Pro wrestler & manager play lusty mind games.
“Did anyone follow us here?”
Peter looked over his shoulder, face sweating. “No.”
The lobby door closed behind them, shutting out the steamy air from the parking lot. “Thank goodness for air conditioning.” Peter mopped his face with a handkerchief he took from the breast pocket of his rumpled suit. The beaded moisture soaked into the cloth and left only a greasy sheen on his round cheeks and ample chin. His small mustache had a wilted look.
His companion dropped his leather duffel, took off the sweat-stained bandanna that restrained his long dark hair and stuffed it in the back pocket of his black jeans. Standing a head and a half taller than Peter, he carried very little fat on his heavy-boned frame. Sunglasses covered his eyes. A glimpse of sharp teeth showed in the parting of his full lips and his expression had a hard and haunted look, but his mouth was as fresh and tender as a boy’s.
“Are you sure this is where you want to stay, Raptor?” Peter’s voice sounded querulous, on the edge of complaint. He sidled away from a stain on the rug and polished one shoe on the back of the other pant leg. “It doesn’t look all that nice. You’re going to need a good night’s sleep after your match, and the beds may not be comfortable. We don’t even have reservations.”