Page 39

“Look angrier, guys,” the photographer calls out from behind his camera. “Give me that killer instinct. You hate each other. Zane, step into his space.”

Zane steps forward. His bare chest brushes against mine. I feel how warm he is. I’m so hard I can barely breathe.

I stare up into his face. I see the same struggle mirrored in his clenched jaw. The same desperate, agonizing restraint tightening the muscles of his neck.

“This is torture,” Zane mutters through gritted teeth. His lips barely move.

“Tell me about it.” I shift my weight, letting my hip brush his thigh on purpose.

Zane inhales sharply through his nose. His eyes darken, flashing with a warning that makes my pulse hammer against my ribs.

I reach my room first. Zane appears at the far end of the corridor as I fumble with the keycard.

He walks past me without looking over.

I get the door open and wait.

A few seconds later, he comes back.

“Forget something?” I ask.

“Several things I wanted to do to you today.”

I catch his sleeve and pull him inside. He shuts the door, then turns the deadbolt himself.

For a moment, we just look at each other.

“You enjoyed that photoshoot,” he says.

“You noticed.”

“Hard not to.”

I reach for him. He meets me halfway and kisses me before I can think of another smart answer. I fist the front of his henley and walk him backward toward the bed.

Zane goes willingly for exactly three steps. Then his competitive instincts take over.

His hands clamp around my waist. He pivots, dropping his center of gravity, and uses his wrestling background to reverse our positions. My back hits the wall hard enough to rattle the framed artwork hanging beside the bathroom door.

“Not that easy,” Zane growls against my mouth.

“Did not think it would be.” I grin, feral and delighted.

I hook my leg around his hip, shift my weight, and use the leverage to twist us sideways. We tumble away from the wall and crash onto the king-sized bed in a heavy tangle of limbs. We grapple across the mattress like we are back in the octagon. Each of us fights for top position. Neither of us concedes an inch.

Clothes become casualties.

I tear his shirt over his head and fling it across the room. Zane retaliates by grabbing the collar of my t-shirt and nearly ripping the fabric in half to get it off me. Belts unbuckle. Denim gets shoved down and kicked onto the carpet. Every inch of newly revealed skin becomes contested territory.

I catch his wrists. I pin them against the pillows above his head and use my body weight to press him flat against the mattress.

“Got you,” I pant.

Zane flashes a wicked smile. “For now.”

He plants his feet on the mattress and bridges his hips explosively. The world flips. Suddenly Zane is on top. His knees bracket my ribs. His heavy hands pin my wrists to the tangled sheets.

“My turn.”