TRICK OR TEASE - WICKED LITTLE TREATS: A HALLOWEEN COLLECTION - CHAPTER FIVE

The night’s over, but nothing feels finished. The heat hasn’t faded, and neither has the tension between Aria Foster and Mason Beckett. What started as a prank war has turned into something neither of them can joke away. Between the teasing, the soft touches, and the challenge in every look, one thing’s clear—their little game isn’t ending. It’s just changing the rules.

Wicked Little Treats: A Halloween Collection book one

Trick or Tease

Chapter Five

Aria

Aftermath and New Rules

The room smells like heat and sugar and everything we shouldn’t be. The air’s thick, warm, and quiet now, like even the house is trying to catch its breath. Somewhere outside I hear voices fading down the street, the last echoes of Halloween disappearing into the night.

The couch creaks when I shift, the fabric warm from where our bodies tangled. The bowl of candy sits on the floor, one piece half-unwrapped like we got distracted halfway through everything tonight. I can still hear the faint hum of the porch light outside, buzzing steady, trying to compete with the pulse still drumming behind my ribs.

Mason shifts beneath me, his body still half-tangled with mine, skin flushed and damp. He reaches back, grabs the throw blanket off the couch, and tosses it over both of us without a word. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, like a truce. Or maybe a surrender.

I should move. I should say something sarcastic and ruin the moment before it starts meaning more than it should. Instead, I just stay there, head against his shoulder, heartbeat matching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His skin is hot where it touches mine, every breath a reminder that this isn’t a dream or another round of teasing… it’s real. Very real. I keep waiting for the awkwardness to show up, for one of us to break the silence with a joke, but all I can hear is the quiet sound of him breathing like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

I don’t remember when the line between trick and tease disappeared. Maybe it was the first time he smirked like he knew exactly what I was thinking. Or maybe it was tonight, when all the noise between us turned into something too hot, and too real to be called a game anymore.

“Didn’t take you for the cuddling type,” I mumble finally, voice low and lazy.

He hums. “Didn’t take you for the stay-still type.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

His arm tightens around my waist, just enough to make me aware of how close we still are. The flicker of light from outside dances across his chest, soft gold and shadow. I trace a small line over his ribs with my fingertip, following the rhythm of his breathing, and he catches my hand, bringing it to his lips.

The kiss he presses to my palm shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. It’s small. Thoughtless. But it lands somewhere deep, right where I don’t want to feel it.

“Guess that means the prank war’s officially over,” he says, voice quieter now, all the rough edges softened.

I snort, because I refuse to let him have the last word. “You wish. I’m just regrouping.”

His brow lifts, that familiar mix of curiosity and cockiness. “Regrouping?”

“Strategizing,” I say, smiling into his shoulder. “Big difference.”

He laughs, a deep, genuine sound that rumbles through his chest and into mine. “You realize you just admitted I won.”

I tilt my head up enough to glare at him. “You won one round, Beckett. Don’t get cocky.”

He leans down, brushing his lips against my temple in a way that’s way too soft to fit the tone of this conversation. “Oh, sweetheart. I plan on it.”

The kiss is soft, almost nothing, but it hits somewhere deep. For a second I forget to breathe. No one kisses like that in a game. No one looks at me the way he’s looking right now, like he already knows I’m going to let him in again.

My stomach flips, and I hate that he can still do that with two words. I shove lightly at his chest, but it’s a half-hearted push. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes glinting in the low light. “And I think you like that about me.”

I roll my eyes, but the smile’s already there, impossible to hide. I slide off the couch before he can see too much, tugging my shirt back into place and pretending to fix my hair like it matters. My legs are shaky, which is embarrassing, and his smirk only grows when he notices.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes dragging over me. ““And ruin the fun of making the neighbors wonder? Besides, I like it here better.”

“Then maybe go home before you give the neighbors something else to gossip about.”

He stands, stretching, the movement pulling at muscles I still feel under my hands. The sight doesn’t help my case. “You worried what they’ll think?”

“Please.” I scoff, forcing some edge back into my tone. “I’m worried you’ll start bragging.”

His grin widens, slow and dangerous. “You think I need to?”

I cross my arms, mostly to keep from touching him again. “Pretty sure you’ll find a way anyway.”

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him again, the scent of soap and sweat and sugar wrapping around me. “Go ahead, Foster. Pretend you don’t already have round two planned.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet—” He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “I’m still here.”

“Not for long,” I manage, though I don’t sound convincing.

He laughs, quiet but smug, then stands and pulls his shirt back over his head, fingers raking through his hair like he’s trying to look casual and not completely wrecked. By the time he leans down again, he’s halfway decent, mostly.

He dips his head to press a kiss just beneath my jaw. It’s quick, but it lingers in my skin long after he straightens.

“Next round’s mine,” he murmurs.

Before I can come up with a comeback sharp enough to match him, he’s already heading for the door. He glances over his shoulder once, grin still in place. Then the door opens, the cool night air slips in, and he’s gone.

The door clicks shut, and the sound echoes louder than it should. I stare at it for a long moment, half expecting him to come back with another smart remark. But the only thing that moves is the curtain by the window, swaying in the draft he left behind. The chill seeps in slowly, curling around my bare feet, mixing with the leftover warmth from him until I can’t tell where one ends and the other starts.

The quiet that follows feels different now—less like an ending, more like the pause before something bigger.

I pull the blanket tighter around me, sinking back onto the couch. The candy bowl sits crooked on the coffee table, a few stray wrappers scattered across the floor. The jack-o’-lanterns outside are burning low, their carved grins flickering weakly against the dark.

The street’s silent again. The whole neighborhood feels asleep, like the world’s caught in that strange space between one story ending and the next one beginning.

A few houses still have their lights on, porch pumpkins glowing faintly like tired sentries. Somewhere down the block, a motion sensor light flickers and dies. The neighborhood’s gone back to normal, but I can’t shake the feeling that I haven’t. Maybe that’s the real trick, how something that started as a joke feels like it just rewrote everything.

My fingers find the spot on my neck where his lips brushed. The warmth hasn’t faded yet. I tell myself it’s just adrenaline, leftover chaos, the thrill of winning—or losing—depending on how you look at it.

But deep down, I know better.

Because this doesn’t feel like the end of our prank war.

It feels like the start of something I can’t laugh my way out of.

I stand, wander to the window, and watch his taillights disappear down the street. The night swallows him up, leaving only the dim orange glow of the last pumpkin outside. I lean my forehead against the glass, smiling to myself.

“Next round’s mine, huh?” I whisper, voice soft but sure.

I turn from the window, my reflection faint against the glass, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes still bright from whatever this is becoming. I should feel unsettled. I should want to undo it. Instead, there’s a slow, dangerous thrill curling low in my stomach—the kind that says I’m in trouble, and I already know I’ll go looking for more.

Challenge accepted.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: October 2025

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