Page 25 of A New Days Don

Massimo flips us over, taking the dominant position with ease, but his eyes flash with concern as they frantically run down my face, neck, and body, looking for any sign of injury. I press the backs of my hands to my cheeks in an attempt to cool them, avoiding the intensity of his gaze.

“Okay, you got it,” I mutter, my mind feeling numb, lost, and confused. I currently have a man I barely know who weighs more than anyone I have ever rolled with on top of me, pinning my body to the ground with his, and there is no panic, not even the little buzz that has been present every minute of every day since it all went down.

No. Instead, something tantalizing and tingly pulses where Massimo had pressed his hips up to me. I can still feel his taut muscles against the apex of my thighs, making my limbs feel a little weak. These are not appropriate thoughts to be having right now.

“I believe the instructions were that you now try to dominate me.” He muses. I can’t focus on anything while this numb feeling blankets me.

I struggle beneath him, my breath catching at the warmth that has spiralled through me unpredictably. It’s a weak attempt, especially given that I've been doing this for years.

I buck my hips, feeling something hard and rigid making me gasp as it makes contact with my center.

What the hell was that?!

My entire body stills when his thumb and forefinger grip my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his, “What’s wrong?”

His voice is quiet, but still firm and lethal. His legs hook mine, stopping my attempt to shimmy away, and then I’m stuck. I should be panicking. All I have known for the last six years is panic, fear, and disgust. Yet for some reason, none of them are here. That in itself makes my heart skitter anxiously, and when I don’t answer Massimo, a low, threatening rumble vibrates between us.

“Don’t make me ask for a third time, angelo mio.” It’s the way the Italian words roll off his tongue, silky and decadent, that tethers me to whatever warped reality I have waltzed into with this man. It takes me a moment to realize what he meant by a third time, but it dawns on me that I dodged this question in the café a week ago.

“Nothing.” I snap at him, using everything I have to shove his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

“Nope. Try that again.” His voice is calm, but I can tell, from the way it thickens and grows hoarse, that he is getting irritated.

The timer goes off, and the coach claps his hands, giving me the reprieve from whatever is going on right now in my body and between Massimo and I. I can barely recognize myself as I shove him back, and although he listens, the way the coach clears his throat has him backing off. At least Mr. Tall, Dark, and Decadent knows when not to make a scene.

I snap upright, fixing my hair. The air is thicker than it usually is, only five minutes into training, and it probably has to do with the fact that I am a volcano ready to erupt.

Erupt what exactly?

I’m not sure.

But whether it’s a fountain of tears, screams, or something else, now is not the time and here is not the place.

I don’t realize I’m twisting my hands together until Massimo’s large, calloused one covers them, stopping the anxious tick in its place. The thrum of my heartbeat in my ears picks up, and when I try to pull my hands from him, he tightens his grip.

I turn my focus back to the coach, avoiding whatever the hell is going on right now and trying desperately to find reality again.

The coach goes over three different moves, the techniques, and when to use them. Most of which I have already seen and mastered, so it's no surprise when he calls me to the front for a demonstration. What is surprising is the icy-cold glare that chills my skin, making me spin my head toward the man who currently looks like he’s adding the coach to a theoretical kill list.

I scurry to the front of the class. The strange feeling and heat that had been building earlier dissipates into nothing as all the eyes in the class hone in on me. The familiar thrum of panic in my veins comes back like an old friend, and I try to stay focused on all the people I do know, but for some reason, there are more newbies than there are regulars today.

“We are going to do this twice, sitting upright, so you can see the way I maneuver into the chokehold and lying down, where you can watch Mila do the same,” Gus explains, but I am too distracted by the frigid glare Massimo is sending our way to pay attention.

Lost in a trance, by the time Gus is done, my eyes never leaving Massimo’s, I barely register the choke he placed me in as he lies on his stomach and allows me to gain back control to demonstrate the two versions of the chokehold. Once we are done, I rush off to the side, purposely avoiding Massimo as the coach continues to speak.

Before I can look for Juliet or Elyssa, Massimo is dragging me to the back corner of the gym, back to the spot we had been rolling in earlier.

“I’m not running through drills with you.” I rest my hands on my hips, throwing my shields up and schooling my face into a neutral expression as I stare straight into his infuriating coffee-coloured eyes.

That must be what I am feeling. Whatever it is, it's my own irritation toward him.

But even as I think that, I know it's not true. Irritation isn’t warm and bubbly. Irritation doesn’t quell the panic.

“Too fucking bad, sweetheart.” He growls in return. He sweeps me off my feet and we tumble to the ground. I prepare myself for the landing, hoping to God it doesn’t take the last ounce of air keeping me sane from my body, but it never comes. Instead, I find myself wrapped in his warmth, my body on top of his with his arms wrapped tightly around my body. “Go on, practice.”

I huff and clench my fists as panic meets irritability. This is what my irritation feels like.

I use that to fuel my moves, Massimo grinning like he won a prize as I wrestle and fight to submit him. This isn’t at all what we were supposed to be doing, but the more Massimo chuckles, the more I lay my moves on thickly. Sweat trickles down my face and back as I use every ounce of muscle I have to try and manipulate him into a bad position and gain the upper hand. It is all for not when he bucks and flips us, but I don’t let him get into my guard.