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“Take a picture,” Evan says with a smirk. “It might last longer.”
Ah. Right. I’m ogling him. The picture idea isn’t a bad one, but I chicken out. “Let’s just keep playing.”
The next word I play is ‘ache.’ Soon after it’s ‘ardor,’ with ‘need’ after that, followed by ‘heat.’
Evan’s eyes gleam as his lips twitch in a cocky grin. “Am I detecting a pattern?”
Fuck. I was just about to make ‘thirst,’ but now I can’t. ‘Pang?’ No, still follows the theme he’s mocking. With a sigh, I play ‘fungi,’ which seems safe—except Evan slaughters me with ‘governmentalize.’
I give him a narrowed-eye stare. “You threw me off my game on purpose.”
He grins. “Are you welching?”
I huff. “No way.” Then again, all I have on is my dress with a bra and panties underneath.
His grin goes away. “It’s okay if you want to stop.”
I scoff. “And admit defeat?”
He gestures at the score paper. “You’re actually still in the lead.”
“No.” If I stop now, I won’t feel like I’ve won. I’m bizarrely curious how Evan will react when my dress comes off, though I’m also quite a bit anxious.
The curiosity wins, and I stand up, albeit a bit unsteady on my feet.
Evan opens his mouth, but no words emerge.
Pulse racing, I slide the right strap of my dress off my shoulder.
Evan is a statue in his chair. Only his eyes reflect the storm going on inside.
I slip off the other strap.
Is his jaw ticking?
Feeling bolder, I mime his slow disrobing as I wriggle out of the dress, and by the time I’m done, Evan’s gaze is ravenous, like a wolf staring at a gazelle.
My skin tingles, my face burns, and my heart pounds so fast I feel hot and cold. What am I doing? Then again, I feel oddly good too, powerful in a strange way.
Is this why strippers do what they do? Because it’s such a rush? Then again, it wouldn’t be nearly as exciting—or exciting at all, really—if it were anyone but Evan devouring me with his eyes.
I swallow hard and sit back at the table, like nothing’s the matter.
“You sure you want to keep playing?” Evan asks, his voice hoarse.
Great question. One more loss, and I have to decide between my bra and panties, a tough choice. But screw it. The stripper in me is up for either. “Are you sure you want to keep playing?” I manage to ask sultrily.
At least I think it’s sultrily. Could also be with a slight slur.
In reply, Evan grabs a handful of tiles from the bag.
All right. We’re doing this.
My panties feel damp. They might be the item of clothing to go next—for reasons.
We both play a few short words, but then he gets a long one—but not so long that I have to strip.
Then I spot it and almost shout in glee. Another winner for me: ‘recognizability.’
