fifteen -Brynn- #3
He sidesteps before I reach him, my momentum carrying me past him.
I pivot, ignoring the scream of protest from my leg, and throw another punch.
This one lands as a direct hit, catching him in the ribs.
He grunts, more in surprise than pain, because by now, I don’t think I can hurt him, at least not physically.
"Better," he says, walking next to me. "You’ve got speed, but you’re running on anger, on how badly you want to hit in that second. You’re focusing on winning the battle, but you’re losing the war."
I attack again, a flow of strikes that he blocks or avoids with too much ease. My breathing grows harder, sweat falling down my face as I push through the pain in my leg.
One hit lands on his jaw, snapping his head back. Another catches him in the stomach. He allows both to connect, only to test my strength and measure my control.
"I told you," he says, suddenly catching both my wrists in an iron grip, "you would rather wrestle than strip."
The taunt ignites something primal in me. I wrench one hand free and drive my fist into his chest, putting all my weight behind the strike. He stumbles back a step—not from the force of the blow, I suspect, but from surprise at my ferocity.
"Happy now?" he asks, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Hit me again, and I'll make you make me happy."
His threat should infuriate me, especially since he just accused me of thinking about sex during training. Instead, it sends a wave of heat spiraling through my core. I glance at him, my chest heaving. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
His eyes darken, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of honey-gold remains. "Not scare. Warn."
I hit him again anyway, an open-handed slap across his cheek that leaves my palm stinging. It's not a tactical move. It's pure defiance, a challenge I know he won't ignore.
He doesn't. In one motion, he closes the distance between us, backing me against the concrete wall with such speed that the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. His body presses against mine, his hard muscles trapping me against rough stone.
"You never learn, do you?" he growls, his face inches from mine, his breath hot against my lips.
"Maybe I don't want to," I retort, my voice betraying me with its breathlessness.
Something changes in his expression. Hunger replaces anger, and desire eclipses his frustration. His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat.
My first instinct is to fight him. Show him it was just a trick to defeat him. I should knee him in the groin and run. Instead, I arch against him, my body a traitor to my pride.
Our lips crash together with violent need, teeth clashing, tongues dueling for dominance.
This kiss is just a continuation of our fight, just in a different way.
His hands are everywhere, tearing at my training clothes as he pushes me harder against the wall.
The concrete scrapes my back through the thin fabric of my tank top, pain mixing with pleasure in a way that makes my head spin and my panties wet.
I bite his lower lip hard enough to taste blood, and he growls into my mouth, his hands finding my wrists and pinning them above my head.
With his free hand, he tears my top down the middle, exposing my skin to the cool morning air.
His mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh there, marking me as his all over again.
My body is responding to his touch like it was made for nothing else.
“What about this isn't seduction, Brynn. It's training. If you can't separate the two, we're wasting our time?” I hiss, repeating his words, without actually wanting him to stop. I just want to prove a point. He’s as flawed as I am.
But luck never seems to be in my favor as the sudden sound of his phone cuts through the haze of desire.
Ares freezes, his body still pressed against mine, his breath coming in harsh pants that match my own.
For a moment, I think he'll ignore it. The bulge straining against his training pants definitely suggests that’s what he wants.
Still, he pulls away with a curse, fishing the device from his pocket.
His expression changes instantly from lustful to alert when he sees the screen. "This better be important," he answers, his voice rough, still pumped with desire.
I slump against the wall, trying to catch my breath along with the scattered pieces of my clothes. My chest rises and falls rapidly beneath my sports bra as the concrete at my back suddenly feels too cold without his warmth.
"Who?" Ares demands into the phone, all traces of lust vanishing from his face, replaced by a dark intensity. "We're on our way." He ends the call and turns to me, tossing me his jacket. "404 is onto something. We have to go."
I put on the jacket, zipping it to hide my torn clothes, and follow him without any more questions. The training session—and whatever was about to happen against that wall—falls into the background as a totally new feeling takes its place. A predatory one.