Though, I’m certain she’d deny that if I asked. Probably tell me I’m insane for even considering the idea.
Yet… Here we are.
As my fingers move smoothly into the chorus, the tips of her pink lips turn upward. She can’t see the smile I return, but that’s the remarkable beauty of music—you can feel it.
When I hit the bridge, fingers rapidly jumping up an octave as the tempo fastens, she sucks in a tiny breath.
The final chorus begins and Bexley’s fingers follow along with the beat, tapping it out on the armrest with me. I finish strong, waiting for the echo to fade as I keep a close watch on her expression.
“That was beautiful,” Bexley murmurs, reaching for the blindfold.
I quickly stand from the stool, crossing the floor toward her. “I didn’t say you could remove the blindfold yet.”
She pauses, amused. “God, you’re bossy.”
“And you’re infuriating,” I quip back as I reach her, grabbing her wrists in my hands. Lowering them, I kneel in front of her, mesmerized by the pink lips that tilt slyly in response. I lean forward, kissing her without letting go.
Bexley tries to weave her arms around my neck but I hold her wrists firmly, planting them in her lap. There’s a small growl of protest but I cut it short, swallowing the noise as my tongue darts into her mouth.
Definitely infuriating. But also dangerously irresistible.
I wonder how far I can push her—crush those restraints until she decides to fight back. I bet it wouldn’t take much. It’s always a push and pull dynamic with us. Even though things have changed, there’s no doubt in my mind that we’ll never lose that.
They could remove the feud and years of pent-up resentment, and we’d still gravitate to each other like this. It’s beyond what we were conditioned to be… it’s who we are.
And apparently, regardless of her feelings toward me, the idea of taking control is a trigger. Bexley starts to tug her wrists out of my grab, and when I refuse to let go, she lets go of any restraint that was holding her back.
I snatch open air, searching my peripheral vision for her hands but before I can locate them, I’m shoved backwards with her foot. Our kiss breaks as I quickly catch myself on the palms of my hands, and Bexley slides off the chair into my lap.
The blindfold is still securely fastened around her head, but it seems she’s abandoned the idea of needing her eyesight for this. I begin to lean forward but I’m promptly stopped by her firm hands against my chest.
“You really think you could take me like this?” I challenge.
She smirks. “Do you really think I couldn’t?”
I’m shoved again but this time, I’m ready. I catch her waist in my hands, bringing her down on top of me. Pinning Bexley, I flip us, straddling her. She barely seems fazed, almost as if sheallowed meto do it.
I wouldn’t be surprised though. I’ve seen her fight—I’m aware of what she’s capable of on every physical level.
I’ve spent years studying her techniques, watching her time in the cage. Part of me wants to accredit that with the fact I was able to have Tamara beat her. But in hindsight, now knowing what I know, I’m not so sure.
Tamara was good—a smart fighter. But even I had some unspoken doubts that night. It was just overshadowed by the pure elation I felt bringing the unbeatable Bexley down.
Did I really, though? I never could have known about her mother. Normally, I’d have gone digging if I’d gotten even a whiff of vulnerability. But there wasn’t a second leading up to that moment that raised alarm bells. Whatever she was going through, she hid it well. And now, I have a new found respect for my former enemy. In the face of grief, she never backed down. Not for a single moment.
Not until she tapped out.
And truthfully, it’s my fault for not realizing then and there that something else was happening. Too caught up in the gluttonous feelings of victory, I missed the warning signs. That says more about me than Bexley.
“I think you’re holding back,” I tell her, running my hands along the curve of her body. “Youwantme to win.”
“Bullshit.”
I raise an eyebrow, not at all bewildered. I’m just curious to see where this goes because I’m confident that I’m correct.
People like Bexley don’t crave power. No—she’s not the same as me. Where I thrive on control and knowledge, and taking charge, she just weaponizes it to her advantage. This was thrown on her; and she’s too stubborn to back down.
A month ago I’d call it a flaw.