Page 69 of Playing for Keeps
I smile at him. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You going to reply to Ash?” he asks, easing back to his side of the seat.
“I’m debating messing with her,” I admit with a mischievous grin.
He chuckles, then lets his gaze drop to the high slit of my dress. “I’d be down for that.” He moves closer again and slides his phone from his pocket, opening the camera. Then he rests his warm hand on my bare thigh, squeezing gently. A breath hitches in my throat.
“This okay?” he whispers at my ear.
I nod, my throat suddenly dry. He leans in and presses soft kisses along my neck. My eyes flutter shut, and I forget how to breathe.
When I finally open them, he’s already pulled back, watching me with an unreadable expression. Then he turns the phonearound to show me the picture he took. Our faces are just visible, with his mouth at my neck, and his hand gripping my thigh.
“Wow,” I breathe, taking the phone from his hand. “That’s… hot.”
“I’ll send it to you,” Wyatt says, his voice thicker than before.
I hand him the phone, and seconds later, mine pings with an incoming message. I open it, my breath catching as the image fills the screen. Wyatt and me, caught in a moment that feels anything but pretend.
“I don’t know if I can send this to her,” I say. “It feels… intimate.” I glance up at him. “I know that probably sounds stupid.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t. Not at all.” His eyes drop from mine. “Maybe I went too far. I’m sorry if I crossed a line.”
“You didn’t,” I say quickly. “I love the picture. I’ve never seen myself like this before.” I look down at the image again, something warm stirring in my chest.
He looks at me. “How do you see yourself, Ivy?”
I don’t know what to say. How do I explain something I’ve never really admitted to myself? The girl in the picture… she doesn’t look like me. She looks desired, like she belongs in the moment, with his lips on her skin. She looks like someone who doesn’t doubt she’s enough.
But me? I’m someone who fades into the background, someone who people see as reliable, not irresistible. I’ve never looked at myself and thought someone could want me like that. Maybe that’s why, whenever someone asks me out, I shut it down, because part of me still thinks I don’t measure up.
So, when I saw that photo, it made me stop, not because it was too much, but because it was more than I ever thought I could be. The irony is that the picture isn’t real. None of this is, no matter how much I might want it to be.
Before I can say anything, the car slows and comes to a smooth stop outside an impressive stone-brick building. A bold neon sign glows above the door:The Velvet Club. Velvet ropes create a barrier at the entrance, where a sharply dressed doorman stands between two broad-shouldered security guards. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame either side of the door, but the interior is dark, hiding whatever waits inside.
“Hold that thought,” Wyatt says. “We’ll talk more inside.”
I nod, silently hoping he won’t ask again. I’m not sure how to put what I’m feeling into words.
Wyatt thanks the driver and slips out, rounding the hood to open my door. I place my hand in his, the warmth of his touch comforting as I step out. He closes the door, then leans down to speak to the driver through the open window. Moments later, the car glides away from the curb.
“I gave him the night off. Figured we’d just get an Uber later,” he says. “No point in making him wait around.”
I nod as he reaches for my hand again, threading his fingers through mine as we walk toward the entrance. The line to get in snakes around the block, but Wyatt strides confidently past everyone, heading straight to the front.
With a casual ease, he clasps the doorman’s hand. “Good to see you, Joe.”
“You too, Wyatt.” Joe smiles, then unhooks the velvet rope and gestures us through. “Go on in. Have a great night,” he says, his gaze briefly landing on me with an easy smile.
I return it shyly, letting Wyatt lead me inside, my heart fluttering as the music pulses louder with every step.
The interior is dimly lit with velvet drapes framing the wall and chandeliers casting a soft glow on the black, polished floors underfoot. The club is packed with people dancing and drinking, and Wyatt keeps me close as we weave our way through the crowds. It doesn’t take long before people start to realize who ishe, and I see the stares and whispers as we walk by. He must realize too, and he leans in close, his mouth near my ear.
“There’s a VIP area upstairs. It’s quieter. You okay with that?”
I nod quickly, relieved at the thought of slipping away from the spotlight.
He guides me through a velvet curtain and up a spiral staircase, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back again. I don’t think he knows what that touch is doing to me, or maybe he does. Either way, my skin burns where his fingers press, and my heart won’t slow down.
