Page 49 of Billionaire Surfer

“Take a picture,” Evan says with a smirk. “It might last longer.”

Ah. Right. I’m ogling him. The picture idea isn’t a bad one, but I chicken out. “Let’s just keep playing.”

The next word I play is ‘ache.’ Soon after it’s ‘ardor,’ with ‘need’ after that, followed by ‘heat.’

Evan’s eyes gleam as his lips twitch in a cocky grin. “Am I detecting a pattern?”

Fuck. I was just about to make ‘thirst,’ but now I can’t. ‘Pang?’ No, still follows the theme he’s mocking. With a sigh, I play ‘fungi,’ which seems safe—except Evan slaughters me with ‘governmentalize.’

I give him a narrowed-eye stare. “You threw me off my game on purpose.”

He grins. “Are you welching?”

I huff. “No way.” Then again, all I have on is my dress with a bra and panties underneath.

His grin goes away. “It’s okay if you want to stop.”

I scoff. “And admit defeat?”

He gestures at the score paper. “You’re actually still in the lead.”

“No.” If I stop now, I won’t feel like I’ve won. I’m bizarrely curious how Evan will react when my dress comes off, though I’m also quite a bit anxious.

The curiosity wins, and I stand up, albeit a bit unsteady on my feet.

Evan opens his mouth, but no words emerge.

Pulse racing, I slide the right strap of my dress off my shoulder.

Evan is a statue in his chair. Only his eyes reflect the storm going on inside.

I slip off the other strap.

Is his jaw ticking?

Feeling bolder, I mime his slow disrobing as I wriggle out of the dress, and by the time I’m done, Evan’s gaze is ravenous, like a wolf staring at a gazelle.

My skin tingles, my face burns, and my heart pounds so fast I feel hot and cold. What am I doing? Then again, I feel oddly good too, powerful in a strange way.

Is this why strippers do what they do? Because it’s such a rush? Then again, it wouldn’t be nearly as exciting—or exciting at all, really—if it were anyone but Evan devouring me with his eyes.

I swallow hard and sit back at the table, like nothing’s the matter.

“You sure you want to keep playing?” Evan asks, his voice hoarse.

Great question. One more loss, and I have to decide between my bra and panties, a tough choice. But screw it. The stripper in me is up for either. “Are you sure you want to keep playing?” I manage to ask sultrily.

At least I think it’s sultrily. Could also be with a slight slur.

In reply, Evan grabs a handful of tiles from the bag.

All right. We’re doing this.

My panties feel damp. They might be the item of clothing to go next—for reasons.

We both play a few short words, but then he gets a long one—but not so long that I have to strip.

Then I spot it and almost shout in glee. Another winner for me: ‘recognizability.’

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