Page 17 of The Mobster’s Prize

I cross into the kitchen, grab a deck of cards from the drawer and toss them onto her lap.

“You can play solitaire.”

I move back to the fire, adding another log. Sweltering under her heated stare. Damn, did she have to be so fucking sexy? An ugly captive would’ve been better.

“Solitaire? Really?” She sounds annoyed again.

I turn my head and nod, fighting the smirk when she lets out another huff.

“I’m going to read about wood whittling.” I grab my book and sit down in the other leather chair, feeling her eyes glaring me down, but I don’t budge. I keep my dick in check, opening the book and staring blankly at the page.

This woman isn’t just testing my patience; she’s testing my willpower.

CHAPTER 7

Xandra

He grabs a book from the shelf and takes a seat in the leather chair, completely ignoring me. Really? I just offered him sex, and he’d rather read.

“What kind of man says no to a free blow job?”

Oops. That thought slipped out. But so be it. He’s the one sitting there with a hard-on. Let the guy get blue balls for all I care. I’ll play stupid solitaire.

I take my cards and plop down on the ground, making sure to make extra noise as I shuffle the deck.

“What are we supposed to do out here for who knows how many weeks? Or months? Because it’s not like my dad is paying up anytime soon,” I grumble out loud, laying out the cards. He doesn’t budge, staring straight at his book. Intentionally ignoring me.

“That’s if my dad even comes up with the cash, which is doubtful. And who doesn’t own a TV?” I slap another card down on the floor. “No skis. No sled. No interest in having sex. You’re the most boring person on the planet.”

The page of his book turns, almost sounding as if he ripped it.

Good. I hope he did. And I hope he got a paper cut while he was at it.

“What am I supposed to do all day? Play solitaire? Talk to the walls? Count the trees outside? All I want to do is play a game, or have a conversation, or work out this tension on your dick. But nope. Mr. Grumpy Pants would rather read.”

I slam the last card down, hearing the sound of his neck crack.

“I guess I’ll just talk to the furniture. You’re Susan.” I look to the table. “You look like a Gerald.” I point to the lamp. “And that chair looks like a Harold. Poor Harold has the grumpy ass in it.”

His book slams shut and he stands up, breathing like an ox. Nostrils flaring. Smoke practically coming from his ears.

“Fine. I’ll play fucking cards with you.”

He drops down in front of me on the floor, his broad shoulders as stiff as a board, eating up nearly all the space between us. He may be angry, but I consider this a victory. I’ll take every little win I can get, because the biggest loss is the fact that there is no escaping this place. Not with all that snow blocking the roads.

“You really are a brat, you know that?”

I gather the cards, ignoring his comment. “Poker?”

“Whatever.”

I start shuffling, trying not to laugh. Ruffling his feathers is kind of fun.

“What are we playing for?” I ask, splitting the cards again, and rolling them through my fingers.

“My sanity.”

He’s an amusing one.