Page 42 of Push My Buttons
I'm still staring at the spot where she disappeared, my body thrumming with unfulfilled need, my mind racing with possibilities. She didn't just tease us—she set the stage, established the rules without saying a word, and now she's expecting us to follow.
A hunt. A game. With her as the prize.
I tuck myself away, adjusting my tactical pants with hands that aren't quite steady. "Well," I say, my voice rougher than I intended, "I guess the real fun begins now."
ObsidianWolf nods, already scanning the set with tactical precision. "She has the advantage," he says. "Knowledge of the terrain. Probably planned routes already."
"Then we'll just have to be smarter," I reply, reaching for the pouch of oil balls attached to my belt. "Or faster."
Or both. Because one thing is absolutely certain as I stare into the labyrinth she's disappeared into.
Oh, sweetheart, you just turned this into a game I'm not planning to lose.
The pouch of oil balls at my hip feels heavier now than when they handed it to us—fifteen shots, fifteen chances to strip her bare. I roll an oil ball between my fingers, feeling its weight, already calculating trajectories and potential traps. "I'm going left," I tell ObsidianWolf. "You take right. We'll cover more ground."
He nods, and I notice his fingers twitching slightly—not nervousness, but what looks like mental calculation. "Fifteen minutes," he says. "Then we reconvene if neither of us has found her."
It's a solid strategy, and I find myself reluctantly impressed by his quick tactical thinking. "Deal."
We separate, each heading into different sections of the elaborate set. The moment I'm alone, I slow my pace, focusing on listening rather than seeing. In Wasteland Chronicles, sound is often more revealing than sight—footsteps, breathing, the subtle rustle of movement.
The set is eerily quiet, the only sounds are my own careful steps and the distant hum of air conditioning. I move from cover to cover, checking corners, scanning elevated positions where a sniper might hide.
A sniper. The thought triggers something in my brain—a connection I can't quite grasp. There's something familiar about all this, beyond just the game aesthetic. Something about her movements, the way she disappeared so efficiently...
A soft sound pulls me from my thoughts—the barest whisper of fabric against concrete. I freeze, listening intently. There it is again, coming from somewhere to my left and above.
I look up, scanning the crumbling architecture, and catch a glimpse of movement—just a shadow shifting against shadows, but it's enough. She's using the vertical space, just like a good player would in the game.
I palm an oil ball and calculate the angle. If I time it right, I can hit the platform she's on, making her footing treacherous when she tries to move. I draw my arm back, aim, and throw.
The ball arcs perfectly through the air and bursts against the edge of the platform. Clear oil spreads across the surface, catching the light. I hear a soft intake of breath—surprise that I spotted her so quickly.
"Found you," I call out, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice.
She moves then, abandoning her perch gracefully. I catch glimpses of her as she navigates the set—a flash of harness strap here, the glint of her mask there. She's fast, but I'm faster, closing the distance between us with long strides.
I corner her in what looks like a fallen subway car, blocking the only exit with my body. "Nowhere left to run," I say, my voice dropping lower with anticipation.
She tilts her head, assessing me. Then, to my surprise, she leans back against the wall, posture relaxed and open. She's not surrendering—she's inviting me in.
It's a trap. It has to be. But I'm walking into it anyway, drawn by the challenge in her eyes.
I approach slowly, watching for sudden movements. When I'm within arm's reach, she pushes off from the wall and closes the distance between us herself. Her gloved hands come to rest on my chest, fingers splayed over the tactical gear.
"I believe," I say, voice rough with desire, "this means I get to claim a prize."
Her eyes crinkle slightly—she's smiling behind those chains. She takes my hand and guides it to one of the patches on her outfit—a small rectangular piece covering her collarbone. I feel the magnetic clasp beneath my fingers and pull gently. The patch comes away easily, revealing a stretch of pale skin beneath.
I run my thumb across the newly exposed area, feeling her pulse jump under my touch. "Beautiful," I murmur, tucking the patch into my pocket. "But this is just the beginning."
Her eyes darken with promise. Then, faster than I can react, she ducks under my arm and slips past me, disappearing back into the maze.
The game is on again.
And I've never been more determined to win.
Chapter 16
