Page 40 of Love is a Game

“Ugh. Discriminatory, Tuck. Honestly.”

We reenact the toast, this time with deliberately exaggerated eye contact, both of us holding it for an absurdly long moment until Pen snorts into her glass.

She’s practically buzzing with mischief now, a complete shift from the grief and barely contained anger earlier. I guess emotions don’t move in a straight line—except Pen’s evolve so fast, it’s like you gotta stand back to avoid whiplash.

She hops onto the benchtop, swinging her legs as she refills our glasses. Just as she lifts a generous handful of strudel to her mouth, the filling spills onto the draping neckline of her top, a deep purple stain blooming against the fabric.

“Damn it,” she mutters, dragging a finger through the mess and sticking it in her mouth.

“Glad you don’t play on pretense around me, Pen,” I smirk. “All you need now is a can of whipped cream to spray directly down your throat.”

She rolls her eyes. “I love this top. You think the stain will come out?”

“Only if you soak it now. Cold water.”

She slumps her shoulders. “Tomorrow?”

“No. It’ll be set by then. Here, lift your arms.” I motion.

She shoves the last of the pastry into her mouth, chews, and then sighs dramatically before obliging.

I grab the hem of her top, lifting slowly. Her stomach is smooth, satin-soft under the dim kitchen light. The lace trim of her pink bra peeks into view, her breasts pressing together as she raises her arms. She wiggles impatiently, snapping me out of whatever momentary lapse I’m having, and I pull the top free.

I carry it to the sink, inspecting the stain. Running the cold water, I spot a bottle of ever-reliable Dawn detergent and dab at the fabric before letting it soak.

By the time I turn back, we’re onto another shot, another bite of strudel. She feeds me, her fingers brushing my lips, and I wonder where this mood, this energy, might take us tonight.

Then, her gaze wanders past me, scanning the lounge and dining room. Her expression darkens.

“This place is depressing,” she complains, waving a hand at the blank walls and heavy-set furniture. “So bland. I just want to throw paint at it, rip down those crappy curtains, tear up the carpet.”

Her hands ball into fists. “I want to make a goddamn mess. Break something, shatter something—” She exhales sharply, her shoulders rising and falling. “But you could pummel a football through this empty space and it wouldn’t hit a damn thing. It’s so…bare. Unlived in.”

She picks at the dark, chewy edges of the strudel, licking the remnants from her fingers. Then she flashes me a devastating smile.

Arousal stirs—just like that. The flick of her dark hair, the way a few strands cling to her soft skin. The flake of pastry at the corner of her curving mouth. The tilt of her chin as she clocks my interest, eyes gleaming with something knowing, something cunning.

Her fingers return to the pastry. I follow her movement as she breaches the delicate layers, sinking into the crimson filling. Another finger joins, then her thumb, lifting a hunk of warm, crumbling sweetness.

Except she doesn’t take a bite.

Instead, she lowers her hand, presses it to her chest, and crushes the oozing strudel into the swell of her cleavage.

She meets my gaze, moistens her lips. “More strudel?”

I don’t trust my voice against my thick throat. Instead, I reach out, fingers tangling in the coiled knot of hair at the nape of her neck, roughly tugging her head back. I take a long moment to study her—her tempting mouth, her flushed skin, the rise and fall of her breath. Then I lower my head, my lips tracing the streak of dessert spread across her chest.

Pen gasps as I drag my tongue over her warm skin, the crumbling pastry, sweet fruit, and the scent of her skin filling my mouth.

I unhook her bra and edge it from her shoulders. Pen blindly shoves her hand back into the pie, adding more mixture to the valley between her breasts…to the erect tips of her rosy nipples.

I suck one clean, then the other as I unbutton her jeans.

Then I get a smack of strudel to the chest.

“Oops.” Pen grins mischievously. “I guess that better soak, too.”

I pull my shirt over my head in one movement, drop it to the floor, and continue my progress on removing what’s left of Pen’s clothing. I want naked. Completely. I want to lay her out on this bench and taste every inch of her.

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