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Her eyebrows wing up in surprise.
“So, just a regular family dinner with the Montgomerys.” She snorts. “Let me see. You’re killing me here.”
I step back and open the door, watching as her eyes widen. Her jaw drops, and she slowly walks through the door.
“This looks like something out of a movie.” It’s a whisper as she moves through the room. There’s another TV used exclusively for video games. I have a pool table, an air hockey table, and a small basketball goal set up with a wide net, like something at a carnival.
But it’s what’s in the corner that catches her attention.
“You have a vintage pinball machine.”
“I do. Indiana Jones from 1993. My mom might slap me for calling that vintage.”
Sophie grins and pushes on the paddle buttons. “Does it work?”
“Of course, it does.” I plug it in, and it lights up, bells ring, and a ball appears, ready for play.
“Before I begin,” she says, turning to me, “I want to set some ground rules.”
“But this is my machine. My machine, my rules.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m the guest.”
“Let me hear your rules.”
“Okay. Actually, there’s really only one rule.”
“And that is?”
“If I win, I get your football jersey.”
“Which one?”
She rolls her eyes. “Your Seattle jersey.”
I have a million of them. That’s no hardship.
“And if I win?”
“You won’t.”
I move in closer to her, tuck her hair behind her ear, and press my lips there. “I don’t think I’ve told you how much your confidence turns me on, sweetheart. It’s sexy as hell. But I’m damn good at this game, so tell me what I get if I win.”
She clears her throat, and it makes me smile.
“What do you want?”
You. Naked. Beneath me.
But instead of saying that out loud, I simply smile. “I want you to cook for me.”
She blinks in surprise. “That’s it?”
“You said you like to cook, and that’s what I want when I win. And I’m warning you, I eat a lot.”
“Done. Easy. Okay.” She rubs her hands together, hops on her toes, and shakes out her shoulders, rotating her head from side to side as if she’s a fighter getting ready for a match. “Are we going to bust out a practice round?”
“Absolutely not.”
Her smile is quick and fierce.
God, I freaking adore her.
“Who’s up first?” she asks.
“You said it yourself. You’re the guest. So, by all means…”
I step around the machine so I can watch her face as she assumes the position.
She pulls back on the lever and sends the ball flying through the machine. Those baby blues are wide and focused as she watches the metal sphere dance and bounce, and then she hits it when it comes her way.
She’s good. Better than good, really.
“Someone in your family has one of these,” I guess.
“A few of the uncles do,” she confirms. “I’m not kidding when I tell you that I’m in a family of grown-up kids. It’s pretty fun.”
She almost misses a hit and shakes her head.
“Stop talking to me. You won’t make me lose by distracting me.”
“I’m just making friendly conversation.”
“No, you’re not.” Her lips twitch.
“You know, you could work on your stance.” I move behind her and let my hands brush her sides, then down to her hips. I nudge the inside of her ankles, so she widens her feet. “You have to have a strong foundation for this.”
“I know exactly what you’re trying to do.” She wiggles her butt against me, and I’m instantly rock-hard. “And two can play at that game.”
“That’s a whole different game, honey.” I lean in and kiss her temple, brushing my lips down her ear. “One that I’m all too happy to play with you.”
The ball falls down into the hole, and she’s finished with that first round.
“Damn, you made me lose the first ball.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
A new ball bounces into the slot, but before she can play it, she turns to face me, presses her breasts against my chest, and tips up her chin so she’s looking me in the eye.
“Do you play dirty when it comes to football, too?”
My gaze falls to her lips.
“I never play dirty. I just get the job done.”
She walks her fingers up my arm to my shoulder and then slides them into my hair and pushes closer against me.
“Ike.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m going to win this game whether your hands are on me or off of me.”
“You can try.”
With glittering eyes, she turns back to the machine, and I take a step away so I can watch her work the ball and paddles.
I’m hard as can be, ready to take her right here, and she’s cool and collected, playing an excellent game.
I have to admire her for it.
And when she’s finished with the third ball, her score is damn respectable.
“Your turn,” she purrs with a satisfied grin. “What’s in the fridge over there?”
“Drinks. Help yourself. Grab me a Pepsi, if you don’t mind.”
