Page 14 of Forging Chaos

“No way.” She leans toward me, trying to see the cards. “You’ll just pick something dumb like making me write the whole paper for you.”

“You wish. Tell me what you want if you win.”

She taps her chin and stares at me, her dark hair coming loose from her ponytail, almost like her whole body is drawn toward my hands while I’m shuffling. “If I win, I get to borrow your car tomorrow so I can run errands.”

I scoff. “I would have lent you the car regardless. But if that’s what you really want.” I start dealing the illustrated cards, face down.

“Well, what are you playing for?” She looks up at me, equal parts innocent and irritated, fierce and caring.

I deal us each a twelfth card, pressing my index finger into the top of the draw pile in the middle of the table. I stare at her as she bites her teeth into her plump lip, thinking aboutsinking my teeth into it. I think about how she’s so bossy, so regimented, and streamlined and how much I’d love to see her frazzled. I want to see her fall apart, close her eyes, and moan. I really shouldn’t ask for what I actually want if I win, but what the fuck do I have to lose? I lean back and cross my arms. “If I win, I get to watch you get off.”

CHAPTER 11

THORA

I lickmy lips and stare into the beautiful, chiseled face of Odin Stag. Did he really just say he wants to watch me touch myself? I’ve never done that in front of anyone before. We’ve been joking about getting frisky, and it’s pretty clear we’re both into each other. I’m half tempted to counter-offer a full-on sex-fest if he wins, but his offer intrigues me.

“You want to watch me get off? That’s it? How is that a treat for you?”

Odin’s eyes fly wide, and his head draws back like I just told him the Earth is flat or something. “Are you serious? You don’t understand what would be awesome about watching a woman give herself an O?”

I hitch up one shoulder and tap my fingers on the table. “Fine. If that’s what you want. Easy. Tell me how to play since you won’t win anyway.”

Odin grins, one half of his broad mouth hooking up to the side as he explains that we are going to take turns reciting the phrases “taco," "cat," "goat," "cheese," and "pizza." Each of us will flip a card while we speak. If the card matches what we say out loud, the first person to slap the pile wins.

“And there are special cards,” he explains, holding up one featuring an illustrated beaver.

“You’re serious with this? I thought you’d have some sort of…sophisticated game. Are we really doing beaver faces?”

“Thora,” he says, shaking his head. “This is clearly a groundhog.” He knocks on the table, shows me a gorilla card, and pounds on his chest. “I don’t know what gave you the idea that anyone in this apartment is sophisticated.”

That draws a laugh from me, and I watch as he shuffles again. We begin. We trade wins for a few hands, each of us gently slapping the table when I say pizza and flip a pizza card, and he says goat and reveals a cute little horned critter.

But then, we stop being gentle. I see his stack of cards growing taller, and I’m a little more vigorous bringing my hand down on the top of the heap. “Yes,” I hiss, ignoring the feel of my nails digging into his palm. He winces and frowns, his face going serious. With a nod, he picks up the pace.

“Goat,” he says, flipping up a narwhal, and I immediately clap my hands together over my head as if they were a horn. The whole thing is absolutely absurd, and I’m having more fun than I’ve had in months.

We’re about even when the door to the apartment opens, and his roommates limp in, groaning about practice. Stellan looks over at us, and his face brightens. “Will you deal me in?”

“No,” Odin and I both yell simultaneously. He quickly flips a card, saying, “cat,” and I follow rapidly with an emphatic “goat.”

Odin’s eyes don’t leave mine as he flips cards. He must be staring at the deck with his peripheral vision, a skill he thinks he has over me as an athlete. But a bartender uses every part of her eyeballs, too. I can spot a hand waving for a drink from a crowded corner and a wedge of illustrated Swiss just as easily. “Cheese!” I wail, slamming my hand down…on top of a hunk of muscle and tendons.

“Gotta be faster if you want that sweet SUV, Jansson.” Odin cackles as he straightens his cards. The other Stag guys take a seat at the table, watching us as they cram tuna in their mouths straight from the can. I don’t know if I’ve ever been that hungry in my whole life, but I have never played Division One sports.

Odin’s brother Gunnar peeks at Odin’s card stack and whistles through his teeth. “Getting close to a W, bro.” Gunnar looks at me. “Think you can beat him if you draw a gorilla?”

Odin and I ignore the banter and the stench of tuna, flipping cards and slapping at a pace that has my heart racing. Soon, the pile in the center of the table has at least 20 cards on it, and tension thrums thick in the air of the apartment.

Gunnar and Stellan lean forward, fascinated, but I will myself into the zone. I don’t even really care about borrowing Odin’s car, and I’d probably get myself off in front of him for free, if I’m honest. It’s been too long since I used my pocket rocket, and I really should take care of that tonight, now that I’m all keyed up from this stupid card game.

But I want to beat him. I want to watch Odin’s eyes flash in frustration when I win, and I want to see how he responds and hear what he’ll say when I rub his defeat in his smug, sexy face. Is this why people play sports? God, this is invigorating. “PIZZA,” I bellow, turning up a card that features a grinning kitty.

Odin purrs, although I don’t think it’s on purpose. His brothers elbow each other in anticipation. Whoever wins this hand will undoubtedly win the deck. I only have one card left. Odin tosses out a grinning slice of pepperoni as his deep voice shouts, “TACO,” and time stops before I flip my final card.

I say the word cat but don’t glance down soon enough. Odin notices the gorilla and leaps to his foot, pounding his chest before bringing his giant palm down onto the heap ofcards. It’s over. He’s won. And he’s not being coy about it. “Yessss,” he roars, pumping his fists in the air.

And then, before I can register what’s happening, he grabs his knee roller with one hand and hauls me over his shoulder with the other. We’re gliding toward his bedroom like luggage on a baggage belt, and he dumps me onto his bed with a bounce, standing over me, chest heaving, looking sexy as fuck in the glow of his desk lamp.

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