Page 45 of How to Play the Player

“You expect me to believe that?” he asks, but there’s less confidence in his tone than before. “After everything?”

“I don’t expect anything from you anymore. That’s the difference between then and now.”

Suddenly, something shifts in his expression. Before he can respond, I grip his collar tighter to emphasize my next words.

“I know what I want,” I tell him, not releasing the fabric. “Do you?”

After I say those words, I let go of him and start walking away from him. I intend to leave him in an utter mess and begin to feel satisfaction that I’ve gotten the last word, the last dig for the day.

But the tension between us must have snapped because I feel a hand grab me by the neck, pulling me back to him. His fingers press firmly against my skin, not painfully but with an authority that makes my pulse race wildly beneath his touch. His mouth crashes down onto mine with such fierce intensity that I gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed by his kiss.

I can’t stop myself from clinging to him—to his warmth, to the solid reality of him after so many months of emptiness. My fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tightly. The silky strands slip between my fingers as he backs me against the trellis. His body presses into mine with delicious pleasure. Every hard plane of his chest and abdomen molds perfectly against my softer curves.

When Nathan and I were together, we’d shared many types of kisses—tender morning kisses that tasted of coffee and promises, playful pecks that dissolved into laughter, deep embraces that led to him making love to me. But this kiss? This one has them all pale in comparison. This is raw, desperate, angry—primal. There’s nothing gentle in the way his lips claim mine, nothing tentative in how our tongues collide, battling, as each of us tries to consume the other.

His hands grip my waist, fingers digging deep. I can feel the slight tremble in his strong hands, revealing that beneath his commanding presence, he’s desperate. The knowledge sends a thrill of power through me even as I kiss his soft lips.

My skin burns wherever he touches me, my body remembers his as if no time has passed. The more places he explores, the more memories come to the forefront of my mind.

He suddenly pulls away from my mouth, the loss of contact almost painful until his lips find my neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of my throat. My head falls back, eyes fluttering closed. I gasp sharply as he finds that sensitive spot just below my ear, the one he always liked to use against me. The one he knows would make me melt in his arms and tease me until I’d beg for more.

“Nathan,” I breathe, his name a broken whisper on my lips. I’m not sure if I’m protesting or encouraging him—maybe both.

His hands slide lower, strong fingers gripping my thighs through my tight skirt, lifting me to align his clothed erection to my weeping core through my panties. The sensation is hard, electric, insistent, and impossible to resist. My body responds instinctively, hips arching against his, seeking the friction we both crave.

As if they have a mind of their own, my fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, cursing myself for not being able to feel his skin beneath my fingertips. He groans, the sound vibrating against my throat where his mouth continues its sensual journey, sending shivers cascading down my spine.

We’ll soon be teetering on the edge if this goes any further. If I’m not careful, I’ll be losing the bet with him. But that, with our complicated history and the pain between us, doesn’t seem to matter in this moment, all of it fading into insignificance compared to the need burning through my entire body.

His hand slides under my skirt, fingers tracing the edge of my lace panties with tantalizing slowness. When he finds me already wet for him, a knowing smile crosses his face. He then strokes my clit through the thin fabric, making my knees threaten to come out from under me. I gasp at the contact as his thumb circles exactly where I need it, and I bite my lip to hold back a moan.

He quickly pushes the thin fabric aside, two of his fingers slipping inside me with practiced ease, curving upward to find the spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes. The pleasure builds rapidly as his thumb continues exactly where I need it, my body hopelessly surrendering to his touch. I clutch his shoulders more tightly, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he builds me toward release.

I want this. Oh, god, do I want this and more.

“Come for me, little one,” he whispers against my ear, his voice rough, breath hot against my skin. “I want to feel you let go. Let me watch you fall apart.”

His words—that endearment I’d never thought I’d hear from him again—push me over the edge. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, radiating outward from where his fingers continue to make me come undone. My body trembles with orgasm. My pussy tightens, pulsing around his fingers as he draws out every last sensation. He captures my cries of pleasure with his mouth, kissing me deeply as I ride out the aftershocks.

Through my haze of the crash, I feel him adjusting himself, his breathing ragged against my lips. Then clarity cuts through.

With more willpower than I knew I possessed, I tear myself away, my chest heaving, my lips swollen from his kisses. My traitorous body already misses him, every cell screaming in protest to fall into his arms and never come back up for air.

“Quinn, baby?” Confusion seems to still cloud his judgment.

The satisfaction of seeing his frustration mixes with my own aching need as I straighten my skirt with trembling hands. “A bet is still a bet.”

“What?”

“And you said you wouldn’t be backing down.” I smooth my hair, trying to regain my composure even when my body is screaming in protest.

Understanding dawns in his eyes, quickly followed by a mixture of frustration and disbelief. His jaw clenches as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

“You just—” He shakes his head, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Unbelievable. You purposely let that happen, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” I play coy, finding my composure slowly but surely.

“You played me.”

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