POV Mara
The bell wasn't even finished ringing when I drove forward, no-rules from the first second—hip checks, clinches, sweeps that belonged in street fights, not polite gyms.
Adrian absorbed it all, moving with me like we'd choreographed this violence, and when I hooked his ankle and drove him down, the satisfaction was sharp enough to taste.
I landed on top, straddling his waist, my gloved fists drumming the canvas beside his ear. "Stop pulling your punches."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I lowered until our breaths tangled, until I could see the gold flecks in his green eyes, until the space between us hummed with something more dangerous than violence. "Or maybe you just like women on top?"
The question came out breathier than intended, my body betraying me with how good it felt to pin him, to feel his hips beneath mine, to watch his pupils dilate as I shifted my weight deliberately.
He didn't flinch, didn't look away, just held my gaze with that devastating steadiness. "What I like is a woman taking her pleasure."
The words landed low in my belly, heat pooling where our bodies pressed together through too many layers of fabric. I laughed, but it came out shaky. "Well, I'm not. Not while you're holding back like I'm made of glass."
Something shifted in his expression—decision crystallizing—and then he moved. Buck, twist, clean stand that had me airborne before I could counter.
I hit the canvas hard but rolled with it, coming up fast, hands high, body singing with the specific thrill of finally getting what I'd asked for.
"Better," I said, and meant it.
The next two takedowns were his, and physics was physics—he was stronger, had reach, had the kind of power that made my body both fear and want the collision.
I fought hard, using frames and angles I'd learned from men who'd wanted to hurt me for real, but when he got position, he kept it.
Twice I almost threaded a finish, my legs seeking leverage that would let technique beat strength, but he slipped free with this infuriating grace, and then I was back where I'd started—seated on him, his gloved hands pulling me closer instead of pushing away.
"You're beautiful," he said, the words coming out raw, unguarded, like they'd escaped without permission.
I snorted, deflecting because sincerity from him made my chest too tight. "Any woman here would take you to bed, Adrian. I'm not special."
"I only want you."
The confession hung between us, and I had to force out words past the sudden tightness in my throat. "Dreaming isn't illegal."
"Adrian Ricci!"
The shout cracked across the gym like a gunshot. Three men in black were moving our way with that specific purpose that meant nothing good.
I yanked my hood up and rolled off him in one motion, dropping from the ring on the opposite side before thought could form.
My body knew this dance—disappear, evade, become invisible—and I ghosted through the crowd while behind me Adrian's voice carried, casual and controlled, handling whatever those men wanted from him now.
* * *
The elevator asked for his code, and of course I'd watched him type it—last night, peripheral vision catching the pattern while pretending to study the wood grain.
He'd known I would. Had probably wanted me to, this careful man who calculated every risk except the one I represented.
The doors sealed me into his private space, and I peeled off layers as I moved—gloves first, then wraps, leaving a trail of evidence through the guest’s bedroom.
The shower pounded hot enough to hurt, and I let it punish me for the stupidity of all of this—crowded gym, people who knew him, men looking for him who might recognize me despite the hood.
What I like is a woman taking her pleasure.
The words echoed in the steam, and heat that had nothing to do with water temperature spiraled through me.
My hand started to move before I caught it, pressing my palm flat against the tile instead.
"You don't sleep with the man tied to your parents' death," I said aloud, letting the words bounce off porcelain and glass. "You don't. You can't. You won't."
But my body wasn't listening, still humming from the fight, from his hands on my hips, from the way he'd looked at me like I was the only thing in that ring worth seeing.
Toweled and trying to find equilibrium, I stepped back into the bedroom and jolted—Adrian sat on the edge of the bed.
"Didn't think you spooked," he said, almost amused, cataloging my reaction with those eyes that saw too much.
"Who were they?" I asked, needing information more than I needed the distance I should be maintaining.
"Mare Nero." He stood, and the room suddenly felt smaller. "A small matter I'd ignored long enough that they came to find me."
He stepped closer, stopped just out of reach, and his gaze tracked over me with that specific weight of want barely leashed. "You run well. Good instincts."
"Had to learn somewhere."
"I need a shower," he said simply, but the way his eyes lingered on where my towel tucked against itself said something else entirely.
Then he was gone, leaving me standing damp and furious and desperately confused by this man who'd tell a room full of people he wanted me, then walk away when we were finally alone.
I face-planted into the pillow, and let out a muffled scream that did nothing to relieve the tension coiling tighter with each breath.
Why flirt with me on a public stage then refuse the easy privacy of this room?
From the hallway: a woman's laugh, bright and delighted, then the sound of a playful smack, skin on skin.
Two voices—one definitely female, one male—receding toward another room.
Fury spiked so hot and immediate I actually saw red at the edges of my vision.
Did he seriously just bring some gym girl back here for sex while I was lying in this bed like an idiot, wanting him despite every reason not to?