MILO

8. The Games We Play

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 praises, dropping 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 ask, cocking my head to the side. I click my tongue. "Come on now, sir. Get your head in the game."

His jaw clenches as he narrows his eyes at me, 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 states in a flat tone, repositioning himself in front of me. "Keep going."

And so I do. Over and over and over again until I'm panting, frustrated. It's like he can anticipate my every move.

I grunt, shifting my weight from my left heel to my right and forming a ninety-degree angle with my elbow, attempting to pop Milo with a right hook. He side-steps my attack and I stumble forward, my heart racing 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, punching 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 drags his thumb across his lips, a smear of blood on the pad.

Shit.

"My turn," he taunts, latching onto my forearm and spinning me around, his dick pressed up against my ass, his chest sticky against my back.

Oh, God.

"What do you do now, Kiara?" he growls, squeezing 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 hiss, peering 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 demands, pushing his hips forward, his dick twitching 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?"