Page 48 of Love is a Game

Every tilt of her chin, every lazy shift of her weight, raised my internal temperature another degree. She was effortlessly the most stunning person in the room—not that I could say that without sounding like yet another desperate pickup artist.

She pursed her lips. “They’re never good. Although—” A smile curved her lips at some memory, and I immediately hated whoever it involved. “There was one guy. He told me I had the ‘allure of temptation.’”

I shrugged, unimpressed. “Sounds like a line from a perfume commercial.”

She smirked. “Then let’s hear better, Tuck. What ya got?”

I let my gaze slowly drag over her.

“Within forty minutes, you’re going to need a rescue plan. And I volunteer for the mission.”

She arched a brow. “What rescue?”

“You’re on your what—fourth or fifth drink? Have you had to pee yet, Pen?” I asked, cocking my head. “Because it’s not gonna be easy in that vice-like dress. But don’t worry—I would sacrifice a finger and several teeth to pry you out of it.”

She swirled her martini. “My hero.”

“No, seriously,” I pressed. “Howdidyou get into that? Baby powder? Coconut oil?”

She tipped her glass toward me, deadpan. “Latex lube.Duh.”

I stilled. Squinted. “You lubed your whole body?”

She lifted her drink to her lips, voice smooth as silk. “Every inch.”

Jesus Christ.

The chemistry. The sex. That was always what pulled us back together—as irresistible as gravity.

Through the night, we got separated and reunited in the ebb and flow of the party, each time tossing out a fresh pickup line as we passed in the crowd. The more we drank, the bolder we got—lame humor giving way to something filthier, filthier giving way to downright sinful.

At one point, I caught her by the wrist, leaning in close. “My tongue is a sherpa…and the contours of your body,Mount Everest.”

“Hope you brought oxygen,” she murmured, slipping away into the crowd.

Later, as she brushed past me, she tugged my sleeve. “I’m too drunk to drive—can I ride you home?”

When I caught up to her again, my hand finding her waist, I whispered, “I’ve built a monument to your hotness…in my pants.”

Passing me as I talked to a couple of Brady’s restaurant backers, her low voice scorched my neck. “There’s nowhere to sit—can I use your face?”

Later, I tossed out: “I’m a romantic. I’ll even hold back your ponytail while you eat my dick.”

Her follow-up, voice like a purr: “I’m a magician…got something hard I can make disappear?”

The night blurred with alcohol, tension, and words that kept pushing boundaries.

Then I spotted Pen laughing with some big-shot developer, Richard Allstein. Too long. Her body language was open, interested. The curve of her throat as she tilted her head brought to mind the freckle under her jaw, the swell of her ear lobe…the glorious hollows of her collarbones—all the details of her body I knew so intimately. Everything I missed.

I moved. Steered the guy aside, clamping a hand on his shoulder.

“About that apartment complex you’ve been pestering me about? Send me the details now. Let’s set a viewing. Monday.”

Pen’s eyes darkened as her wannabe lover stood aside, his head in his phone.

“Follow me.” I crooked a finger.

She folded her arms, voice tight. “You asshole. He was actually nice. Maybe I wanted to get to know him better.”

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