Page 102 of Bitter Rival

Everything was an elaborate game for Astrid, but she was the only one who knew the rules. She’d bend them and change them and manipulate them to benefit herself.

I am sick and tired of being a pawn in everyone’s game. First Astrid. Then Robert. And now Beckett.

That dirty rat.

“There you are.”

Speak of the devil. How dare he waltz in with his clean shave, designer clothes, and disheveled hair. Sex hair. He looks thoroughly fucked.

I bet she enjoyed running her fingers through his thick, tousled hair. I bet she just loved riding that big dick of his.

I aim a glare at Beckett. “Well, if it isn’t the Beast himself. Have a good night?”

“Not particularly.”

“What a shame. So she didn’t live up to your impossibly high expectations?”

“Who is the ‘she’ in this equation?”

“Whoever you were hooking up with.” I lift my chin. “I hope you at least brought me some cinnamon rolls.”

He has the nerve to laugh. “How much wine have you had to drink?”

I’m well past tipsy and on my way to drunk so I conveniently ignore the question and ask one of my own. “Are you just going to stand there in your Tom Ford designer threads, or are you going to join me?”

I slowly run my tongue over my lips, noting the way his eyes follow the movement. “I dare you.”

I’m expecting him to tell me that he’s not going to play these juvenile games. But he holds my gaze and starts unbuttoning his pristine white shirt, revealing his bronzed skin and sculpted abs. They’re so defined that I can run my fingers over them and count each one.

It’s unfair that he should be allowed to look this good.

It’s downright inconvenient that I’ve become so enamored with my bitter rival that I’m almost willing to overlook all his dastardly deeds. Almost.

He tosses his shirt on the ground, which is so unlike him.

I snooped around in his bedroom while he was out. I’m not proud to admit that I went through his things, but I put every item back where I found it because he would notice if something was in the wrong place.

The man is meticulous. Every T-shirt and item of clothing is freshly laundered and neatly folded in the drawers. His bed was made, all the corners tucked in with military precision. Dress clothes hung in the closet on wooden hangers with three inches of breathing room between—he’s so anal he probably measures.

Other than the box of condoms in his bedside table, I didn’t find anything of interest. There were no personal items whatsoever. No photos or keepsakes or receipts.

He’s watching me, and I’m watching him as he pushes his pants down and kicks them aside, leaving him in nothing but boxer briefs. My gaze involuntarily dips to the bulge in his boxers as he strokes himself through the cotton.

I have to take a fortifying sip of wine to stop myself from drooling, but I can’t stop my thighs from clenching.

Damn him to hell and back.

Beckett climbs into the hot tub facing me, and just like the last time, he spreads out, shrinking all the available space, smirking at me while he does it.

When his leg brushes against mine, I feel that familiar jolt of electricity and curse my brain for sending the wrong signal to my body.

He’s the enemy.

But he defended you at the bar.

He kept you in the dark about Michael Castellano.

But he bought you tampons and chocolate.

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