“You’re improving,” I tell Willow as she towels sweat from her face. “Your form is solid.”
She flexes her fingers, examining the calluses beginning to form on her palms from striking the pads. “Still a long way from taking down Steffan.”
“That’s not the goal,” I remind her, checking her hands for any serious bruising. “You’re learning to defend yourself, to buy time. You’ve got an entire team of killers ready to handle the rest.”
She laughs softly, the sound still new enough to make my chest tighten. “My own personal army.”
“Damn right.” I brush my thumb across her knuckles, the simple contact sending heat through my veins despite the exhaustion of training. “These look good. No serious bruising.”
“I don’t mind bruises if they’re from you,” she says quietly, her eyes lifting to meet mine.
I freeze, my thumb still tracing circles on her skin. The words, innocent on the surface, carry layers of meaning that make my pulse quicken. We’ve established a certain dynamic in ourintimate moments—her calling me “Sir,” me taking control—but we’ve never ventured into anything more intense than that.
“Willow,” I say, my voice dropping lower. “What exactly are you saying?”
She steps closer, tilting her face up to mine. “I’m saying I like it when you overpower me. When you take control. And I don’t mind a few bruises when the sex is steamy.”
“After what Steffan did…” I choose my words carefully. “I never want to trigger those memories.”
“This is different.” Her fingers trace the line of my jaw. “With him, I had no choice. With you—I choose to submit. But…” She looks down, appearing deliciously shy. “What if I get to fight a little first? Let you overpower me.”
My breath catches. “You want me to make you work for it?”
She rises on tiptoes, her lips brushing my ear as she whispers, “I’m yours to command. Yours to claim. But I want to make you earn it.”
The dam breaks.
My hands find her waist, lifting her against me with a growl that comes from somewhere primal. Her legs wrap around my hips as I carry her to the wall, pinning her there with my body, my mouth claiming hers in a kiss that is pure possession.
“Tell me what you need,” I demand against her lips, my control fraying with every soft sound she makes. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she gasps as my teeth find the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. “All of you. Don’t hold back.”
Those three words unleash something I’ve been keeping reined in tight.
I lower her slowly, letting her feel every inch of my restraint—then step back.
Not because I’m done, but because she asked for afight.
“Prove it,” I say roughly. “You want me to earn it? Then make me.”
Willow’s eyes flare with heat. She doesn’t hesitate.
She rushes me.
The first move is sloppy—too much emotion in it—but her follow-up is clean. Low sweep to the knee, sharp twist of her hips. I let her take me down, rolling with the fall to gauge her momentum. She lands on top, trying to pin my arm.
“Good,” I grunt. “But you’re leaving your flank open.”
I flip her.
She hits the mat with a thud but grins as she kicks out, catching me in the gut. I rip off her shirt, then stumble back a step, laughing.
She’s not just playing now. She’s fighting.
And she’s damn good.
She dodges my grab and throws her shoulder into my ribs, using my weight against me. It almost works—almost. But then I plant, pivot, and catch her wrist mid-strike, yanking her off balance.
