MILO

8. The Games We Play

His presence is like a vacuum, sucking all the musky air out of the room, making it hard to breathe. Making it hard to fucking see.

I don't want to be affected by this man but his energy is undeniable. With a snap of his fingers, he can make the world stop, jump, roll over.

And honestly, that kind of control... it's fucking hot.

"You're back," I swallow, my chest rising in my sports bra as he devours my glistening body with his eyes, his greedy gaze bouncing along my soft curves.

And I like it.

I like it when he looks at me like that. It's like he's bestowing me with some of his all-encompassing power.

And in my position, I'll take all the power I can get.

My conversation with Luisa verified that I'm not welcome here. That I'm an outsider. Sure, everyone has been kind and courteous to me this past week but they had no choice. But as long as Milo wants me, I hold some of the cards. The more power he gives me, the less power he has.

It's like a twisted game of tug-of-war; as long as my hands are on the rope and I'm still standing, I haven't lost.

I won't lose.

Blinking, I add, "How was-"

"Show me what you have learned, Kiara," he rasps, reaching for the hem of his shirt and slowly pulling it over his wide shoulders, purposely taking his time, knowing that he's drawing me in, sucking me into his black hole. I bite my lip, my mouth dry as I absentmindedly study his sculpted figure.

With a flick of the wrist, he drops his shirt on the padded floor. He strides toward me, shadows from the recessed lighting bouncing around the hard ridges of his chest, the ripples of his abs, the defined V that leads to the large mass bulging from his joggers. With every step he takes closer to me, a muscle on this perfect body twitches, so tempting, so fucking refined.

He licks his lips, reaching for the boxing gloves in my hands and tossing them aside. "Wha-" I clear my throat. "What are you doing?"

"Taking the training wheels off," he whispers, mischief growing in his irises as he leans into my ear, his chest plush against my breasts, his stubble grazing my jawline. "Hit me, Kiara. I want to feel your hands against my body."

Power.

I suck in a sharp breath, closing my eyes as I reply, "I don't want to hurt you, Mr. Di Vaio," I say in a taunting tone. "I've learned a few tricks."

His chest rumbles like the beating hooves of wild animals, his baritone laugh reverberating through my body.

"Trust me, Kiara," he says, snaking his hand around the back of my neck, tugging it backward, his espresso-brown eyes meeting mine. "I am a very difficult man to hurt."

Based on the various scars scattered across his chest and slicing through his tattooed arms- he's lying. He's made out of flesh and blood, just like me. But I won't argue. I'll let him have this one.

"Have it your way," I say, detangling myself from his iron grip, rolling my neck, and stretching out my arms. "Ready?"

He smirks, widening his stance. "Come and get it, Kiara."

I narrow my eyes and get into position, praying that I don't make an idiot out of myself. I'm sure he'll be able to block all my punches but the idea of getting to touch him is causing a flurry of excitement to course through my veins.

"As you wish," I say, casting him a sly smile.

Pointing my thumb to the floor, like Gio taught me in order to not break a finger, I swing my left fist forward to jab Milo's chest. He catches my hand in his palm.