Page 102 of Tempting Wyatt
“Enough,” I say, wondering how muchheknows about pool-table shenanigans. “But it wasn’t like that. I was just going to play poker.”
He makes a growly sound. “In under an hour and another six-pack later, they would have talked you into taking shots and playing strip poker.”
He shows me how to crank the ATV and where the throttle and brakes are.
“Who says I don’t like strip poker?”
“I’ll play cards with you if you feel the need.”
“Strip poker?” I press.
He ignores me. My eyes drift over the parts of him I can see in the dark. His jawline is so perfect that it should be sculpted and on display in a museum.
“Will you let me win?”
His lips quirk up into a half smile, half smirk. “You want me to?”
Hell yes, I do.
My baser instincts threaten to take over. From the minute I first saw this man, he rewired my brain from wounded-breakup settings to desperate desire to practice-procreation mode.
I could turn around right now, ride him right here until he gave me everything I needed.
As if he can read my thoughts, he chuckles darkly. He lets me off without giving him an answer, launching into instructions on how to drive us to my cabin.
The four-wheeler is easier to steer than I expected, and much too soon, we arrive at our destination. He shuts off the engine and climbs off. The back of me misses his body heat immediately.
Wyatt Logan confuses me, but he also makes me feel protected. Safe.
Wanted.
He helps me off the ATV, surprising me when he doesn’t let go of my hand once I’m securely on the ground.
“Sorry if I interrupted your party at the bunkhouse,” he says gently. “But I know too much about those guys to trust them with you.”
My eyes meet his. “Yeah? And how much do you know about what goes on there? Ever participate in any pool-table parties?”
His gaze darkens, deepens, pulls me down into the depths, where I can’t reach the bottom anymore.
“I have a sister the same age as most of those girls, so, hell no, I don’t participate. But I have walked in on a few and been the one to give those girls rides home occasionally when Antonio wasn’t available.”
Inhaling the intoxicating woodsy scent of him, I try to control my thoughts. And my jealousy.
“And what happens on those rides home?”
He rubs a hand over his bearded jaw. “It’s been a while, but nothing like what your dirty mind is imagining, Hollywood. I usually do the same thing I’m doing now. Try to talk them out of ever going back there.”
“And how does that work out?”
His shoulders lower. “Guess.”
“They go back?”
He nods. “Every time. Even the ones who swear they won’t, that they never do anything like that.”
“Ah, to be young,” I say, repeating the bartender’s words from the other night to lighten the mood.
“I’m only going to say this once more, Hollywood. Do not let me catch you in that bunkhouse again.”
