Page 40 of The Games We Play
Then, just as quickly as he’d taken control, he pulled away, hovering above me. His hair was a disheveled mess from thenight before, his eyes dark with something that sent heat curling low in my stomach.
“First,” he said, voice thick with reluctance, “I need a cigarette and real breakfast.” He kissed me once more, lingering just long enough to make me whimper in protest. Then he climbed off the bed, his muscles flexing as he stretched. “Plus,” he added with a smirk, “the longer I make you wait, the more needy you’ll be when I get back.”
“You tease,” I hissed, sitting up and stretching, my arms overhead, breasts bare to the morning air as I stood from the bed.
Mac chuckled as he stepped into his jeans, tugging them up over his hips with a little hop. They sat low, revealing the sharp cut of his V and the tattoos I’d come to love.
My gaze traced over his ink, my fingers following suit as I stepped closer, running my hands over the two roses etched onto his lower stomach—the ones I’d claimed as my favorites.
Roses would never mean the same thing to me again.
Mac inhaled sharply, his resolve flickering. “I can’t help it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“If you don’t hurry back,” I warned, a smirk curling at my lips, “I might have to take care of the acheyoucaused myself.”
His eyes darkened.
I pulled away just enough to grab his discarded flannel from the floor, slipping it over my shoulders and buttoning it up. It fell mid-thigh, covering exactly what it needed to.
The sweatshirt he’d been about to pull over his head stalled in his hands. His jaw tensed, his fingers clenching the fabric. His stare raked over me, heat crackling in the space between us.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
If there was one thing Mac Ridley loved, it was placing his claim.
“I’ll be quick,” he said, tapping his jean pockets to make sure he had everything before he practically ran to his front door, slipped his boots on without caring how his jeans bunched up, and blew me a kiss before slamming the door.
A laugh bubbled from my lips, light and easy. While Mac was gone, I’d make coffee and get things ready for when he came back with breakfast. He was just running to the diner a few doors down from the bar—it wouldn’t take long. So, I acted fast, shuffling to the counter and pulling out the coffee grounds.
I measured them into the machine, and my thoughts drifted back to last night, which inevitably led me down the rabbit hole ofus.
No strings attached. That was the deal. But lately… it didn’t feel so simple.
I liked being with Mac. I liked the late-night drives to the overlook, the stolen moments in his truck, the way his laughter filled the quiet spaces between us. More and more, we spent our nights together. Sometimes at his place, sometimes sneaking around to mine. It wasn’t just about the sex—it was the ease of it, the comfort.
If I was being honest with myself, I’d started thinking about thewhat ifs.
What if we stopped keeping this to ourselves?
What if we stopped pretending it was just casual?
What if I told him I wanted more?
The idea sent a nervous flutter through my stomach, equal parts excitement and fear. Because if we stripped away the secrecy, if we took the thrill of the unknown and replaced it with reality… would the magic of it disappear?
Shaking my head, I pushed the thoughts away. In typicalmefashion, I grabbed my phone, turned on my go-to playlist, and let the music fill the apartment at a low hum as I got back to my task.
A few moments passed, and then?—
A soft knock.
Smiling, I skipped toward the door, ready to fling it open, expecting to see Mac standing there with his hands full of food.
“That was fa?—”
Except itwasn’tMac.
The smile dropped from my lips, my body going still as I took in the stranger before me.
