Page 2 of Love is a Game

I ripped away her skirt and panties. And I took her, hard and deep, her ass cheeks welted red with the friction. Her heaving breasts, dark eyes dreamy with lust, lips parting as she panted my name…I was torn apart and mended back together all at once.

Her wild beauty, her blissful moans, her hot, wet hunger engulfing my cock. I was lost to her power, like a river submitting to the sea. Lost to another world…of Penelope’s parted thighs, her lips sucking at my fingers, my dick expanding inside her. Just as fierce and consuming as it always was.

I couldn’t count how many times we’ve fucked. From our first clumsy pubescent games, arousing feelings we hardly knew how to handle, to secretive teenage hookups. Athletic adventures in our twenties. And our more recent passionate reunions. Every time is more achingly raw than before.

Just like it was this time—right up until an urgent voice at the door drew us back to reality—and to this stage. Now, as Penelope carefully smooths her hair, my eyes roam the contours of her body.

No way I could resist the chance to take her on in a public debate. Winning this thing will give me eternal bragging rights that will have her practically foaming at the mouth with contempt.

And there’s nothing sexier than Pen riled up with rage. Especially since I know the perfect way to temper it.

“Let’s meet our panelists.” Ingrid’s tone is as crisp as a sharply pressed pleat. “First, Tuck Allen. CEO and mastermind behind Veloci—the global fashion powerhouse known for its relentless efficiency and budget-conscious approach.”

Yep, that’s me. The supposed villain of the narrative. The man who dared to make a fortune off affordable fashion. At least I don’t pretend my fashion brands will save the planet. I’m a realist. And no matter what the people in this room spout as truth, I know no amount of biodegradable cotton, MuSkin, or rPET fabrics can hide the industry’s insatiable need for more excess.

Ingrid pauses, giving a razor-thin smile. I lean back in my chair as if her words don’t land. After all, I’m used to this kind of shade.Budget-consciousmight as well be a four-letter word in a room like this.

The audience is evidence of that: a mix of the impeccably tailored and the fashionably disheveled. High-powered buyers, celebrities, and designers peacocking in couture creations, and press members starving for a scoop.

They’re all here for the same reason—to see sparks fly. After all, the woman opposite me loves nothing more than to flout social norms and stir controversy. Pen’s always had a knack for commanding attention. Her casual brazenness is unforced, as natural to her as breathing. And she carries a wild, kinetic energy…as if her high creativity keeps her buzzing on an eternal high.

Ingrid continues her spiel.

“Tuck is a man who doesn’t just predict trends; he manufactures them at lightning speed. A visionary with a ruthless streak, he scours the globe for the best producers—at prices that keep competitors awake at night. Some call it genius, others…” her gaze flits to Penelope, “prefer more colorful adjectives.”

The crowd titters, all eyes shifting to Penelope. Despite their scrutiny, no one else would catch it—the barely-there flicker of discomfort I’ve come to know. The slight squaring of her shoulders as she sets her defenses, the habitual tug at the woven string on her wrist to appease her nerves.

Ingrid goes on, emphasizing Penelope’s “uncompromising commitment to sustainability and craftsmanship.”

The praise ramps up another notch as she neatly pits us at odds.

“If Veloci is a well-oiled machine, Carousel Studio is a living, breathing work of art. Penelope’s designs are bold, daring and—like the woman herself—impossible to ignore. She passionately shirks trends and packs her creations with enough contradictions to rival even the great Vivienne Westwood, though Ms. Miller vehemently rejects comparisons.”

There’s warm applause. Then Ingrid invites Penelope to kick off the debate.

Pen stretches out a moment of silence as she clasps her hands at the podium. Then she clears her throat and launches into her argument with all the fiery conviction I’ve come to expect.

Her words slice through the air with precision and passion. Yet all I can think about is how, just minutes ago, she was unraveling beneath me.

But if I was naive enough to think what happened between us backstage might soften Pen’s approach, I’m quickly set straight. Her eyes flare as she narrows her argument—to personally attack my company.

Her voice cuts through the room without mercy.

“Veloci posts five hundred new items to Instagram every single day, churning out clothes so cheap theyarepractically disposable. And at what environmental cost? Natural resources drained, fifteen to forty-five billion garments never sold, and three out of five tossed within a year.”

She lets that sink in before piling on more stats.

“That’s ninety-two million tons of textile waste—one garbage truck of clothes dumped every second! Picture it—it’s the equivalent of filling a two-car garage from floor to ceiling! Tick-tock, another truckload to bury. Tick-tock—more pollution!”

She turns, directing her gaze to me, her deliberate pause compelling the room to silence.

“Andthat’swhat your entire empire is built on, Tuck Allen,” she snarls, “the production oftrash!”

Right. So that’s how she’s gonna play it?

Game on, Penelope. Let’s see who wins this round.

Chapter 2

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