Page 93 of Love is a Game

Some of the pinned scaffolds of fabric gape apart, and I slide my hand beneath the gathering, finding the heat of her skin.

She gasps, her breath catching as my fingers skate lower. Her gaze stays locked on the mirror, on the reflection of my hands gripping her, claiming her, coaxing her to surrender inch by inch.

A shiver rolls through her, her body arching instinctively into my touch. I press my lips to the curve of her neck, dragging my teeth lightly over her pulse, feeling the tremor that follows.

I nudge her back against the table, my cock straining, my control hanging by a thread. Her ass meets the solid oak, and she leans back, lace slipping against her skin, the hint of her taut pink nipples teasing through delicate fabric.

This needs to happen. Right here. Right now.

I push between her and the tabletop, bracing an arm, muscles taut.

“What are you—” she starts, but I’m already moving.

I sweep a forearm across the table, sending fabric swatches, scissors, sketchbooks, and the jewelry box crashing to the floor.

Her lips part in shock. “Oh.”

I grab her hips, forcing her into place. She meets my gaze, her breath shallow, pupils blown wide. Her lips part, ready to say something, maybe to tease, maybe to taunt. But I don’t let her

I cover her mouth with my hand as I push her flat against the table, then fumble to undo my jeans.

The dress can wait.

Chapter 28

Penelope

I stretch forward from my haunches, straining to reach another of the liberated pearls spilled across the carpet like tiny casualties. The worst of it are the pins—some with their points buried so they stick up like tiny soldiers, others lying flat and dangerously easy to miss.

Meanwhile, scissors, tangled spools of thread, fabric scraps, and paper are strewn everywhere like the whole room’s been through a washing cycle. The way we went at it on the dining table last night, I’ll be surprised if even the solid wood surface doesn’t bear the evidence.

My body sure does.

I shift, feeling the delicious, aching sensitivity between my legs and the imprint of Tuck’s hands on my tender breasts. My god. The way he took me—possessed me. No hesitation, no restraint. Just raw, unfiltered want. And I let him.

More than that, I wanted it badly. I completely let go. Let him take.

I drag a piece of muslin from the wreckage, letting it slip between my fingers. In an era of seamless digital rendering, where entire collections can be built on screens before a single stitch is made, maybe it’s crazy that I still work like this…hands-on, visceral, kinetic. But nothing replaces the weight of fabric in my hands. The way it folds, falls, resists. The way a single cut can change everything. My process isn’t sleek or efficient. It’s instinctual.

And right now, instinct is telling me I need to rethink everything.

Until yesterday, I was fixated on airy, ethereal designs. Wisps of chiffon and barely-there tulle. But after stepping into that mansion, with its towering white stone, heavy archways, and sprawling balustrades, something shifted.

The dress I’d envisioned feels too insubstantial, too fleeting for a place like that. Mia’s gown shouldn’t float. It should command. It should stand against that grandeur and hold its own. A dress with weight. Structure. Details that demand attention.

It’s not fully formed yet. But I can feel the idea stretching, unfurling like a bolt of precious silk slipping just beyond my reach. It’s there, waiting.

And maybe that’s why I let myself stop last night. Why I didn’t care when Tuck lost control, when he turned me inside out with the force of his need. Because I could feel something in me settling. The certainty that it will come.

Because it simply must.

For now, though, I need coffee. And to get ready for this damn bachelorette party.

Jess has been on my case since seven a.m., demanding details, reminding me,again, that Mia’s security team needs to vet the venue, staff members, and the background of every service provider. The whole ordeal.

Admittedly, I didn’t get too creative. The lakeside resort Vivian introduced me and Misha to seems ideal—secluded, private, and relaxed. Not the kind of party scene Mia is dead against.

When I called to book, the spa receptionist somehow talked me into upgrading from simple massages to a fully “immersive, rejuvenating mineral sauna experience.” It sounded appropriate enough for a bachelorette gathering. And, conveniently, like I’ve put in way more planning effort than I actually have.

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