Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(12)

“En garde,” he said softly.

Her eyes went wide in panic. “Wait . . . we’re going to . . . right now?”

“Why not?” he asked, taking his stance. She glanced nervously at her sword, then his unprotected chest. “It’s a practice sword. You couldn’t hurt me with it if you tried.”

He thrust. She parried instinctively. He advanced, and she retreated clumsily, still blocking his blade. Even through her haze of alarm and bewilderment, she couldn’t help but admire the flex of his honed muscles, the coiled strength in his long body.

“Don’t be afraid,” she heard him say as she defended desperately. He hardly seemed to be exerting himself at all. He might have been taking an evening stroll, with as much effort as he exhibited. “If you know the gaming program, your brain knows adequate movements to engage with me.”

“How do you know?” she squeaked as she leapt out of the way of his blade.

“Because I designed the program. Defend yourself, Francesca,” he said sharply at the same moment he lunged. She yelped and blocked his blade just inches from her shoulder. He continued to attack without withdrawing, pressing her backward on the mat, the metallic clangs and hisses of their swords filling the air around them.

He advanced quicker now—she felt the amplification of his strength along the shaft of her blade—but his expression remained completely calm.

“You’re leaving your octave unguarded,” he murmured. She gasped when he struck her right hip with the side of his blade with casual precision. He’d barely tapped her, but her hip and buttock burned.

“Again,” he said tensely.

She followed him to center of the mat, his cool, effortless besting of her making her blood boil in her veins. They tapped swords and she attacked, lunging toward him.

“Don’t let your anger at being beaten make you foolish,” he said as they engaged.

“I’m not angry,” she lied through clenched teeth.

“You could be a good fencer. You’re very strong. Do you work out?” he asked almost conversationally as they thrust and parried.

“Run long-distance,” she said, and then squawked in alarm when he landed a particularly strong blow.

“Concentrate,” he ordered.

“I would if you’d be quiet!”

She grimaced when he chuckled. A drop of sweat skittered down her neck as she used all of her energy to parry his thrusts. He feinted, and she fell for it. Again, he tapped her right hip.

“If you don’t protect that octave, you’re going to get a bruised bottom.”

Her cheeks flamed. She resisted an urge to touch the side of the buttock that still stung from his blade. She straightened and forced her breathing to even. His stare was fixed on her shoulder. She realized the opening of her hoodie had fallen down during their swordplay, and she tugged the jacket back into place.

“Again,” she said as calmly as possible. He nodded once in polite acquiescence.

She gathered herself and faced him at the center of the mat. She knew she was being foolish, knew it perfectly well. In addition to being an expert fencer, he was a male in prime physical condition. She’d never best him. Still, her competitive spirit would not be silenced. She tried to recall some of the fencing moves from the game.

“En garde,” he said. They tapped swords.

This time, she let him advance, carefully guarding all her quadrants. He was too strong and quick, however. As he drew closer, he choked off her ability to attack offensively. She parried wildly, straining to hold him. Her excitement mounted as he closed in on her. She fought desperately, but they both knew he would triumph.

“Stop,” she cried out in frustration when he pushed her to the edge of the piste.

“You submit,” he said, his sword striking hers so hard she almost lost her grip. She barely blocked his next strike.

“No.”

“Then think,” he snapped.

She desperately tried to follow his instructions. Things were too tight to lunge, so she extended her arm, forcing him to leap backward.

“Very nice,” he murmured.

His blade flicked so rapidly it was a blur. She never felt the metal on her skin. She stopped parrying and glanced down in shock. He’d sliced clean through the strap of her tank top.

“I thought you said the swords weren’t sharp,” she cried out in a choked voice.

“I said yours wasn’t.” He flipped his wrist, and her sword flew through the air, landing with a useless thud on the mat. He whipped off his mask. She stared at him, aghast. She resisted an urge to run, he looked so fearsome in that moment.

“Never leave yourself undefended, Francesca. Never. The next time you do, I will punish you.”

He tossed his sword aside and lunged toward her, reaching. He jerked off her mask and tossed it on the mat. One hand cradled the back of her skull, the other bracketed her neck and jaw. He swept down and took her mouth with his own.

At first, his surprise attack on her senses made her go rigid in shock. Then his scent penetrated her awareness, his taste. He tilted her head back and slid his tongue between her lips, clearly intent on consumption. He thrust, exploring her. Owning her.

Liquid heat rushed between her thighs, the total response to his kiss unprecedented in her experience. He brought her closer, pressing her against his body. He was so hot. So hard. Lord have mercy. How could she have thought he was indifferent? His arousal raged against her. It was like being suddenly shoved into a male inferno of lust and left to helplessly burn.