Page 10 of Wilde and Deadly

He clicked the cuffs into place, the metal cool against her skin.

Then, the shift. A glint in her eyes. A slow, knowing smile.

Predatory. Calculated.

Oh, fuck.

Realization came a second too late.

She moved before he could react, her leg hooking behind his knee, striking fast and hard. He tried to block, but she knew exactly where to hit—his bad leg. She used his momentum against him, a perfect takedown executed with infuriating ease.

A heartbeat later, he was flat on his back, staring at the night sky. The air whooshed out of his lungs.

Son of a bitch.

She’d played him. Again.

And despite himself, despite the fact that he should be pissed as hell—he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle her or kiss her senseless for it.

His body was still reeling from the fall, his lungs burning from the impact, but the sharp thrill running through his veins had nothing to do with pain.

Yeah, apparently, he was a goddamn masochist because part of him loved every second of sparring with her.

Rowan straddled his chest, her cuffed hands pressed lightly against his throat. Not choking, but a warning. A clear, undeniable threat.

He stilled. Not because he was afraid—no, not even close. But because she wanted him to react, wanted him to try and throw her off balance. And Rowan never made a move without already knowing how it would end.

She eased the pressure on his neck and dragged her hands down his chest until she found the hem of his shirt. Lifting it, she dragged her nails back up his chest, tracing along his ribs, making him tense, then squirm.

That little brat. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“Rule number one,” she purred, her voice all sugar and steel. “Never underestimate your opponent.”

He knew better than to let his guard down around her for even a second. Rowan had always been unpredictable, a force of nature that couldn’t be contained. She was wild and dangerous, and yet here he was, letting himself enjoy this when he should be hauling her ass out of here.

She grinned like she’d won something.

Davey’s jaw tightened. Oh, hell no.

“Rule number two,” he growled, his hands clamping onto her hips. “Don’t get cocky.”

With a quick twist, he flipped their positions, pinning her beneath him.

Her eyes widened in surprise—briefly—before narrowing with determination. Yeah, that was more like it.

She bucked against him, trying to throw him off, but he sank his weight, holding her in place.

And holy hell, that was a mistake.

Her body pressed against his, warm and strong and so goddamn tempting, and for the first time in his life, he cursed every ounce of training that told him how to stay in control.

It was torture. Each upward thrust of her body rubbed against him in all the right ways, sending white-hot sparks licking through his veins. His pulse kicked up, fueled by the push and pull of this fight, this game they were always playing. He wanted to snake a hand around the back of her neck and fasten his lips over hers. Wanted to feel the heat of her skin, taste the challenge on her tongue.

But, again, that was precisely what she wanted him to want.

She wanted him horny and distracted so he’d make a mistake.

His breath was heavy, his restraint slipping—and she knew it.

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