Page 25 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MARY

The basement has always been a place for me to blow off steam. When I was a kid, my dad sent me here to work off my excess energy and anger, and, still, exercise is the best way to keep me level-headed. Endorphins, whatever.

Training the next day consists of Leo, Nate, and I sparring while Vanessa does some weight lifting and walking on the treadmill. She still works out since being pregnant, but no fighting.

“Trouble in paradise?” Nate asks while I take my turn on the punching bag.

I kick the bag with extra force. “What gave you that idea?”

“I think you should give him a chance,” Nate says.

Even though he’s gotten pretty fit after a year of training with us, he still sweats like crazy every workout. I think he might just be a sweaty person, like it might be in his nature, alongside annoying optimism and general nosiness.

“I’ve given him a chance. The ultimate chance, I fucking married him.”

“Yeah but have you given him a chance since?”

I stop my combo and drop my arms to hang at my sides.

“Get to the point, Nate.”

“He’s asking you how big of a bitch have you been to Maxim since the wedding,” Leo calls from where he stretches on the mat.

“Why would you think I’ve been a bitch to him? I’m perfectly nice,” I defend.

Leo and Nate both say nothing, and when I look at Vanessa, she’s still looking down at her iPad, but she’s smiling, so I might guess she’s just pretending to be reading. No damn help.

“I once told you that your form was messed up and you didn’t talk to me for a day,” Leo says.

“You were wrong,” I say. “You deserved it.”

“Even if I was, you shouldn’t punish me for not knowing,” Leo says, sounding way too much like Nate.

I should’ve seen the writing on the walls with these two.

Leo ditches me for a new best friend and suddenly he’s a well-adjusted individual trying to diagnose my mental and emotional shortcomings. He was fine before.

“Can you all stop defaulting to believing that I’m in the wrong here? Maxim isn’t some perfect man.”

Leo and Nate share a look that tells me they really don’t believe this assessment.

I punch the bag hard one last time. “If you like him so much, you should’ve married him,” I mutter. Wrong thing to say because Nate and Leo peel into laughter, not to be stopped by the cool glare I set on them.

“Look, if Maxim laid a hand on you, you’d kill him. Hell, if he was really as much of a dick as you’re acting like he is, he’d already be dead,” Nate says.

“You’ve gotten too comfortable talking to me,” I tell him, and he laughs again.

“You’re my sister now. It’s my duty to be real with you.”

Vanessa sends a look so sweet and loving at Nate that my molars hurt from the impending cavity.

“I would treat Maxim right,” Leo says. “You’re right, maybe I should’ve married him.”

I am about to leave without further engaging in this asinine conversation when the basement door opens to reveal none other than the object of my ire. He steps tentatively down the stairs and I think I would recognize his figure and gait anywhere. It’s incredible how quickly you learn a person.

My mom trails behind him smiling, and when they reach the bottom, she addresses me. “Mary, sweetie, your husband is here.”

“I can see that,” I say, but she goes on undeterred.

“Maxim was just telling me about the hotel in Mexico. He said we can all go for a vacation.”

Maxim turns to look at me and his blue eyes roam over my body, which I know is covered in sweat. Not something I’m usually self-conscious about, but I idly wonder if he can smell me from where he stands.

“Marianna,” he says in greeting. He doesn’t come closer, and neither do I, but I nod in return.

When I look back at my mom she is communicating with her eyes that I need to get over my shit and be nice to my polite, handsome, and very tall husband.

I present the single peace offering I can muster. “Would you like to spar with me?”

He startles. “What? Now?”

“Yep. Since you think I’m so defenseless.” So, okay, not so much a peace offering as a throwing of a gauntlet, but as we all know, I have room to grow as a person.

“I don’t think that,” he defends.

I raise an eyebrow, but don’t recite from memory his intense assertions that I get a new job and never complete a hit again. Mom clicks her tongue and pats Maxim’s thick shoulder.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, and retreats up the stairs.

Once she has, I point to Leo’s abandoned boxing gloves on the mat behind me. Maxim shuffles under my challenge.

“We shouldn’t,” he says. He’s in his business clothes, after all. Slacks, button-up, leather shoes. I resent that he looks hot while I look like I’ve been working out for the last hour.

“You scared? We’ve never sparred before and I think we should,” I tell him.

“I think that too,” Nate says, and I shoot him a quick glare.

He just lives for the drama.

“We need to shower for dinner,” Vanessa calls to Nate. Her eyes are saying leave them alone . I can tell he wants to object, but after second thought, he sighs and follows Vanessa like the puppy he is.

Leo whistles and follows them, leaving me alone in the basement with my husband.

I squint at Maxim. I might be projecting, but he looks tired, too. His jaw is unshaven and his eyes are a dead giveaway to his lack of rest last night. We’re like a mirror in that way.

“Spar with me,” I say again. “I’ll forgive you for being an ass if you do.”

The tension is his shoulders releases as if he’s giving up the fight against this, and then he shrugs off his suit coat.

I try not to look as delighted as I feel.

It feels like bees buzz in my stomach, and something really must be wrong with me because the thought of hand-to-hand combat with my husband makes me more excited than any expensive date he’s had to take me on in the last few months.

He tosses his coat over the arm of a treadmill, pockets his cufflinks, and rolls up his sleeves revealing that snake tattoo that I sometimes have to resist outlining with my fingertips. His forearms are thick and my hands tingle remembering just how warm and sturdy they are.

He rolls his shoulders back as he approaches the mat.

He’s much larger than me; in my sneakers I’m almost a whole foot shorter than him and I’ve seen him naked—the man is jacked.

Even still, I could probably take him, I think.

I’ve fought many large men and more often than not, I have something they lack: cunning.

Or speed. Sometimes both. Big guys are sometimes absurdly slow.

Maxim is smarter than any of the men I fight at Leroy’s though. It’s so obvious in his assessing stare, in the way he speaks. I wouldn’t have married him if he was stupid.

“Did you have a good day?” he asks once he’s got the gloves on.

“Peachy,” I lie. I was tired and irritable the whole day, a real joy to have around according to Leo who was sick of my attitude before lunch. “You?”

“No,” he says simply. “Shall we get on with it?”

I smirk at his honesty then get into my fighting stance, knees bent, feet light, fists up in front of my face. He lowers into one of his own and I thrill to see him poised as he is instead of his usual, stiff, businessman posture.

He nods, I nod back, and then we begin circling one another, slow steps on the mat.

He’s wary of fighting me, trepidation so clear in his blue eyes.

I take the opportunity to strike, jumping forward and punching straight for his face.

He huffs and blocks, but leaves his side open, so I kick his abdomen, which is pure fucking muscle.

I knew it was, but feeling it with my bare hands on our wedding night is not the same as in a fight. An image of me sliding palms up his torso, down his ribs, down further fills my mind unbidden, and it distracts me enough that I almost let Maxim trip me.

I right myself and attack with a flurry of blows—none hard enough to actually hurt him, but hard and quick enough to keep him from being able to do anything but block.

When I finally let up and jump back, he throws a half-hearted punch in my direction and I duck from it easily.

“Stop holding back,” I spit.

“I’m not.”

I punch his right side, harder this time; he grunts and lets out an incredulous laugh. “I’m not going to hit you, Mary.”

“Mary now?” I taunt before I kick him, this time a good hit on his thigh that might bruise if I’m lucky. He deserves it for treating me like I’m a delicate thing. “Good to know the full name is reserved for when you deem I’m being a good girl.”

He drops his stance in surprise and I take the opportunity to kick him again. He groans this time, and shuffles back a few steps to recover, but I don’t let him. I run combination after combination at him until we’re both panting and there’s sweat dripping down my back.

“Come on ,” I yell again.

He shakes his head. “Fuck it.”

Maxim surprises me when he lunges. He’s faster than I gave him credit for and as fast as I can blink, he grabs around my waist and takes me down to the mat with a loud thud.

The breath isn’t totally knocked out of me, but I’m startled enough that I can’t get free before he pins my legs under his.

He uses his forearm to press my wrists above my head before I can really retaliate.

In less than a minute, I’m completely pinned. His face is so close to mine, that Maxim’s panting breath mixes with my own.

“You can’t help but be a brat, can you?” he asks. “I want to protect you and you act like I’m a misogynistic devil.”

He pushes my arms harder into the mat, and I glare at him. He uses his teeth to undo the velcro on his right glove and pulls it off to free one of his hands.

“You might be. Jury is still out on that,” I bite.

His eyes dart down to my mouth when I speak and it reminds me that, while he may have bested me like a damn amateur, I’m not entirely defenseless.

I arch my back to press my chest against his. He laughs, but the sound is mirthless.

Using his free hand, he holds my jaw and makes me face only him. No matter my wriggling or fighting, he has me completely pinned.

“You got too cocky when you needed to stay fast on your feet,” he says. I arch further bringing my chest up to meet his body. My tits glide across his chest and he stiffens. “If I had a weapon?—”

“You’d what? Have already killed me?”

“What would you do, Marianna?” he asks instead of humoring my taunt. “How do you get out of this?”

“I break his nose with my skull,” I say. He moves his hand from my jaw down to around my throat and lightly squeezes.

“If he holds your head down?” he asks, breathless.

My thoughts race as quickly as my pulse beneath his fingers. I can’t think clearly when he’s touching me like this, his presence overwhelms my senses entirely, and it is a dangerous thing.

“You wouldn’t come for me?” I ask.

“I would always come for you.”

I lick my lips and the slightest groan escapes his throat as I do. Pressed between us, I feel him getting hard and it makes me grin. Even though he’s right—pinned as I am, I would be in horrible danger—I feel I’ve still got a leg up in this fight.

He lets go of my throat and his eyes betray him when he glances down at my mouth again for a too-long moment. His throat bobs with a gulp. I look at his lips.

He hasn’t touched me in a private, intimate way since his hands skimmed up my legs in Mexico—in fact, he hasn’t even seen me naked unless accidentally walking in on me changing and quickly walking out of the room.

I think he’s been aiming for chivalry, letting me settle in before really going to town on the baby making. How polite.

I lift my neck to bring my mouth closer to his, and he looks at me with surprise. His eyelashes are long and dark, he’s so intensely handsome it boggles my mind sometimes.

I give him a tentative nod, permission to close the space between his mouth and mine.

The firm pressure on my arms loosens and his free hand slides lightly down my side, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Slowly, he readjusts his legs, freeing mine.

“You win,” he murmurs. “You are a good fighter.”

“I know,” I whisper. And then he brings his mouth down to meet mine.

Kissing him is dizzying; his lips are so soft and warm, I could lose myself in them easily.

His tongue presses into my mouth and it shocks me into granting him entrance.

He still has my arms above my head, but only half-heartedly keeping me there while his mouth moves skillfully over mine.

His non-gloved hand slides around my neck and tilts my head back farther so he can deepen the kiss.

I usually hate kissing when hooking up. It’s not that I’m not good at it, only that it allows too much time for my mind to wander. This feels nothing like the usual kisses with strangers, this— just this —I could do for hours.

His five o’clock shadow rubs my chin in a way that really does make me feel lightheaded, and I worry that my mom will come to retrieve us for dinner and find us here like horny teenagers.

I thought I would use my feminine wiles to seduce my way into winning this fight, but now I find myself considering how I can get his clothes off of him, and that is not the energy I need when I’m supposed to be mad at him. I am still mad at him.

I gather the remaining shreds of my sanity to get a damn grip and use my body weight to push him over. He doesn’t fight me—I suspect if he wanted to he could keep me beneath him very easily, but he lets me roll him, my mouth still on his while I move to straddle him.

I push away from him quickly, and scramble to my feet to not give in and kiss him again. He lifts on one of his elbows, bewildered, and his erection is obscene in his slacks. I take three big steps back and remove my gloves, depositing them on the counter in a rush.

“I have to shower,” I say, backing toward the stairs.

And then I leave my husband there, still laying out on the mat, and retreat upstairs to my bathroom.