Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,47

in the ass, even if he also happened to be the owner of a very nice ass.

That kiss in the closet had been a means of escape. A sleight of tongue—err, hand—so they could walk out without anyone knowing they’d been up to no good. If the cops had been waylaid and hadn’t come into the room, then Ricardo and August would have separated, and August would have continued with his task while Ricardo kept watch.

So why the hell was it so hard to imagine pulling away from August and getting back to work?

“All right,” he would’ve said, stepping back to put some space between them, “they’re gone. We’re good.”

And August would’ve nodded. Maybe wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, said something smarmy and ridiculous that would’ve made Ricardo want to deck him and they’d have gone on, business as usual.

Ricardo struggled to imagine it actually playing out that way.

Because in the moment—in the handful of seconds between decisively locking lips with August and the detective shouting them apart—his mind had blanked on strategy and he’d just been consumed by the heat of August’s kiss. The jackass had gorgeous lips, and Ricardo was never going to look at them the same again because holy fuck, once August had recovered from his momentary shock, he’d kissed Ricardo back. He’d kissed him hard. Deep. Hungry. Like he’d wanted it for real and had no intention of stopping for anything. And for those few seconds, it was possible August had been clueless about why Ricardo had grabbed him. For all he’d known, Ricardo really was jumping his bones, and from the way August had held on and kissed back, he’d been all in.

“Want to do it again?” August had asked with his usual sass. “Because I absolutely would.”

Goddammit, yeah. Ricardo did want to do it again. And knowing August was willing? That fucked his head up something fierce.

Focus, idiota. You can think with your dick after you find out who’s trying to kill you.

That thought sobered him up and provided an effective down, boy for his stubborn erection. They had a mission, and there was a hell of a lot more on the line than a shit rating on Rate Your Hit and a lost paycheck.

Maybe after this was all over, assuming they both made it through in one piece, they could screw once or twice for the road. Until then, staying alive was more important than getting laid. Even if August was stupidly hot. And kissed like no one Ricardo had ever kissed. And had basically offered to keep fooling around after—

Ricardo cleared his throat and tried not to notice that August jumped. “How long before we know if there’s a hit on the facial recognition?”

“Depends.” August’s tone was flat with an undercurrent of annoyance. “Sometimes we get lucky and there’s a hit right away. Other times, it takes a few hours.”

“A few hours? Fuck.”

“Yep. Sorry, dear heart—TV lied to you. Facial recognition databases have to process a ton of data, and they have to sort through literally millions of images.” He paused. “Seems like the longer it takes, the less likely we’re going to get a hit at all.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Ricardo muttered. “Fewer profiles left to search, decreased odds of one being the hit.”

“Oh, listen to you.” August brightened, but with a sarcastic edge. “And here I didn’t think algorithms or statistics were your cup of tea.”

Ricardo ignored the comment. They continued in silence, leaving the city behind as they headed back toward the safehouse where Heidi was waiting for them. He was on edge. About their situation. About the mystery man whose face they were trying to identify. About Heidi. About goddamned August fucking Morrison who he simultaneously wanted to toss out into traffic and throw down on a mattress. Couldn’t he have ended up in this mess with, like, literally anyone else on the planet?

It was August who broke the silence this time: “I don’t think we should stay at that safehouse for long.”

Ricardo glanced at him, pretending not to notice the way the afternoon light played on his features. “Why’s that?”

“Because whoever is after us is probably not just some random goon who answered a shady craigslist ad. Whoever wants us dead knows who we are and what they’re up against, which means they’re going to send their best and brightest to kill us.” August shifted a little, the seat creaking with the movement. “When no one but the cops came after us at