Page 18 of Venomous Games

I receive a notification that my Uber has arrived, and as I’m leaving, I spot Boston’s car. Instead of walking to the rideshare waiting for me, I head in Boston’s direction instead. Opening the passenger door, I carefully slip inside. The interior smells like him—leather and something intoxicating. My pulse ratchets up, heightening my awareness. He doesn’t tell me to get out. Actually, he doesn’t give a visible reaction at all. His face is unreadable, flat. But his eyes? His eyes track me, tracing every inch of me, as if mapping my movements and reading my intent.

I angle my body slightly toward him, shoulders back, chin up. His presence fills the small space. It’s almost suffocating in a way that makes me hyperaware of how I move. I can see his posture shift as I settle, one arm resting lightly against the center console. Every detail registers—the curve of his jaw, the way his hand hovers near the gearshift, the faint flicker in his eyes when he notices me holding his gaze.

“Since you enjoy stalking me,” I say, letting the words dance teasingly in the air between us, “how about you accompany me to a gathering? They asked me to bring a date.” I smile at him. I don’t want him hanging around my apartment in case Carrie does leave. I know she’s full of emotions right now, and I’m afraid she might blurt something out.

Lifting my phone, I cancel my Uber and then wait for him to say something.

“I don’t do dates,” he grumbles, voice low and rough. “Get out of my car.”

I scrunch my nose up, tilting my head so he can see the challenge in my expression. “It’s not an actual date,” I say deliberately. “You’d be accompanying me. There’s a difference.” I buckle up and face him again, letting my gaze roam. His muscles flex under the fabric of his jacket as he adjusts his grip on the wheel.

His eyes catch mine, something smoldering in the gray depths. The quiet intensity presses against me. I feel the magnetic pull of him and the slight ache of wanting to push closer, to test the line he hasn’t crossed. I breathe in, slow and controlled, keeping my pulse steady even as the space seems charged with something neither of us is ready to name.

“I’ll give you directions.”

TEN

BOSTON

My whole car is going to smell like vanilla, and it’s all I can fucking notice right now. My hands grip the steering wheel a little too tight, my knuckles going white. I can’t stop looking at her.

The heels she’s wearing make her legs look impossibly long. The subtle shift in weight as she adjusts in the seat pulls my attention in ways I shouldn’t allow. That blue hair, bright and electric, catches the light just so, and I can’t look away. Her posture is fluid and relaxed, setting fire to something in me that I usually keep chained. Every movement she makes sends a shock through my body. The way the seat belt brushes her shoulder, the tilt of her chin when she looks out the window, the faint twitch of her fingers as she adjusts the strap of her bag.

I try my fucking best not to pay her any attention while I drive, but that’s fucking impossible. I believed her when she said she wouldn’t leave the car until I took her wherever it is she’s going. And while I have no reason to be skulking outside her apartment, that doesn’t mean I won’t do it. Not when I think that one, if not both, of the sisters are hiding something from me, and I want to find out exactly what it is.

She has this confidence about her. I’ve never quite come across anyone like her, and I’ve been around many powerful people. But her power is subtle and hidden in a way I can’t explain.

“Why so tense, Detective?” she asks as she points to a small Irish bar. I bring the car to a stop, and she unbuckles but doesn’t get out of the car. No, she turns to face me instead. I can’t help it when my gaze dips to her legs for the dozenth time. Her dress has ridden up, stopping just short of exposing her panties. If she’s even wearing any, that is.

“I’m not tense,” I grumble, and her focus moves to the steering wheel where my hands are tightly clenched around it. I don’t bother unclenching them because that would prove her point.

“If you say so.” She leans in so her lips, which are stained with a pink color, are close to my ear. “Come inside and have a drink. My treat.”

“I don’t drink,” I tell her, which is only partially true. I do drink on occasion. I just prefer not to.

“That’s okay; you can watch me drink. Come on, Detective, it’s time to have some fun.” She opens the door, gets out of the car, then walks around to the driver’s side. I contemplate hitting the locks, but she pulls my door open and leans down, her cleavage now in my face.

Fuck, they’re good tits too.

“I’m not asking you to get on your knees for me, Detective. Just get out and have some fun.” She steps back and holds the door open for me. “Are you on the clock?” she asks, as if she knows the answer already.

“No.”

Waving a hand, she smiles. “So, get the fuck out.”

I’ve never in my life been influenced by a woman. I’ve seen men around me who are, and I could always comfortably say that, that would never be me. As I turn to step out of the car, those thoughts instantly hammer in my head, and I tell myself I’m doing it for one purpose only, and that is to find out who she is and what she knows.

What the fuck am I doing? And why am I listening to her?

Shutting the door behind me, she turns and heads toward the entrance of the bar, but then she pauses and looks over her shoulder to see me still standing by the car. She lifts her hand, waving me over, and like some stupid fucking weak man, I follow.

Someone calls Maven’s name, and her demeanor softens just a little bit. A woman approaches, then pulls Maven into her arms. When the embrace ends, Maven motions for me to join them. The woman, who is gripping Maven’s hand, eyes me as if she’s never seen Maven with a man before.

“This is Boston; he’s a detective,” Maven says, waggling her brows at me.

Her friend turns to her and smiles. “You’re finally dating?”

“No!” we both say at the same time.