Page 13 of Deviant Need

We step onto the mat, and he mutters curses in Russian under his breath before instantly going for my knee. The hit barely registers, but I let myself stumble anyway, giving him the win. He grins, cocky as hell, and comes at me again.

I could block every single hit if I wanted to, could take him down in two seconds flat without breaking a sweat, but I don’t. He throws a punch, and I deflect it just enough to make it look real, letting him think he’s actually getting somewhere.

When he tries to sweep my legs out, I go down willingly, letting him climb on top to pin me. His weight settles against me, thighs bracketing my hips, hands pressing my wrists flat to the mat.

Flipping him over would be easy, pinning him instead and ending this in a heartbeat, but I don’t move. I lie there and let him have it because I love the way he’s looking down at me right now, all victorious and smug like he actually won something. His face is flushed from exertion, chest rising and falling fast.

I spin him around in one quick motion and lock my arm around his neck, hauling him back against me before he realizes what’s happening.

Now he’s on top of me but completely trapped, breathing hard and struggling to break free. A pained groan escapes him, and I tighten my grip just enough to keep him there, not letting go even when he squirms against me.

“Mik, come on.”

“Nah, I’m good like this.”

He twists, trying to break the hold, but I’ve got him, and he’s not going anywhere. His body’s warm against mine, heart pounding so hard I can feel it through his back.

“I give up,” he says and sighs.

“You’re stuck, Danya. Accept your fate.” I tighten my grip just enough to keep him pinned.

He huffs. “This isn’t fair.”

“Life’s not fair. Thought you knew that by now.”

He tries to elbow me, but there’s no room, no leverage to make it work. I grin against the back of his head, nose pressed into his hair while that watermelon scent fills my nostrils. I could stay wrapped around him forever.

“You’re being annoying,” he mutters.

“You love it.”

“I really don’t.”

“Liar.” Shifting my grip, I keep him locked tight against me. His heart hammers against my forearm, and I can feel every rapid beat. He goes completely still for a second before he exhales, and some of the tension bleeds out of his body as he relaxes into me.

When I finally let go, he rolls off to the side and turns to face me, his black hair falling into his eyes. I reach over to brush it back, and he freezes the second my fingers touch his forehead, breath catching while pink spreads across his cheeks.

Then he rolls onto his back fast, staring up at the ceiling instead of looking at me. He wipes sweat off his face even though we barely did anything, movements jerky and rushed. His neck is flushed with color spreading down past his collar.

“Stop staring,” he grumbles, still looking up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

“You alright?”

“Fine.” He doesn’t look at me.

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird. You’re being weird.”

I laugh. “I’m always weird. That’s not news.”

He rolls his eyes, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. His hand comes up to run through his hair, fingers shaking slightly.

“We should probably actually train,” he says softly.

“We were training.”

“You were letting me win.”