Page 52 of The Game We Played

Not with Alaia. I don’t want men leering at her. I want to wrap her in bubble wrap and protect her.

And now she’s patting the bed. “Hurry up. McDonald’s fries are nasty if they’re cold.”

I sigh and climb onto the bed. “Can’t have you eating nasty fries.”

She snatches the remote from the side table. “What do you want to watch? They have all the streaming platforms.”

She beams at me and I forget her question. I want to throw the food off the bed and strip her. I want to taste every inch of her skin. I want to sink deep inside her. I want to claim her as mine.

Whoa. I don’t do relationships. Let alone want a woman as my own. Alaia has my brain short circuiting.

“You want to watch sports instead?”

I grab a bag of food to place over my growing cock. “Movie’s fine.”

“What kind of movies do you enjoy? I’ll watch pretty much anything. Except horror.” She shivers. “I won’t be able to sleep all night if we watch anything scary.”

Sleep? Who said anything about sleep? If I had my way, we wouldn’t be sleeping all night. We’d be tangled up in these sheets.

I clear my throat. “Whatever you want to watch is fine.”

She winks at me. “Smart man.”

If I were a smart man, I’d be sleeping on the sofa in the living room instead of tempting myself with what I can’t have. I never should have agreed to this fake relationship. I never should have agreed to not let real feelings get involved.

I assumed it wouldn’t be a problem. I’ve never developed feelings before.

“How aboutThe Big Lebowski?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer before hitting play on the movie and ripping open her bag of food. She shoves a handful of fries into her mouth and moans. My cock nearly leaps out of my pants in an attempt to reach her.

“You’re not eating.” She frowns. “Is it the fast food? Would you have preferred something fancier?”

“I’m good,” I grumble instead of telling her what I want to eat is her.

“Okay.” She doesn’t sound as if she believes me. Probably because she shouldn’t.

She dips a fry into ketchup and shoves it into her mouth. Except the ketchup lands on her dress.

“Oh no. I’m ruining this dress you bought me. It’s not as if I have anywhere else to wear it, though. It’s going to live in my closet for the rest of my life. But still. I don’t want to stain it.”

She places her bag of food on the nightstand before grasping the hem of her skirt. Alarm fills me.

“What are you doing?” I croak.

“Don’t worry. You won’t see anything you haven’t seen before.”

She shimmies the dress up her legs, past her calves and her thighs. I shackle her wrist before she can go any higher.

“Stop.”

Her brow furrows. “It’s not a big deal. I’m not naked under this thing. In fact, the underwear the stylist made me wear is bigger than my bikini bottoms.”

I groan. “Bikini bottoms?”

She rolls her eyes. “Bikini bottoms. What you wear at the beach in the summer. Have you never heard of a bikini before?”

And now I’m imagining her running around the beach in a tiny pair of bikini bottoms. Her hair flying behind her. Her breasts bouncing.