Coming May 1st

Scott only smiled up at Betsy. “You hit hard, Betts. But I think we can both agree that breaking my visor would be a bad move.”

Scott could see her brow furrow in concentration as she realized the tactical misstep she’d made, the checkmate she’d backed herself into, but he didn’t give her time to think her way out of it. His left hand came up in a dazzling slap, landing squarely on Betsy’s ass. She was shocked, scandalized, the English Rose totally unused to being treated so vulgarly, and she instinctively turned to her left to see who had dared lay a finger on her.

Scott’s right hand jammed against Betsy’s hip and shoved her off of him, rolling over her so that he was on top, belly to back. He wrenched her gi jacket back and down, so that her arms were pinned to her sides by it, then he twisted the material of the jacket to tighten its grip on Betsy’s arms. He was now straddling the small of her back, her jutting ass behind him, her strong back laid out before his groin, mostly bared, teasing him with a succulent look at the sides of her breasts. Even having seen the whole picture moments ago, it was still a huge temptation.

With one hand holding her makeshift straitjacket in place, Scott reached down with the other and traced his finger over the curve of Betsy’s breast, hearing her suck in air as she registered the touch. The flesh was as pert and perfect as it looked, and warm and sensitive as well. He could imagine that in the heat of battle, with her adrenaline raging, Betsy wasn’t very used to being touched so intimately. 

She let out a very dry British laugh. “You’re good, Scott. You’re very good. In a straight fight, I’d bugger you, but you don’t let me have a straight fight, do you?”

“Not much incentive for it,” Scott pointed out, equally dry. 

Reaching behind himself, he grabbed Betsy’s loose pants by the waistband and lowered them down her sweet ass. He had a good idea of just how sweet it was from how the well-rounded cheeks bloomed out around her thong, but he wouldn’t be in this position—literally topping Psylocke—if he were all that vulnerable to temptation. Instead, he watched Betsy’s face, her cheek pressed down to the mat, straining, flushed, as if she were trying to get out of a submission hold. Only Scott couldn’t feel her trying to escape. And as her waistband cleared the pert curvature of her swelling buttocks, he saw her close her eyes in rapture. A throb went through Scott’s erection. That was the real prize. Seeing the stoic, closed-off warrior realize she was being stripped naked, that there was nothing she could do about it—and that she liked it.