seen. Skin slick with sweat, eyes darkened with lust; lust I knew we were both fighting.
I felt him harden beneath my hips, and I had to stop myself from closing my eyes and grinding against him.
Suddenly, Enzo gripped my hips and flipped me over, trapping me beneath him. My breath shuddered as he leaned down, stopping when our mouths were less than an inch apart. “Lesson five,” he murmured. “Never let your guard down.”
Then, he got off me as abruptly as he’d pinned me.
Blinking rapidly, I tried to process what had just happened, then frowned up at his smirking face.
He extended a hand to help me as I sat up, but I swatted it away.
I was so turned on and infuriated that I didn’t know what to do with myself.
I wanted to punch him and kiss him at the same time.
He chuckled. “Nice work, kid. Again?”
Determination set in, overriding everything else. I exhaled a deep breath and nodded. “Again.”
We spent the next couple of days sparring. It seemed to be what we both needed to release stress given our situation, even though it created a completely different tension.
A tension Enzo seemed content to ignore.
By the third day of the storm, I was tired of, not to mention sore from, sparring. And utterly bored out of my mind.
After we ate dinner, Enzo was sitting by the fireplace drinking a glass of whiskey. I could feel his eyes tracking me as I went over to the hall closet.
I grabbed the board game from the top shelf, then brought it over to the coffee table and set it down.
He arched a brow. “Is this what we’re doing now?”
“You got something better to do?” I teased.
His eyes flicked toward the storm-warped window. “Not unless you want to go outside and build a snowman.”
I grinned. “Come on, Mr. No-Fun. Let’s play.”
To my surprise, he came over from the recliner and sat down across from me, folding those broad arms over his chest like he wasn’t going to enjoy the game.
But then I saw it—the tiniest flicker of amusement in the corners of his mouth.
Clapping, I let out a tiny squeal of glee. “We need snacks,” I stated as I practically skipped to the kitchen. A few minutes later, I came back with popcorn and chips.
I set up the board between us, then handed Enzo the game cards. His fingers brushed mine. They were warm, rough, solid. I didn’t flinch. Not anymore. I was used to his hands on me.
Just not the way I wanted them to be.
But I wouldn’t make the first move. I wanted Enzo to. I knew he was fighting it just as much as I was.
And I couldn’t wait for him to break.
“Who do you want to be?” I asked.
His eyes ran over the board for a few seconds. “Colonel Mustard.”
I grinned. “Oh, come on. You’re so not a Mustard. You’re more of a Professor Plum.”
He arched a brow. “Because I’m intellectual?”
“Because you overthink everything. I call Miss Scarlet.”
“Of course you do,” he teased, taking a sip from his glass.
Enzo won the dice roll. It took him two rolls to move into the lounge. “I think Miss Scarlet did it. In the lounge. With the revolver.”
I arched a brow. “Already accusing me? Bold move.”
He shrugged. “Got to keep you on your toes.”
“Flattered,” I said, showing him the lounge card. “Wrong guess, though.”
His jaw tightened when he saw the card. “Lucky draw. Still could be you though.”
“My turn.” I rolled and moved my piece into the hall. “I’ll go with Colonel Mustard in the hall with the dagger.”
He gave a faint smirk. “Now that’s just wishful thinking.”
I arched a brow. “Can you prove me wrong?”
He flashed me the dagger card with a cocky grin.
Rolling my eyes, I scoffed. Enzo chuckled as he picked up the dice and rolled.
For a while, the only sounds were the dice, the crackling fire, and the wind howling outside. The game stretched on — accusations, bluffs, quiet laughs. Every move felt like a dare.
He took notes seriously, marking down cards like a detective solving an actual murder. I watched him, chin in hand, pretending not to notice how focused he looked; sleeves rolled up, forearms tensed, that little crease between his brows when he concentrated.
After several rounds, I could tell we were both on the cusp of solving the game. When I saw Enzo moving toward the kitchen, I tensed. I wanted to scream when he got in there before me, but I silently prayed he got the other details wrong.
“I’m ready to make my formal accusation. Miss Scarlet with the candlestick in the kitchen.”
My stomach sank as Enzo picked up the envelope with the winning cards inside. As he took the cards out, he slowly flipped them over on the board, one at a time.
I groaned as he sat back with a smug look on his face like he’d just solved a real homicide.
I tossed a popcorn kernel at him. “You are infuriating.”
He caught it midair and popped it in his mouth. “You’re just mad I beat you.”
I stared at him across the flickering firelight, board game scattered between us, snow pressing against the windows like a silent observer.
His face was softer in the dim firelight; less guarded, less sharp-edged.
His eyes had a quiet calm about them, but I could see the tension underneath, always simmering just beneath the surface.
As always, I wanted to punch him and kiss him at the same time.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I huffed. “I want a rematch.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”