Page 2 of Wicked Temptations
Never one to be outdone or outplayed, I tossed the rehearsed routine out the window and moved to intercept his path. The audience wouldn’t know any different.
Ash and I collided hard enough that I felt it in my teeth, and his momentum carried us both backward until my spine hit the brick wall of a snack stand. For half a second, we were pressed together, chest to chest, and I could feel his heart hammering through all the tactical gear and leather.
We were almost the same height, though I put that down to his obsession with thick-soled shoes. I was pretty sure he wore inserts too because he always looked shorter outside of costume. But it was his bulk—that damn shoulder ratio—that made it feel and look like he dwarfed me. Between his shoulders and those thick damn arms, he made his tactical gear look earned instead of decorative. His undercut had already gone to hell, darkstrands falling across his forehead in a way that shouldn’t have been attractive but was.
I shoved the thought down hard. Attractive didn’t matter. Attractive was a trap.
“You’re early,” I said, low enough that only he could hear it over the screaming tourists and industrial soundtrack.
His hand was flat against the wall beside my head, caging me in. His pupils were blown wide from adrenaline, and there was a split in his lip from where he’d bitten it too hard during a scare. “You looked bored. Thought I’d help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“No?” He shifted his weight, and suddenly his thigh was between my legs, and this was still technically part of our act—except it absolutely fucking wasn’t. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The crowd was eating this up, phones out, recording every second of what they thought was choreography. I should shove him off. Reset. Get back to the script. Instead, I grabbed a fistful of his tactical vest and yanked him closer, aggressive enough that the tourists gasped.
“If you’re going to improvise,” I said, “at least make it convincing.”
Then I twisted, using his momentum against him, and reversed our positions. He may have been bulky, but I was strong and fast. I was also the veteran; I had tricks up my sleeve he’d never dreamed of.
His back hit the wall hard enough that the air punched out of his lungs, and then I had one hand on his throat and the other on his chest, and the tourists were losing their absolute minds thinking this was staged violence and Hunter canon.
It mostly was.
Mostly.
His eyes were dark and furious, and his hand came up to grip my wrist where it pressed against his throat. Not pushing away,which surprised me. Just holding on, like he wanted to make sure I didn’t let go too soon. It caught me off guard. The normal reaction to a chokehold, even a play-pretend one, was to break it. Instead, he held me there, his other hand gripping my hip so hard it actually hurt.
What the fuck, dude?
Then the asshole hooked his ankle behind my knee and dropped his weight, and we both went down in a tangle of limbs and tactical gear that transitioned into the ground-fighting sequence we’d actually rehearsed.
God, I hated him.
We rolled across pavement that was sticky with spilled soda and artificial fog residue, trading positions like we’d done this a hundred times.
But we had done this a hundred times. That was the problem. I knew exactly how he moved now, could predict every counter, every shift of weight. Our fight choreography had evolved past what Parker had originally wanted from us, becoming something faster and more brutal, and the tourists thought it was incredible.
But I knew the truth. We were showing off to each other. Not them. This was about us and the hierarchy that existed behind the scenes and in the tunnels under Ridgeway Park.
Ash wanted all the glory and the respect of the team without having done the time or the work.
I refused to let him have it.
He ended up on top, which wasn’t how this sequence usually finished, straddling my hips with both hands pinning my wrists above my head. His chest heaved with exertion, black makeup smeared across his cheekbone, and every point of contact between us felt like a burn that wouldn’t fade.
The crowd was chanting something. I couldn’t process what it was and honestly, with how rabid some fangirls were, it was probably for the best.
“Better?” he asked, and his voice was rough from screaming at tourists all night.
I bucked my hips, testing his balance, and felt the exact moment his grip tightened in response. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make a point. “You’re still early,” I said. “We’ve got six more minutes before the scheduled reset.”
“So, we improvise.” He leaned down, close enough that I could smell his cologne under the artificial fog and sweat. Close enough that anyone watching would think he was whispering threats. “Unless you can’t keep up.”
I twisted hard, broke his hold, and rolled us again. This time when I got him under me, I made it count. My hand went to his jaw, forcing his head back and exposing his throat to the red stage lights and the clicking cameras. His pulse jumped under my palm, rabbit-quick, and I pressed down just slightly harder than necessary.
He moaned.
