Chapter 7 #2
“The gym, of course. Silly me, I should have known you had a gym.” I say sarcastically as I follow him through the mansion, down a long hallway I haven’t explored yet, and out a side door that leads to an entirely separate building.
The gym, like everything else here, is impressive. State of the art equipment, floor-to-ceiling windows that let the natural light in, and in the back, a dedicated training area that is fully matted specifically for grappling and sparring.
“This is where my men train,” Basili says, leading me to the mats. “And where I train when I need to clear my head.”
He shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over a nearby bench carefully. Then he starts rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle and covered in intricate tattoos.
I should look away. Should focus on stretching, preparing myself for whatever’s to come.
But I can’t stop watching as he finishes with his sleeves and starts loosening his tie, pulling it completely off and adding it to the jacket.
The movement makes his shirt ripple tightly across his chest and shoulders, and I’m suddenly very aware of how solid his body is.
How lethal. How attractive.
“See something you like?”
My eyes snap up to see Basili watching me with undisguised amusement, a knowing smirk playing at his lips as he kicks off his own shoes. Heat floods my cheeks, and I force myself to look down at my shoes, kicking the sandals off.
“I was just — that is —” I stumble over my words, which only makes his smirk widen further.
“You can look, Chloe. I don’t mind.” He moves onto the mat, gesturing for me to join him. “Though you might want to actually focus. I’d hate for you to get distracted and hurt yourself.”
The teasing in his voice sparks irritation, which helps to burn away my embarrassment. I step onto the mat, rolling my shoulders to loosen them.
“I won’t be the one getting hurt.”
“Now, now, no cheap blows to the testicles. That’s just desperation, not defense.”
I put my hands up. “Scouts honor.”
“Alright then, show me what you’ve got.” He settled into a ready stance, weight balanced, hands loose.
I don’t give him time to prepare further, or to strike first. I move in fast, going for a quick jab and duck to test his reflexes.
He blocks it easily, countering with a strike that comes all too close. Shit, he’s fast.
We circle each other, exchanging jabs and strikes.
I dance on my toes, moving light and fast, not predictable but tactical.
And I can see the exact moment the glow in his eyes changes from amusement to genuine interest as he realizes I’m not completely helpless.
I actually know what the fuck I’m doing.
I feint left, then drive right, managing to get inside his guard and land a solid kick to his ribs. Not enough to hurt, but enough to prove a point.
“Not bad,” he says, and I can hear the tone of respect in his voice. “But you’re tired already, beginning to telescope your moves. I can see them coming.”
“Is that so?”
I drop low and sweep his legs. He goes down — actually goes down, flat on his back — hitting the mat with a fall that turns into a roll, and suddenly he’s back on his feet, hands at the ready like it never happened.
“Better.” He’s grinning now, actually grinning ear to ear, and it transforms his face from dangerously handsome to devastatingly attractive. “Again.”
We keep going like that, engaging again and again, this time more seriously. He’s testing me, I realize, pushing me to see what I’m actually capable of. And I’m meeting him move for move, using every technique Jay drilled into me over.
This becomes our battlefield. We circle, strike, block.
I manage to land a few hits. He counters harder, faster, and I realize he isn’t holding back.
He’s purposely not landing blows that would hurt me, perhaps, but he’s not holding back while controlling his strength, and a thrill shoots straight through my core.
That shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but it is.
But Basili has a decade on me, more training, and significantly more upper-body strength. When he finally gets his hands on me, he uses it to his advantage.
He catches my wrist during a strike, uses my own momentum to spin me around, and suddenly I’m trapped in his arms. My back against his chest, one arm banded across my collarbone, holding me immobile.
“Yield?” he asks, out of breath.
“No.”
With both hands, I grab his wrist, pulling his arm just far enough away to slip beneath it as I spin to face him.
But he’s faster and grabs at my wrist, yanking me off balance, and suddenly I’m falling.
I hit the mat with him on top of me, his weight pinning me beneath him.
One hand captures both my wrists and presses them above my head.
“How about now?” His voice is rougher, darker. “Yield?”
“Never.”
I try to buck him off, but he’s positioned himself perfectly to neutralize my leverage. His free hand comes up to grip my hip, holding me still, and the movement brings our bodies into full contact. The fight drains from my body all at once, replaced by an entirely different feeling.
Because now I can feel every inch of him. The hard planes of muscle. The heat of his skin through our clothes. The way his body fits against mine like we were designed to mold together just like this.
“Don’t do that again.” He growls.
“Why not?” The challenge comes out breathier than I intend.
We’re both breathing hard now. His face is only inches from mine. I can feel the heat of him through our clothes, can see the way his pupils are dilated, can smell his cologne and sweat mixed together, unique and delectable.
“We’re supposed to be sparring, not —” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
“Not what?” I push, knowing full well his thoughts are as dirty as my own right now.
His gaze drops to my lips. His eyes are nearly black with desire when they meet mine. “Not this.”
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. His hand is still on my hip, thumb resting against my bare skin where my shirt has ridden up, and neither of us seems capable of breaking apart.
“Chloe,” he says, his voice rough, warning.
“Don’t.” But I don’t know if I’m telling him to stop or desperately not to stop.
His hand tightens on my hip. His thumb — accidentally or deliberately, I’m not sure — brushes against the strip of exposed skin where my shirt has ridden up, and that touch sends electricity through my entire body.
“I’ll admit, you’re good,” he murmurs. “Better than I expected. But not good enough.”
“Not good enough for what?” I’m not sure if he’s talking about fighting anymore.
“Good enough to be safe without protection.” His thumb moves again, a deliberate stroke this time, and I make a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a whimper.
I should push him away. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Should remember the risk of exposure, the fact that Basili himself said the kiss on the balcony was a mistake.
But my body doesn’t listen to the logic.
It’s responding to the weight of him on top of me, the heat of his body, the way his hand is still on my bare skin.
This is dangerous. This whole situation is dangerous.
We’re alone in a gym, pressed together on the mats, and the way he’s looking at me suggests that fighting is the last thing on his mind right now.
I know it’s the furthest thing from my mind as I look at his lips, so close, his face mere inches from mine.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
I can’t, I don’t want to either. His hand flexes on my hip again, and this time his long fingers wrap around my petite hip bone, squeezing.
He shifts his weight, settling more firmly between my thighs, and the friction makes my eyelids close, and my eyes roll with want.
“Basili —”
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is gruff, low, barely audible. “Tell me to let you go, Chloe. If you don’t, I’m going to —”
“Going to what?” I challenge him, and I can’t help but roll my hips slightly.
His hand moves. Deliberate now, purposefully. Sliding from my waist to my ribs, beneath my shirt, stroking across my stomach. My muscles jump under his touch, and I can’t suppress the small sound that escapes my throat.
“I’m going to forget all the reasons this is a terrible idea,” he finishes. His hand spreads wide, palm hot against my skin. “That I’m supposed to be keeping my distance. That you’re here for Emmanuel, not for me.”
“Basili —” I rasp as I arch my back beneath him. My skin on fire beneath his fingers, my body betraying me completely, seeking more of his touch even as my mind screams warnings.
“Say it.” His lips brush my lips, and I feel the words as much as I hear them. “Tell me to stop, or tell me to kiss you. But don’t leave me in fucking limbo where all I can think about is —”
“Kiss me,” I whine.
His mouth crashes onto mine. Not tentative like on the balcony, this time it’s demanding, raw. No, this kiss is so much more. It steals the breath from my very lungs. Need unleashed after days of staying away from one another.
He releases my wrists to run his other hand along my body, angling my head exactly where he wants it. Finally, I’m free to touch him, and my hands go straight to his hair. Fisting in the dark strands, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between us.
This time it’s consuming, desperate. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I meet him stroke for stroke, giving as much as I get. All the energy from the fight was redirected, channeling into this instead.
His hand under my shirt slides higher, thumb brushing the underside of my bra, and I arch into it with a gasp that he swallows. He makes that growling sound again, the one that vibrates through his chest, and grinds his hips against me in a movement that leaves me breathless.
He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down my jaw, my throat, finding the pulse point and sucking hard enough to leave a mark.