He flattened her against the wall with one step forward, swiping her leg back. “Hands down,” he growled, the hand in her hair tightening in warning. “Palms flat against the wall. Now.” He pressed his thigh up and between her legs against her aching clit.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out. “Please, Tace—”
“No. If I decide you need to beg, I’ll fuckin’ tell you. Hands. Now.”
Her brain fuzzed. Think. She needed time to think. So she flattened her hands against the wall, a dangerous curiosity filling her. How far would he take whatever this was? “Don’t forget I can kick your ass,” she muttered, not even remotely sure she could any longer.
“It occurs to me that I’ve misread you from day one,” he murmured thoughtfully, his gaze on her upturned face.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“It all makes so much more sense now. An LAPD rookie with fighting skills would be an idealist motivated by saving people, unlike you,” he said.
She narrowed her gaze. “And me?”
“You’re a brat motivated by the challenge of the hack. Of beating the next guy,” he said.
There was enough truth in the statement that she had to keep herself from wincing. “Not anymore.”
“It’s about the game, right? You love to play the game.” His voice darkened and warmed.
“Life stopped being a game a long time ago,” she snapped, briefly shutting her eyes.
“I don’t think so. You like games so much? Oh, baby, we’re gonna play a game, and only one of us is gonna win.” His thigh ground against her, and mini-orgasms vibrated through her lower half.
She opened her eyes to face his directly, determination lancing through her. “You want to play, Justice? Fine, we can play all you want.” He’d lifted his thigh just enough to give her an opening. She clapped both hands beneath his knee and lifted, throwing him off balance.
His fist flattened on the back of her head and he took her with him, falling backward onto the cracked linoleum.
She cried out, shooting an elbow beneath his chin even as he dragged her down.
The second he hit, he rolled, his foot kicking a kitchen chair over. It splintered, and wood clacked across the floor.
She kicked and struggled, knocking the lantern off the table. Plexiglas cracked, and he swept the pieces out of the way with one arm. She punched him in the throat, and he choked, his face turning red.
Following up with her nails, she tried to grab onto his larynx.
He levered up, grabbed her hips, and tossed her over and onto her stomach. She landed with a muffledoof, and the breath swooshed from her lungs. She struggled furiously, but he dropped a leg across her lower back just as a large hand manacled her wrists together beneath her shoulder blades.
She bucked and writhed, shoving her shirt up, but she couldn’t dislodge him. The old linoleum smelled like mold and scratched her chin. Her kicking feet connected with the stuffed chair, sending it spinning into the coffee table.
He kept silent, letting her fight like a fish on a dock. Finally, she subsided. “You are such a dick,” she muttered.
“The first game we’re going to play is truth or lie,” he said agreeably. “And stop beating your chest against the floor. That has to hurt.”
“I’m fine. The bruise is healing fast.” She turned her head and tried to tilt her head to see his expression. Determination completely lacking in humor or fun. This was still dark Tace. “You have no right to do this,” she hissed.
He paused. “I disagree. We’ve been scouting partners for months, we’ve been friends, and now we’re lovers. If anybody has a right to an explanation from you, it’s me. So get ready to play, baby.”
She glared but probably didn’t look too scary flattened to the floor and unable to move.
“Game starts now. Did you give us the correct schematics for the Bunker?” he asked.
The man wanted to talk about the damn Bunker? She bit back a scream. “Yes.”
He patted her ass. “Truth.”
She stilled. “Wait a minute, Tace.”
