Page 203 of Emylia

“Fast,” he murmured.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Using his grip as leverage, I pivoted low and swept a kick toward his legs. He jumped, barely clearing it—and I was already coming back in for another strike.

We collided—motion and muscle and heat. Each block, each dodge, each breath, stoked the fire between us. He caught my elbow, I dodged his counter. His movements were precise, controlled. Mine were fluid, unpredictable. Our bodies moved in a rhythm that bordered on violent intimacy.

Then—he faked high and swept my legs from under me.

I hit the ground hard.

Before I could react, he was on me, his weight pressed over mine, one hand gripping my wrist, the other planted beside my head. His knee pinned between my thighs, effectively caging me beneath him, almost tasting the warmth of me.

“You’re holding back,” he breathed, voice rough and close to my ear.

“I’m not.” I whispered, defiant.

“You are.”

My chest rose and fell against his. Every inch of my skin buzzed. Not from the fall.

From him.

It was his proximity.

His heat.

Using my hips and momentum, I twisted—hard. We rolled, and suddenly I was straddling him, pinning him to the ground with my knees on either side of his hips, my hands braced on his chest. His warmth pulsed beneath my thighs.

The way he shifted into me without meaning to, caused an ache that was impossible to ignore. Instinctively, my thighs tightened, unintentionally squeezing my body impossibly tighter, to the point of breaking.

"Princess," his voice was a rasp, his eyes stormy.

I cleared my voice. “Still think I’m holding back?” I challenged.

His lips curled. “I think you’re just getting started.”

His hands slid over my thighs, slow and steady, settling at my hips. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just… claiming space. Holding me there. He didn’t move to flip us again. Didn’t even try to escape.

He just… looked at me.

Like I was a war he wanted to lose.

Silence fell—thick, charged, crackling.

I leaned in, not quite kissing distance but close enough that our breath tangled together as one.

I froze. Nope. I couldn't fight this, not when he touched me like that.

Within a heartbeat I was on my feet. My pulse was erratic and sinfully his. The space between us was charged with something consuming.

He rose with liquid grace, no hesitation, no gloating.

My next strike wasn’t calculated—it was impulsive. Hot. Fierce. I needed to land a hit. Needed to prove something I couldn’t name.

He deflected it.

And the next.

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