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“What are you…?” My eyes snap wide, watching the contents of the bowl go up in flames.
He just growls, running his hand back and forth over the top of his head.
“What about—” I draw a quick breath, not sure whether to be shocked or ready to swoon. “Are you going to pull out?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he glances at the chessboard. “I have played before.” His face is emotionless, like we’ve just started a high stakes game of poker.
I don’t respond for a second, wondering if I should push the question about pulling out, about the condoms that are popping and crackling in the fire right now.
“Well…then, how about I make you a little bet?” I jut my chin forward, pulling my shoulders back.
He runs his hand down his stubble with a sexy scraping sound. Everything about him is so masculine. So strong and rough. And I think of how his cheeks would leave red warmth between my thighs.
“A bet that what?”
“Let’s play while we talk. And if you win, you can walk out of here without even touching me if that’s what you want. But if I win, then you take me.”
The muscles at his temples flex as he considers my offer.
I find that I can read him better than I would expect for someone I just met. It’s like he’s thinking he has no intention of doing this my way, but he’ll humor me anyway. And that’s fine by me.
I shift my ass on the chair, then open my knees, watching his eyes snap downward.
I’ve got him exactly where I want him…
“Deal,” he answers, scooting forward on his chair. “I like games. Especially ones where I have a view of that wet, pink distraction you’re using to your advantage. Game on, Princess. Game on.”
Well, shit.
The problem is that he’s really good at chess, and it’s not long before I’m resigned to the fact that there is a strong possibility that I’m going to walk out of here with my cherry perfectly intact.
And yet, somehow, the longer we play, the more we talk, I mind that less and less.
And, more and more.
I’m conflicted to distraction.
It’s such an unexpected thing, to open up to one another. Total strangers down to our fake names.
I learn that we have a lot in common, or at least our families do. That he grew up in the system, going from family to family.
“My mom did that, too. It made her hard around the edges. She doesn’t trust anybody. But she tries. And, I’ll give it to her, she’s a good mom.”
There’s a sadness in his slow nod as he lowers his eyes, looking briefly at the floor, maybe lost in some memory.
“All we can do is try.”
I reach across the chess board and rest my fingers on the back of his hand, my heart racing at the contact. He lifts his dark eyes and the sadness softens.
But I know it’s a good moment for a subject change.
“Now for something completely different. Tell me…” I narrow my eyes at him, withdrawing my hand, which seems to change the mood. “Your favorite thing to drink.”
Now he really smiles. White teeth, but not too white. Not like veneers and bleaching kind of white, and slightly imperfectly crooked teeth. He doesn’t have to try to be sexy, it’s down deep in his DNA and it oozes from him like some lusty mist.
There’s a sparkling warmth in his smile that takes my breath away.
“You first,” he replies, brushing his fingers over his lips like he’s tasting some invisible delicacy.
“Mango juice,” I quip on a nod.
“Oh nice. Good answer. But I can’t tell you mine.”
“Because…”
“Because you’ll laugh.” He drops his eyes to my chest and my nipples tingle in response.
“I won’t.” I shake my head.
“You will.”
“Shirley Temple?” I guess, raising my eyebrows.
He lets out a throaty chuckle. “Not that bad.”
“Chocolate milk?” I try again.
Now an even bigger smile. Fuck, he’s killing me.
“Close.”
“Hot chocolate? With marshmallows? Or whipped cream?”
He nods with a cringe of embarrassment. “I think the lady at Starbucks has a crush on me. I swear they use a whole quart of whipped cream every time I order.”
Him. Me. A quart of whipped cream?
Sign me up.
“I guarantee you’re the best part of her day. Probably signs up for that shift especially to see you.”
“I don’t know about that. But tell me more about you. Tell me what you want to do with yourself. What’s your passion?”
He tugs at my hand, leading me to sit on the floor next to the table, then wraps a fussy white throw blanket over my shoulders. He sits across from me, leaning back on the base of the sofa, one arm resting on the cushions, the other draped over his bent knee.
His sleeves are rolled up, and man, those forearms should be the centerfold in some magazine because they are everything. Veins and muscle and the dark brown hair…
