“Fuck.” He yanks my head to the side, exposing my throat to the heated slide of his lips. My blood turns to molten lava, burning hot through my veins, but when he grasps my hands and pins them tight over my head, clasping my wrists easily in his broad palm, the lava erupts in a high-pitched shriek.

Startled, Ray drops my hands and takes a step back. “Did I hurt you?”

Damn. Damn. Damn post-traumatic stress disorder. Damn psychological triggers. Damn therapists who can’t make them go way. Damn Luke for putting them there.

Stuttering and stammering, I manage to get out a few words. “I…no. Just…like my hands to be free.”

He studies me for long time, as if he knows I’m not telling him everything and then he takes another step back. “This wasn’t a good idea. Especially now. When I can’t pull it back.”

I draw in a ragged breath, my arousal a living beast inside me, desperate, hungry, and howling at the possibility of being denied. “But…you didn’t hurt me.”

“Don’t know what I was thinking,” he says, half to himself. “When I thought you were in danger, and then you were okay…” He scrapes his hand through his hair. “Fuck…just…lost it. You’re a sweet girl. This was a mistake.”

Sweet? With my tats and leather pants? Doc Martens and pink-streaked hair? Broken isn’t sweet, but he must sense I’m not normal because he’s walking away. Normal girls don’t shriek when mouthwatering, hot, sexy fighters hold their hands above their heads the way they fantasize about almost every night.

Maybe I should tell him it’s just a quirk and I’m not looking for a relationship or even a date. Just one time. Here. Now. Him. But clearly it isn’t meant to be.

“Sia.” Tag rounds the corner and jogs up the alley toward me, stopping when he meets up with Ray.

“Don’t know how I can ever thank you for looking out for my sis. The guys outside told me what you did. If you hadn’t been there…” Tag chokes up and gives Ray a manly thump on the shoulder. Ray nods.

“Gotta go give a statement.” He turns the corner. And then he’s gone.

* * *

An hour later, I am sitting in Tag’s squad car with a blanket wrapped around me and a coffee in my hand. Ray is nowhere in sight. Tag hovers.

“You need anything?”

“I’m good.”

“Water? More coffee? Another blanket? You want me to sit with you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? I want to go find out what’s going on, but I don’t want to leave you alone.”

I wave my hand generally around the area. “There are about twenty cops here. Nothing is going to happen to me, and I’m not allowed to go until the officer in charge has gone through my statement. Go get the scoop. I’ll be right here.”

After Tag leaves, I try not to think about what possessed me to come on to Ray and how I so obviously misread the signs he was giving me. Sure, he kissed me, but maybe it was post-shooting bloodlust, or he was just riding the adrenaline high. Clearly I took advantage of Ray in his “weakened” state, and as he came around, he realized he didn’t want me, and gentleman that he is, he backed off.

For the fourth time that evening, I call Jess. I tell her my new theory as I pace back and forth beside the police car. She tells me she’s never heard a bigger load of BS in her life. Maybe he didn’t want to fuck his teammate’s sister in a dirty back alley with a load of cops out front after he almost just got killed saving her. Did I consider that?

I tell her no, I didn’t consider that. But what man in the throes of bloodlust turns down a sure thing just because she shrieks in terror because he tried to pin her arms above her head?

Ray, she says. ’Cause he’s a nice guy. But I don’t believe her. I’ve seen him in the ring. Tag has warned me about him. He has a gun. Maybe the rumors are true and he’s in the CIA. Although he doesn’t dress like the feds dress on TV. And why would he be moonlighting as a PI and fighting on the underground circuit? Not that I know anything about the CIA, but I do know my crime TV. I also know “nice” is not a word that fits Ray. He’s badass bad. And badasses fuck in a badass way. I know, because I’ve just had a little taste.

Tag returns about twenty minutes later. I lean against the vehicle and he gives me a lecture about the dangers of working in the Lower Haight and associating with people like Jay, whom he confirms is indeed marked by one of the more vicious local street gangs. On a roll, he lectures about the dangers of driving at night, going to underground fights, and taking too many risks.

While he rants, I am struck with the realization that I won’t be going to any more underground fights. No more watching the Predator from the shadows. No more cheering crowds, fists slamming into flesh, power unleashed. My fantasy came true, and it was nothing like I had imagined. It was better. And then it was gone.

“You’re not listening.” Tag’s irritated voice cuts through my reverie.

“I’ve heard it all before. I understand how you must feel. But it’s not my fault that I happened to be at the shop when that gang came looking for Jay. And it was a good thing Ray was there. He had a gun.”

He rakes his hand over his fuzzy head and his jaw tightens. “Yeah, he did.”

“Why?”

Tag shrugs. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Is he still here?” Not that I want to see him, but I do.