in love?”
Staring at the sheet of rain sliding down my windshield, I bite back a sigh. This woman has been asking me stupid questions all night.
What would you choose as your last meal if you were on death row?
If you were a pizza topping, what would you be?
Would you rather be a strawberry with human thoughts, or a human with strawberry thoughts?
Right now, I’d rather be a human who is anywhere but my own car. But of course, I offer a small smile and shake my head. “Afraid not, Cleo.”
I catch the spark of excitement in her eyes before I turn my attention back to the road. Wrong answer.
The glow of her cellphone reflects off her face, and the sound of her frantic typing cuts just above the hum of the eighties Christmas song on the radio. No doubt she’s updating the group chat with the latest installment about our date.
Sometimes I wonder if it’d just be easier to do what every other man in my family does—fuck and chuck without mercy. But the idea of plunging my cock into a woman whose last name I can’t remember feels…uncivilized. It’s something zoo animals and my cousins do, not real men.
No, I prefer to torture myself with wining and dining a woman before taking her to bed, even though, more often than not, I couldn’t give two flying shits about the conversation floating over the dinner table.
Angelo thinks by drawing out the run-up to getting my dick wet I’m giving women false hope that it’ll turn into something more. I don’t agree; I’ll never take a wife, and I’m very transparent about my intentions from the jump.
Every woman I take out gets the same fair warning. They’ll get one candle-lit night, where I’ll play their Prince Charming and suffer through their vapid monologues with an intrigued smile. Then, after they sweat against my silk sheets and moan ill intentions in my ear, they’ll never hear from me again.
One night never turns into two. Not in a million years. But still, this hard-and-fast rule seems more like a challenge than a boundary for most women—this one in my passenger seat included.
I slow the car to a stop outside Cleo’s walk-up on Main Street and kill the engine. In the silence, the thunder rolling over the roof of my car sounds even louder.
“Thank you for a delightful evening,” I say dryly.
Anticipation crackles and pops off my date’s Little Black Dress. My gaze slides down to her hands curling around the hem of it. I stifle another sigh.
Usually, here’s where I’d lean my forearm against her headrest. Slide my hand up her thigh as I murmur something about being invited up for coffee against her lips. But for some odd reason, the thought of doing that tonight fills me with dread.
Maybe it’s because I’m wiped out from a week of bad business, or maybe it’s because I really don’t care what she’s got going on underneath that dress.
Under her wide, watchful eyes, I drag a palm over my mouth and drop my head against my seat. Maybe I just need to switch up the type of women I date. For nine years, I’ve been seeking out cookie-cutter brunettes that I probably couldn’t pick out of a police line-up if you held a gun to my head. But I choose them because they aren’t my type. They are easy to fuck and forget about. If I actually chose my type, well…that’d be dangerous.
The next lightning bolt brings a flash of red hair and lace lingerie with it.
Jesus. Suddenly feeling hot under the collar, I shove open the door and step out into the rain. As I round the back of the car, Blake catches my eye through the windshield of the armored sedan parked behind me. He winks, then creates a hole with one hand and slides his finger in and out of it. Ah, the universal sign for getting laid.
I’d laugh if it’d come from Griffin or one of my other men, but this dick is already on thin ice after the whole Benny fiasco. I open the passenger door for my date, and her breathing stills as I lean over her, but I pretend not to notice.
I’m only reaching for an umbrella.
I hold out my hand and force another smile. “Allow me.”
Shielded from the storm, we take the five steps to her front door in silence.
“Well,” she whispers, staring up at me like an anxious deer in headlights. “This is me. Unless, uh…you know, you want to come up for coffee, or something?”
It’s already three a.m.—seriously, this woman wouldn’t stop with the dumb questions—and I’d be lying if I said the idea of railing her doggy-style on her polyester sheets while staring at the floral-feature wall behind her headboard turned me on.
I shift my focus over her head and across the road. Annoyingly, I know the real reason I don’t want to go upstairs, and it’s got nothing to do with business or being bored of brunettes. But that reason is so ridiculous, I almost want to go inside to prove to myself that it’s not real.
Another zap of lightning illuminates Main Street. It bounces off shiny surfaces, like the puddles in the road, shop windows, and the glass of the large phone booth opposite. A flash of red—real this time—catches my eye, and my gaze narrows on it.
Surely not.
“Rafe?”
My attention drops back to Claire. Clara? Whatever. When I can’t remember their names, I just call them darling. “I’m so sorry, darling, but I’ve got a very early start tomorrow.”
Her hopeful smile falls. “You’re not coming up?”
No, I’m going to forgo getting my dick sucked in favor of crossing the road and making sure I’m not hallucinating. “Believe me, darling, I’m more upset about it than you are.” Another flash of lightning, another glimpse of red hair and glaring blue eyes. I’m blaming the split-second distraction for why I say something beyond stupid. “Let’s do it again some time.”
I regret it the moment it slips from my lips, even more so when her eyes light up like the Vegas strip. I quickly make my excuses, wait until she’s safely behind her front door, then stride across the road.
As I approach the phone booth, my gaze locks with another through the rain-streaked glass. For some reason, irritation sparks in my chest. What’s that saying, again? Something about if you think of the devil, it’ll appear?
Well, tonight the devil is dripping wet and clutching a yellow book to her chest.
Closing the umbrella, I reach for the handle. On the other side of the glass, I see Penelope reach for it, too. Her attempt to hold the door shut is pathetic, and I’m barely met with any resistance as I fling it open.
Wedging the door open with my foot, I lean my arms against the top metal frame and let my eyes climb her body. She’s soaking. Her furry coat looks like a stray dog from one of those ASPCA advertisements, and her hair is so wet it’s gone from copper to rust.
“What are you doing out so late? Working the street corner when you got caught in the rain, were you?”
Silence.
My gaze narrows on the panic carved into her face. “What’s wrong?” Again, no answer. I sweep an eye over the empty street, then step inside, slamming the door shut behind me. I grip her chin. “I’m not in the business of asking twice, Penelope.”
A gasp escapes her lips as a bolt of lightning floods the space with light. Her jaw flexes against my thumb pad, and realization washes over my unease like a cold bucket of water.
I let my fingers slip off her face and laugh. “Scared of a little lightning? Please, the chances of getting struck are one in a million.”
It’s her turn to laugh. It’s loud and bitter and when it bounces off the walls, I’m suddenly aware of how small it is in here.
“I’ll walk you home.”
“I don’t want to walk.”
“I’ll drive you home then. We’re thirty seconds from your apartment, lazy bones.”
“Go away.”
Wiping the amusement off my face with the back of my hand, I lean against the door and study her. When lightning illuminates the booth, her shoulders tense in anticipation, and her fingers curl into fists by her side. Her lips part to count in breathy whispers, and when she gets to seven, thunder rolls over her hunched shoulders.
Her shaking makes the silver around her neck glint.
I groan. “You’re not serious.”
She pops one eye open and glares at me through it. “What?”
I nod to her necklace. “You think you’re one in a million.” I don’t even bother trying to hide my eye roll. “How self-absorbed to do you have to be to believe—”
“I’m not self-absorbed.” Her trembling fingers fly to her necklace in defense. “I’m lucky.”
“Yes, because getting struck by lightning is real lucky.”
She shakes her head, running the four-leaf clover up and down the chain. “Luck isn’t just about good things happening to you, it’s about having the odds stacked on your side. Every dice has a six, right? Anyone can land on it, but lucky people are more likely to land on it than most.”
“And with that logic, lucky people are more likely to get struck by lightning,” I reply dryly.
She nods, and I huff out a sardonic breath. “No such thing as luck, Penelope. Good, bad, or otherwise. Not sure how many times I have to prove it to you.”
Now, her other eye pops open, and she treats me to an incredulous stare. “You’re the king of casinos. How do you not believe in luck?”
“Because I’m a logical person.” Lie. “I believe in the proven science of probability and statistics. Every single person on the planet has the same odds of rolling a six. It’s math. Jesus, I bet you also match your nail polish to your horoscope and don’t leave the house when Mercury is in Retrograde.”
She scowls. “Funny.” Her eyes slide down to the umbrella at my side and something mischievous dances behind them. “Open it, then.”
“What?”
“If you truly don’t believe in luck, good, bad, or otherwise,” she mocks, in a gruff voice I assume is meant to mimic my own, “then open the umbrella.”
I run my tongue over my teeth. Glance up at the rain hammering on the roof. Fuck, she’s got me there. I’d rather play Russian roulette against my own temple than open an umbrella inside. I’m not even sure if a phone booth counts as inside, but I’m not going to find out.
The next strike of lightning couldn’t have come at a better time. Too distracted by talk of superstition, Penelope forgot to count until the next roll of thunder and it catches her off guard. She yelps. Slams a hand against my chest to steady herself. My muscles tense under the weight of her warm palm. Maybe it’s because it’s past three in the morning, or maybe I’m just out of my fucking mind, but I slide my hand over hers.
“Shh,” I murmur, curling my fingers over her palm. “It’ll stop soon.”
Wide-eyed, she slides her attention down my shirt to where my hand grips hers. Her heavy breathing fills all four walls of the phone booth. Steam rises off our bodies and crawls up the glass, and now I can’t see what’s on the other side of them. It’s just Penelope in here with me, cautious and wet, trembling too close to me for comfort.
A light venom swirls under my skin, itchy and hot.
What was I thinking? I strolled into this phone booth like I was going for a Sunday walk. Like I wasn’t trapping myself into an eight-by-four box with a girl whose half-naked body I’d thought about at least once an hour for three days straight.
Now what stands between me and that lace bra? A couple layers of wet clothes I could have off her body in under ten seconds. Under five, if I was feeling…reckless.
Lust crackles and pops like an electric current running down to the tip of my dick. Fuck the whole Queen of Hearts nonsense. Even if she’s not my doom card, she’s bad for me. Bad for my self-control, and for my image. Just the spark of defiance in her big, blue eyes makes me want to tear off my gentlemanly mask and devour her whole.
I clear my throat and drop her hand, partly because this shirt is Tom Ford, and partly because the softness of her palm against my chest is giving me a semi.
“If you think you’re so lucky, let’s play a game.”
Her eyes narrow, caution warring with interest. “What game?”
Biting back my amusement at her inability to hide her excitement, I pull a dice from the pocket of my slacks. I toss it in the air, catch it, and turn my palm upward with my fingers closed. “Guess the number. If you’re right, I’ll admit you’re lucky.”
She cocks a sarcastic brow. “That’s all it’ll take for you to believe me?”
Of course not. But another flash of lightning has just lit the glass pane by her head, and she didn’t flinch.
“Sure.”
“And what do I win?”
“Bragging rights.”
She rolls her eyes. “And?”
I laugh. “A hundred bucks.”
Another rumble and she doesn’t even notice. “Four.”
“Sure you don’t want to think about it?”
“I don’t need to think; I know.”
It suddenly occurs to me what makes this girl so attractive. Physically being the dictionary definition of my type aside, it’s her confidence that claws under my skin. She’s borderline cocky, which presents a challenge within itself. It seems I crave the satisfaction of knocking it out of her with any means possible.
I uncurl my fingers.
Our eyes clash, hers dancing with glee, mine tinged with disbelief.
You’ve got to be shitting me. With a sly grin I want to wipe off, maybe with my own mouth, she holds her hand out between us.
I slap the bill into her palm with more force than necessary. Thankfully, she slides it into her pocket and not her bra.
The air is thick with her excitement. She leans back against the glass, exposing the soft curve of her throat, then she looks up at me through thick lashes. “Best of three?”
I laugh. “You’re pushing it, girl.”
“Aw, come on. You can afford to lose a few more bills. You’re a billionaire with two yachts and a whole-ass island in the Caribbean.” She jerks her head toward the street. “You probably have a grand in change in the center console of your car alone.”
My eyes slant. “You been Googling me or something?”
The air shifts at the sound of her breathy laugh. I don’t like how it tastes; how it feels in my slacks.
“Or something,” she whispers.
Fuck.
She holds my eye for longer than she should. Her sly smile slowly slips off her lips, until there’s no trace of humor left on her pretty little face.
She looked me up? Why does that send a dark ripple of pleasure through me? I guess because it means she’s been thinking about me.
I doubt she’s thought about me in the same way I’ve thought of her, though.
Half-naked and covered in that cream.
The image flashes behind my eyelids for the millionth time today. Before I can stop myself, I close the gap between us, resting my palm against the wall above her head.
She tenses as I move closer. Then, as another rumble of thunder rocks the booth, she lets out a hot, shaky breath against the base of my throat. I feel it like a lead weight in my balls, and I push my hand a little harder into the wall.
Glaring at the dog-eared calling cards of taxi-drivers and cheap hookers, I ask her a question I know I shouldn’t.
“Have you ever been in love, Penelope?”
I don’t know why I ask it. A mix of it being one of the last questions my date asked me, and mild curiosity, I guess. Sometimes, when a girl moves back to their small hometown, it’s because they’ve had their heart broken—according to most of the shitty Hallmark films my mama used to watch around this time of year, anyway.
Penelope’s eyes slide up to mine, searching them with a guarded expression. “Is this another game?”
I shake my head.
“Then, no.”
A small flicker of relief dances like a candle in the darkness of my chest. Ridiculous. I shouldn’t give a flying fuck if this girl has been in love or not. I don’t.
“Why not?”
I think I know the answer. Twenty-one is no age to fall in love. But to my surprise, she tilts her chin, stares me dead in the eye, and tells me something I don’t expect.
“Women don’t fall in love; they fall into traps.”
Letting out a breath, I push myself off the wall in an attempt to get away from the intoxicating scent of her strawberry shampoo. Away from the damp heat of her coat brushing against my chest. But even as I lean against the cold glass door, it’s impossible to get away from her. She might be five-foot-nothing, but she fills every inch of this space, making the air so thick and sweet that it might just burst at the seams.
I wonder who hurt her? A boy her own age. Some spotty kid in his basement, no doubt. Briefly, stupidly, I wonder if I should hurt him, too.
“That’s a very jaded view of love, Penelope.”
“And you?” My gaze falls down from the rain-stained roof at the sound of Penelope’s voice. “Have you ever been in love?”
I laugh. I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell anybody the truth, not even my own brothers. Because if I did, I’d have to admit something else, something bigger.
I chose the King of Diamonds, not the King of Hearts.
It’s easier to go with the same answer I gave Callie. Or was it Cora?
“Afraid not, Penelope.”
She breathes out a low and slow breath that crawls under my ribs and fills the hollow cavity there. Her expression is indifferent, unreadable, but her eyes spark with something hotter.
When they lock onto mine, my heart slams against my ribs.
Rain falls from her hair onto my loafers in loud, sticky plops. Outside, cars glide over the wet cobbles of Main Street, their tires creating a frictionless hiss and their headlights washing over rain-soaked glass. They shift a fragmented yellow glow over the planes of Penelope’s face.
My gaze crawls down to her plump, parted lips, then down the curve of her throat as it bobs.
“The storm has stopped,” she whispers.
“Five minutes ago.”
She takes a step toward me, tucking her book under her arm. “I should go.”
My jaw tightens as her chest grazes against mine. When she realizes I haven’t moved, she tenses and looks up at me warily.
A familiar feeling swirls through my veins. It’s dark and dangerous and has no place in my blood on a random Thursday evening. The sadistic thoughts creeping out from the shadows in my brain shouldn’t be there, either.
I tilt my head to the side. Slide my hands into my pockets and curl them into fists.
“What if I don’t let you go?”
It’s a question, not a threat.
Maybe.
Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be leaving my lips.
Her frown does little to hide the fear that passes through her doe eyes in a wave. She tilts her chin and says, “I’ll fight you off.”
My thumb sliding across my mouth conceals my dark amusement. Where does this chick get her confidence from? The top of her head barely reaches the third button on my shirt, for god’s sake. If I wanted to…have my way with her, there’s nothing she could do to stop it.
Both excitement and unease hum under my skin. “And how would you do that?”
What the fuck are you doing, Rafe? It seems like every interaction I have with this girl turns into a game. This one feels like revenge. For wearing my aftershave. For shaking her head when I asked her if she wanted me to be a gentleman. I want to make her as uncomfortable as she makes me. Only, this game feels riskier than a roll of a dice or a halfhearted bet.
And I can’t say for sure I’ll be the one who wins.
Fuck this.
I’m not in the business of scaring women for my own amusement, anyway. Not like this. I’m just tired and horny and probably growing delirious from the lack of oxygen in here. I’m about to step aside with an easy laugh when Penelope’s eyes dart below my belt.
My blood heats. Silly girl. The first rule of playing any game is to never let your opponent see your next move. I’ll give it to her—she’s quick. I’m quicker. As her knee comes up to meet my groin, my knee comes up too. I slide it between her legs and pin her to the back wall with it.
Heart slamming with the adrenaline that comes with a win, I press my body into hers, a triumphant laugh humming deep in my throat.
“Too slow, Penelope. Now what?”
She doesn’t reply, and with every heavy second that crawls past, a hot, prickly awareness creeps through me. The sharpness of her fingernails digging into my biceps. Her steam-like breath against my Adam’s apple. The warmth of her pussy mound against my thigh, and the fast, flickering pulse that beats in the middle of it.
Fuck.
Glaring at a raindrop as it fights its way down the glass, I take a slow, deep breath. It does little to cool the lust searing through my veins.
Don’t do it, Rafe.
I won’t. I won’t push my thigh deeper between her legs in the hope that she’ll moan from the friction. I won’t grab her by the nape of the neck, tilt her lips to mine, and explore the taste of her smart-ass mouth.
It’d be all-too-easy, sure. A heady cocktail of body heat, rain, and darkness shield us from the outside world. I could have this girl in a heartbeat, no wining and dining necessary, and no one but me, her, and my own conscience would know about it.
Suddenly, Penelope’s hips tilt forward, her pussy sliding half an inch down my thigh.
My stomach tenses. “Don’t.”
It’s a sharp warning, delivered through the gap between my clenched teeth.
She shifts again, more deliberately this time. Her wet hair tickles my throat as she tilts her chin.
“Or what?”
It’s barely a whisper, but it’s loaded with an insolence I want to rip from her vocal cords. What that tone does to my dick should be illegal.
Blood thumping in both my temples and my cock, my mind swims with bad thoughts and my tongue is bitter with the taste of bad decisions.
I should step away from this chick. No good could ever come from her, doom card or not. But if I do, then I lose the game I started.
And I don’t like to lose.
No. She’s a kid, and I’m her boss. Gathering all the self-control I have, I tear myself away from her and shove out to the street.
Glaring at a deflating Santa bobbing lazily against a lamp post, I readjust my slacks and smooth down my shirt. I take a deep breath of damp, December air. With the rain falling from the sky cooling me down, my head clears and my common sense crawls back to me.
Jesus, I definitely stepped over the line. I guess forced proximity and bratty behavior will do that to even the most level-headed man. Still, I should apologize; that was no way to behave to a lady, even this one.
Behind me, the phone booth door slams shut, and heavy footsteps stomp off in the other direction. Sliding my hands into my pockets, I fall in step with Penelope as she bulldozes in the direction of her apartment.
“Penelope.”
She ignores me in favor of glaring at the puddles beneath us.
“You don’t have to walk me home, you know.”
“It’s three a.m.”
“I’m not your date.” She grinds to a halt, whipping around to face me. I search her eyes for any kind of fear, but surprisingly, nothing of the sort swirls behind those big, blue irises. “What happened, anyway? Didn’t get invited up for coffee?”
Despite my cock throbbing in my slacks, amusement fills me. “Is that what ladies do? Invite men up to their apartment for coffee?”
She swallows. Tightening her grip on her book, her eyes crawl down the front of my shirt, past my belt, and land on my dick. The heat of her gaze makes my fist curl tighter around the poker chip in my pocket. God help me.
“I wouldn’t know,” she whispers, stopping outside a green door. “I’m not a lady.”
And then without so much as a goodbye, she disappears behind the door and slams it shut behind her.
I stare at it in disbelief for a few moments, then turn my head to the sky and let out a humorless laugh.
This chick can’t be real.
I turn on my heel and stroll back down Main Street, Penelope’s warm pussy still branding my thigh, her insolence still dancing in my ears.
As I pass the phone booth, something slow and instinctive creeps underneath my collar, slowing me to a stop.
Surely not?
Before I can put weight to it, I slip back inside the phone booth and pick up the telephone receiver. Stab the star key, followed by the six and the nine.
And when a familiar voice of my own creation floats down the line, my laugh fills the space more than Penelope’s breathless whispers ever could.
Let the games begin, silly girl.
