Page 92 of Love is a Game

Then I glance up from my phone as Pen adds another doily, muttering under her breath so that I hope she doesn’t swallow one of the pins stuck between her lips. And I’m honestly not sure if we’re heading toward brilliance or disaster, but either way, we’re in too deep to stop now.

I attempt to envision a wedding dress emerging from this mess of fabric and discarded ideas. A draped sleeve she agonized over for two hours is unceremoniously cast aside. An asymmetrical neckline meets its demise. A gathered waist bites the dust.

Then I return from tossing out pizza boxes to find her stripped down to her lavender panties, contorted like a human pretzel in front of the mirror that she’s propped on a dining chair.

I stop dead, mesmerized.

One arm is awkwardly twisted behind her back, holding a row of pins between her fingers, while the other smooths fabric over her hip. She’s adding an improvised skirt to the strapless bodice she’s somehow pieced together, the delicate drape shifting as she moves.

Somehow, in the mess of fabric scraps and half-formed ideas, something is happening. The lighting catches just right, turning the soft folds of the pinned skirt into something weightless, effortless.

Pen’s flushed face is focused, her bare shoulders stark against the delicate white she’s draping over her hips. It shouldn’t make sense—her twisted pose, the makeshift design—but for a fleeting second, it does. Like a caterpillar emerging from a tangle of threadbare silk, she stands there, not just stitching together a dress, but becoming something else entirely.

A bride…she looks like a bride.

The realization lands with unexpected force, and a slow, unshakable longing curls in my chest. I swallow hard, struggling to shake it off. Then, Pen turns, testing the fall of the lace, oblivious to the way she’s just knocked the breath out of me.

If she were standing at the end of an aisle, hair pinned up, eyes searching for someone—hell, I want it to be me. The realization hits like a sucker punch, unexpected and impossible to ignore.

We’ve kissed more times than I can count. Sex in every way conceivable…and some occasions beyond. But this is different.

I step closer. “Hold still.”

She barely glances at me, still fussing with a fold of lace, but I reach out anyway, gathering a section of her hair and sweeping it up, twisting it like she might for an updo. My fingers graze the back of her neck, and she stills, her breath catching.

In the mirror, our eyes meet. A flicker of something—uncertainty, awareness—flares in the space between us. I should step back. Shake it off. But I don’t.

Instead, I let my hand drift down, tracing the delicate edge of lace where it meets her skin. “Pen.” My voice is coarse.

She turns to me.

I brush my knuckles along her jaw, tilting her face up to mine, and when I kiss her, it’s not just heat—it’s something deeper, something that settles in my chest like an ache.

She exhales against me, soft and breathless, melting into the kiss. And I know I’m in trouble. Because this isn’t just about convincing her to see me as more. Not just about proving I could be the guy she considers a kid with.

This is me wanting everything. More than even I bargained for.

“Wow…” She sighs against my lips.

She leans back, eyes dark and knowing. “Was that your way of telling me to call it a night? Because that kiss was extremely persuasive.”

“It was meant to be.” I trail my fingers along her waist, feeling the stiff fabric and the sharp bite of pins beneath my touch. “The only question is…how do I get you out of this?”

She laughs, low and husky. “With great care. Unless you want to end up with a handful of pins in unfortunate places.”

“On second thought…” My gaze drifts down, tracing the curve of her cleavage, the teasing glimpses of skin where the lace and silk shift against her body. “Maybe I want you to stay in it.”

“Oh, really?” Pen’s lips curl as she drops her eyes to my crotch. “This virginal white lace doing something for you?”

“It really is.” I reach for her again, wrapping my arms around her hips, drawing her close.

With a grin, I spin her under my arm, pulling her back into me like a bridal waltz. She throws her head back, laughing, then tumbles into my chest, her body fitting perfectly against mine.

“Good point, Tuck.” She tilts her head back to meet my gaze in the mirror. “A wedding dress has to move well on the dance floor, as well as down the aisle.”

I move behind her, my hands tracing the contours of her hips, gliding over the delicate swell of her breasts. Touching, claiming. Marking what I want access to now and forever.

A surge of need wells inside me, hot and undeniable. A hunger not just to have her, but to own this moment. To possess her completely. To stake an undisputed claim so there’s never a question, never a doubt that she’s mine.

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