It never really occurred to Simon that you would beat him. Never in a million years. All those crude, snide remarks he made? He certainly never meant them. (He always did.) Nor did he mean the small bonks or flicks to the back of your head whenever you ended up underneath firm, thick muscle.

If he squeezed your waist with his thighs? Well, that was no one business but his own. He loved the thrill of sparring with you. Loved the feel of you underneath him.

But underneath you? Oh that was something else entirely.

Simon softly gasped as you stared up at him, harshly panting as a hand slithered over his throat to give it a light squeeze.

It was so much it was dizzying. Everything he had ever dreamed of. God it made him lightheaded. Giving up control.

To you? He’d willingly kiss the ground you walk upon.

He fluttered his lashes, tilting his head to the side to press his masked cheek against the mat underneath him.

“I yield. Proud of yourself?”

Well he was certainly proud of you.