Page 9 of Pucking Curves

I peer at him over my shoulder. “Do you have an addiction?”

“Yeah, to watching your cute ass freak out over spending my money. Push the button, little bird.”

I blush from head to toe. I know I do. I feel it heating up my whole damn body. He thinks I’m cute. Or my ass is cute. Or…something. I don’t know. But Archer Graves, man of my dreams, is flirting with me.

I take back everything I said earlier. Gambling is amazing.

“Gambling is terrible,” I groan two hours later, stumbling into Archer as he tries to shuffle me onto the elevator. We lost…I don’t even know. A lot of money. Probably enough to start our own country. Or at least our own island.

I still don’t understand poker. It’s his fault. He spent the whole damn time leaning over me, brushing up against me, whispering in my ear, and flirting with me. He’s a terrible teacher. Because I spent the whole time fantasizing about having sex with him on the casino floor instead of learning any of the rules.

Royal flush? Don’t know her.

Royally screwed? Yep, that’s me.

“Regretting it already, little bird?” he asks, his smile fuzzy as he tucks hair behind my ears.

“Yes!” I cry, collapsing against the corner of the elevator with a huff. My legs are tired. I need to pee. What time is it? “I cost you at least a thousand dollars tonight.”

He jabs the button and then stalks across the elevator toward me. “Only a thousand, huh? Pretty sure you cost me more than that, baby.”

“Your fault. You should have taken Micah’s money when you had the chance.” I plant my hand on his stomach. I’m not sure why I do it, but I tangle my fingers up in his shirt, tugging him toward me.

He doesn’t stop me. Instead, he presses up against me, smirking down at me. “How drunk are you right now, Wren?”

“Yes.”

“You’re yes drunk?”

“Yes. How drunk are you?”

“Yes.”

One plus one equals screw it, right? He’s in front of me, smirking at me. I’m dying to know what he tastes like. This is Vegas. If this is my only chance…screw it is obviously the only logical answer.

I practically launch myself at him, landing against his lips.

“Fuck,” he growls, grabbing me by the hips. He kisses me hard. Breathes even harder. He’s practically vibrating, trying to hold himself in check even as his tongue flicks out, taking another little taste. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?” I whisper, touching his bottom lip with my tongue again. “Been wanting to do it.”

He groans, a broken, desperate sound, his fingers digging into my hips. He’s still vibrating, still trying to hold it together. Break already. Crack for me.“How long, Wren?”

“How long, what?”

“How long have you wanted to kiss me?”

“Forever,” I breathe.

He breaks, cracking into pieces right before my eyes. And damn. It’s beautiful. He groans like I just set loose his deepest fantasy, shoving me up against the chrome wall. His lips come down on mine, his breath a harsh rasp.

“Shouldn’t have told me that,” he growls, licking into my mouth like he’s trying to taste heaven. I shove my hands into his hair, holding him to me as he consumes me, kissing away every inhibition I have. All that’s left is him and the need coursing through my veins in a raging wildfire.

It's so loud. So much.

So damn good.

He’s the storm, raging unchecked. Ferocious and intense.

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