Page 8 of Wicked Temptations
“Showing off?” he said under his breath.
My hands were on his waist, gripping harder than necessary. “Just getting started.”
Then I rolled us, and suddenly I had him under me, and this was still choreography except for the way his hips shifted up, and I felt iteverywhere. The next thirty seconds were a blur of controlled violence, trading positions while the crowd chanted encouragement, and when I got him in a headlock and his body went tense against mine, I had to remind myself we were in public.
“Too slow,” I said directly into his ear. I felt him shudder, and my mind and body wanted that to mean more than it did.
He dropped his weight and slipped the hold faster than I expected, sweeping my legs out from under me. I went down hard, and he followed, a knee between my thighs and a hand fisted in my vest, and we were breathing in sync, staring at each other while the crowd screamed around us.
“Predictable,” he said.
I opened my mouth to respond, but the music shifted. The low droning bass cut out only to be replaced by the sharper, more frenetic beat. It was our cue to separate.
For a second, neither of us moved. His hand stayed twisted in my vest, and I was acutely aware of everywhere we were touching. His eyes searched mine, and I wanted to ask what, wanted to know if he felt this too or if I was sinking in this void, totally alone.
Then he released me and rolled to his feet in one fluid motion, disappearing into the red lights before I could even stand.
I pushed myself up slowly, panting, and tried to shake off whatever the hell that was. The crowd was still roaring, phones up and recording, and I forced myself back into character. Stalked toward a group of teenagers who scrambled backward with delighted shrieks, cursed Jude’s character and vowed to find him by midnight as my script demanded
But my focus was shot. I could feel the ghost of Jude’s weight on me, the heat of his breath.
Yeah. I was in real trouble.
***
The night continued in the same vein. Every fight sequence was more intense than the last, both of us performing at our peak, going more and more off script as we chased bigger reactions. During the midnight sequence, I pinned him against the cargo container and let my hand slide down his side, over his ribs, his hip, in a way that definitely wasn’t HR approved. His eyes went dark, and for a moment, I thought he might call me on it right there and then.
Instead, he retaliated during the one a.m. fight by getting me on my stomach with his full body weight on top of me, his mouth so close to the back of my neck that I felt his breath, hot and unsteady.
We were playing a dangerous game, and now that we’d started, I didn’t know how to stop.
By the two a.m. closing sequence, I was exhausted and wired and fairly certain I’d lost my mind. The competition had been close—both of us getting incredible crowd reactions, multiple requests for photos, and all the other performers were talking about how intense we’d been tonight.
But I couldn’t tell who’d won. I didn’t care anymore, because the prize was breakfast with Jude, and I’d realized somewhere around midnight that I’d take any excuse to spend time with him outside of work.
I was in the changing room, stripped down to my tank top and trying to scrub the makeup off my face, when Jude walked in. He looked as wrecked as I felt, hair disheveled, eyes still outlined insmeared black, though the ghostly white paint was streaked and running down the long line of his throat.
“So,” I said, because someone had to break the silence. “Who won?”
He tossed his makeup wipe in the trash and turned to face me. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
Yes. No. I didn’t know anymore.
“You tell me. You’re the one who made the bet.”
“You’re the one who suggested breakfast.”
Fair point. “So, we call it a draw. Both of us buy breakfast.”
“That’s not how bets work.”
“Then give me another way to settle it.” I moved closer, drawn by something I couldn’t name. “Right now. How do we decide who won?”
It was such a dumb thing to do. I didn’t need to keep pushing this—it was his dumb bet in the first place—but I couldn’t get it out of my head now. Breakfast with Jude. It was in there, living rent-free and worming in further.
I was standing too close, close enough to see the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. I actually thought he might close the distance, might stop dancing around whatever this thing was between us and make a move. Instead, he said the last thing I expected.
“Arm wrestling.”
