Page 1 of Love is a Game

Chapter 1

Tuck

I take my seat on the low stage, spotlight drilling my face.

Across from me, my opponent’s neon green heels bounce just enough to betray the tension beneath her jeweled corset and faux leather skirt.

Penelope Miller. The only person who could make an outfit so fiercely alternative look effortlessly Avant-Garde. Complete with a brass neck cuff and toy army men swinging as earrings.

The nervous energy is evident in her vibrant brown eyes as she surveys the cavernous expanse of the old linen factory.

This venue, deep in the Bronx, is a flimsy effort to evoke nostalgia for fashion’s industrial past. Statuesque models in sustainably sourced fabrics, including Penelope’s endorsed MuSkin mushroom leather, pose with expressions as solemn as a UN summit. Flashy banners plaster the walls, blaring slogans about diversity, inclusion, and authenticity—the prerequisites to street cred these days.

It all bores me stupid. Casting fashion as the hero of social change while unapologetically fueling consumerism.

And the headline act of today’s propaganda?

Our debate topic: “The Future of Fashion: Slaves to Trends or Warriors of Sustainability?”

I return my attention to the one person who could attract me to this event—and suddenly catch the glaring hole in her glossy facade.

Just as Penelope shifts in her seat, recrossing her legs, a flash of creamy skin appears against thegapingzipper of her fitted skirt.

I drop my hand behind the cubed statement table, snapping my fingers to catch her attention.

Nope. Oblivious.

“Pen—”I try again.

She hits me with an impatient glare. I raise my eyebrows in warning and gesture to the enticing sliver of her exposed skin.

Meanwhile, our moderator steps up to address the audience. Ingrid Lin’s architecturally severe gray bob and fearsome reputation pull everyone’s attention while Penelope cautiously explores her side-hip region.

As Ingrid reads out the rules of the debate, Penelope angles her thighs, leans forward, and inches the zipper back in place. Then she glances my way, a frown etched between her dark brows. She taps a finger against her right cheek.

I follow her prompt, wipe my face—and come away with a smudge of deep plum lipstick.

Huh. It seems I bare the evidence of our backstage tryst too.

And what would they all say, this self-righteous crowd, if they knew? That this woman—always so passionately and vocally appalled by my unethical business empire—almost didn’t make it to the stage because she was spread-eagled, ass to the ceiling, begging me for more? Those three long years of self-denial had us going at it in the dressing room like feral cats at dawn?

Yep. A whole three years ofnotgiving in to my primal urges whenever I’m caught in Penelope’s tumultuous orbit. Three years of her relationship pileups as she did her usual crush-burn-dump of lovers while I shacked up with my girlfriend, Stella.

It was inevitable. From the moment my relationship imploded, all I could think of was seeing Pen again. Every step toward her dressing room drilled home the evidence—that as much as I truly cared for Stella, the compulsive craving for Penelope is always there. Like a riptide in my veins.

One knock was all it took. The door cracked open like an invitation to Eden, teasing me with her seductive scent, her untamed energy. Those luminous eyes with the power to freeze my balls in icy restraint or melt me with urgent desire.

Then her voice—low and silky, poised to reward or withdraw.

“Tuck?” Her eyes drilled mine, followed by a furtive glance down the hall. “Where’s your Palm-oil Heiress?”

“We broke up,” I answered flatly.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Pen’s eyes flashed wickedly, her fist already at my shirtfront, dragging me across the threshold.

Our kiss was white-hot urgency. Her mouth angry with lust, hands clawing at my clothes. But that was nothing against my rock-hard need. I took over, gripping her wrists and bending her face-first over the makeup chair.

The brightly lit vanity mirror captured it all. Makeup bottles, hair products, and water bottles upended and crashing to the floor along with our discarded clothing. Pen gripping the arms of the chair, her tits spilling over the confines of the corset.

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