Page 250 of Wrong Pucking Player

Booths are for the elites.

Tables are those who are fighting to be seen by elites.

“He can’t have her.”

When I shift my head to see his expression, I’m surprised by how he’s looking back at me, our faces just inches apart. There are those threads of fear, but there’s something I haven’t seen in Cyrus Jr. unless he’s with Kenzie.

Possessiveness.

Only it’s not directed at his precious diamond.

It’s directed at me.

“Or you,” he articulates with a venomous growl that makes the inside of my stomach flutter.

Not to forget my twitching cock.

“I know he can’t have Andrews, Wyatt,” I emphasize. “But what about me? You think you can have me from Winchester?”

Deep down, I know if Cyrus Jr. wants something, he’ll have it. That drive is genetic. I see it in his father during the brief times I’ve witnessed his coaching techniques with the Strattonville Vipers.

But maybe I’m testing him.

For my own sanity.

Knowing well that Kenzie isn’t the only one giving me heart palpitations.

Can I stop myself from falling fast for this man?

Or will I have no choice but to give in just like I did with Andrews?

“You know the answer to that,” Wyatt whispers, those blue eyes lowering to my lips.

It could be all the scotch and whisky finally getting to our heads, but the tension between us is undeniable.

Which makes me want to push those final buttons.

“What’s the answer, Wyatt?”

I have to know.

My ears need to hear it.

My mind yearns to process it.

My cock has to react to it.

We need to acknowledge what this is.

“Fucking hell, Armani,” he curses, which makes me want to chuckle because Wyatt doesn’t normally use my last name.

Deciding I’ve pushed his buttons enough, I look away so I can reach for my drink.

“We should call Kenzie to see where she is,” I conclude. “And you should finish that cig—”

“Oscar.”

“What, Wya—” Tearing my gaze from him earlier was a mistake because I missed out on watching that switch turn off in his mind.

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