Page 9 of Game Day

Clay’s hand.

Before I met him, I never thought much about the importance of chemistry in a relationship. Since then, I can’t stop the flare of desire that sneaks up at the most inopportune moments.

He’s drawing circles, or letters, imprinting each one on my flesh like a tattoo I’d give every dollar I have to read.

“What’s under the dress?” he asks.

My eyelids threaten to drift closed. I squint at the road in front of me.

“Practically nothing.”

“If you mean that, we’re not making it anywhere near the mayor’s house.”

He’s so sexy. The way he says it, matter-of-fact, makes me want to forget dinner, too.

“Play nice with the mayor and you can have me however you want.”

“Deal.”

I’m caught off guard by his quick agreement.

At least until he adds, “Now show me.”

In the rearview mirror, my eyes are fringed with dark, mascara-covered lashes. My lips are coated with matte pink lipstick. The flush on my cheeks is all him.

There's barely any traffic on the road.

I reach under my dress and tug it up. Switching my hands on the wheel, I go to the other side and work that up to reveal the pink lace thong.

Clay’s hand flexes on my thigh.

“When we’re married, half of what’s mine is yours.”

“I suppose.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

“Which also means half of what’s yours is mine.”

“And my Sanrio T-shirt collection will be worth millions one day,” I deadpan. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Those.” He nods to my panties. “Take them off.”

I bite my lip. The blood pounding in my veins says I can, I even want to.

I work my panties down over my hips and one leg. Then to the other, switching feet carefully to take them off.

“Happy?” I toss them at Clay.

He catches them, tucking them in his pocket. “Not nearly.”

We’re driving down the road in the dark, on our way to a dinner with dignitaries and tuxes.

Drake throbs from the radio. Clay's hand returns to my thigh, tracing slow shapes that inch higher and higher.

“There’s a mansion full of people waiting to tell you how incredible you are,” I whisper.

Clay shifts closer. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

Arousal chases through me, his touch like fire blazing along my skin and twisting low in my stomach.

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