Page 18 of Dominate

“I’m just getting started.”

My hand moves before my brain signs off on it. It drags down his side, over the ridge of his ribs and across the point of his hip, fingers spread, and I feel him go rigid against me.

The ref pries us apart. I stumble backward, my palm burning.

What the hell was that?

Micah stares at me, chest heaving, one eyebrow lifted at the scar through it.

The horn saves me.

“You’re losing your head!” Dan hisses, shoving a water bottle in my mouth. “He’s bulldozing you, and you let him into the clinch. Stop cuddling him and use your reach!”

I spit into the bucket. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You probably dropped that round.”

“I said I’m fine.”

The second round starts, and this time Micah shoots first.

I sprawl too late. His shoulder plows into my hips, and I hit the canvas hard enough to jar my molars. He lands on me in half guard, all heat and iron, and my brain flares with pure panic.

We scramble.

I hip escape. He follows. I get my knee shield up, and he kills it with a heavy hand on my thigh. He answers every move before I finish making it. It’s chess played at a hundred miles an hour, and for the first time in twenty-three fights, I can’t find the next move.

I end up on my back with my legs wrapped around his waist.

His face hovers above me. A bead of sweat hangs off his nose, swells, and drops onto my lip. I taste salt. Our eyes lock, and neither of us blinks.

I dig my heel into his hip, look for the angle, and hiss, “Submit.”

“Never.”

He drives forward, forcing my legs apart. My shoulders scrape canvas as he passes my guard, and suddenly I’m pinned in full mount, wrists caught in his fists, his knees bracketing my ribs.

Micah Rivera holds me down, and I forget how to breathe.

His mouth hangs open a few inches above mine. His pulse hammers in the hollow of his throat, close enough that I could lick it. Pressed beneath him, I feel the whole heavy line of his body, and my own body answers like a traitor.

Not here. Not in front of eleven thousand people.

His eyes widen. He feels it too.

The horn blares.

The ref hauls him off me. I roll to my knees, gasping, and crawl toward my corner with my face on fire.

Dan crouches, gripping the back of my neck. “What was that? You had a scramble, you had a sweep, and you just lay there!”

“I know.”

“You are fighting like you’re somewhere else.”

“I know!”

He eases off, and his voice drops. “Whatever’s in your head, Zane, leave it in the locker room. Three rounds left. Start fighting like you want to keep that belt.”