The bed was too soft. My body buzzed, muscles still keyed up from the spar, heart pounding like it wanted to rip out of my chest. But it wasn't just the spar. It was her.
Laura.
Her movements haunted me. The way her thick thighs flexed when she pivoted, the way her ass jiggled and strained against her jeans when she spun, the way her hips swayed so casually it made my stomach twist with frustration and desire at the same time. I'd never met a woman built like her, dangerous enough to kill me, and yet crafted to make my head spin without trying.
I groaned, rolling onto my side. Sleep wasn't happening. My hands itched to move, to do something—anything—but it wasn't enough. I had to see her again. I had to.
Sliding out of bed, I padded through the mansion barefoot, letting my momentum powers carry me silently, almost gliding. The halls were empty, the mansion quiet, but every corner held the faint echo of my heartbeat. And maybe hers too. I wasn't sure, but the thought made me grin.
The smell hit me first—her scent, sharp, clean, a trace of sweat clinging to her, a whisper of metal beneath it, subtle but unmistakable. Then I saw the light under the kitchen door.
She was there. Sitting like she owned the damn place, perched on a chair with one leg tucked under the other, a plate balanced in front of her. Casual, relaxed. And yet every line of her body screamed control.
And oh Christ… even sitting down, she wasn't safe. Her thighs were thick and heavy, pressing against denim like they were trying to crush whatever they touched. The subtle spread of them for balance only made them more… goddamn perfect. Her ass curved over the edge of the chair, full and round, threatening to ruin any hope of concentration, jiggle with every minor shift. It was obscene. And I was lost.
I leaned against the doorframe, grinning like an idiot. "Not what I expected to find," I said, my voice rough.
She didn't look at me right away. Took another bite, swallowed, then finally gave me a flat, measured glance. "Then leave."
I laughed under my breath. No one ever told me no and meant it so quietly. And yet, she didn't get up. Didn't glare. Didn't move. She just ate, waiting for me to decide.
"Always this sweet when a guy catches you midnight snacking?" I teased, stepping closer.
"Always this loud?" she replied, voice flat, calm, deadly.
I let my eyes wander again, unapologetically. Thighs tight, ass resting so perfectly over the chair edge that it was practically mocking me. The way her jeans hugged every curve. The tiny twitch of a muscle as she leaned forward to grab a fork. I felt my chest tighten, pulse hammering, stomach twisting.
"You know," I said slowly, deliberately, leaning on the counter across from her, "it's really hard to spar with you when your ass is bouncing in my face every time you move."
Her head tilted, green eyes locking on mine. Stoic. Flat. Sharp as a blade. No reaction, except maybe the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. She knew. She knew exactly what she was doing, and it made me grit my teeth in frustration.
"You don't like what you see?" she asked, calm, teasing in the way she tilted her head.
I laughed, low and rough. "Like it? I'm trying not to embarrass myself every time you turn around."
She went back to her food like I hadn't said anything. But I caught the shift in her jaw. Tiny, imperceptible—but enough. Enough to let me know she was aware I was watching, aware of everything.
We sat like that for a while. Her eating, deliberate, controlled. Me staring, plotting, lusting. I couldn't stop. Her thighs pressed naturally against the chair, tight and solid. Her ass rested just so, bouncing slightly as she adjusted her position. Every little movement set off some primal reaction in me, and I didn't even try to hide it anymore.
I let my hands rest on the counter, casually flexing, but really just enjoying the tension between us. My eyes followed her every motion—the stretch of her jeans over thick thighs, the subtle sway of her ass, the little shift of her hips as she leaned forward. She was an obsession, and I was already hooked.
Finally, she finished eating, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and stood. That alone was enough to make my stomach tighten. The sway of her hips as she moved past me, ass bouncing just enough to make me groan quietly under my breath. Shoulders squared, chest lifted, legs moving like she owned the world and everyone in it.
And then she spoke, calm as if she were naming the day of the week:
"Three minutes. Last against me without falling, and I'll tell you something personal."
She didn't turn to look at me, didn't glance back, just walked away, ass swaying in that hypnotic rhythm that left me frozen, pulse hammering, and fully aware of every curve of her body as she left the room.
I let out a low growl, leaning back against the counter, smirking like an idiot. Three minutes, huh? She's out of her damn mind. But if it means I get to see that body in motion again… I'll fight her all damn night.
I stayed there long after she'd left, replaying every detail in my head. The curve of her ass, thick and heavy, the flex of her thighs, the sway of her hips—all of it. Her stoic face, the way her eyes could pin you without effort.
And I realized I was already addicted. Not to her skill. Not even to the spar. But to her. To the way she moved. The way she commanded attention without trying. To the way she teased me without saying a word.
I leaned forward, hands braced against the counter, breathing shallow. I could feel every nerve in my body alive, keyed for her. Waiting for the next time. Waiting for the moment she'd let me try again. Waiting for the chance to last three minutes and maybe—just maybe—get a peek behind the wall she built so carefully around herself.
And yeah. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't imagining her ass, her thighs, every goddamn inch, in ways that were filthy, shameless, and impossible to stop thinking about.
She had me completely.
And I didn't even care.