Page 55 of Off Court Fix

I smile. “But how about the loser actuallylosessomething.” Leaning over the table, I add, “Clothes.”

“Strip Ping-Pong? Is that what people your age are doing these days?”

“Careful, Crosby. You sound oldandintimidated.”

He runs a hand over the gentle swoop of his hair. “You’re right. I’m old enough that I’m not afraid to ask for what I want, unlike you.”

Crosby pulls his bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it, and I’m about three seconds from dropping this whole charade. Because I’ve missed those lips—the way they firmly take mine hostage, how gentle they are when they’re on my neck, at my ear, releasing whispery breaths that strike my skin with a force of chilly goosebumps while making my insides burn with need.

“But I’ll play along.” Crosby places the paddle on the table before rolling up his shirt sleeves, not breaking eye contact with me. He smirks when my tongue swipes at my lips over the tan skin of his strong forearms. “Ladies first. Your serve.”

When I win the first three points, Crosby places the paddle on the table and steps back. I cock my head, waiting for him to unbutton his shirt.

But instead, he takes off his glasses, folding the tortoise-shell frames and placing them behind him on the kitchen island.

“Oh, come on.”

“What?” he asks.

“Glasses are an accessory. I have four earrings. Should I take those off one by one?”

Crosby shrugs, taking the paddle. “Me without glasses gives you an advantage. I’m pretty farsighted.”

His crooked grin makes my body swoon so hard I dig my toes into the carpet to keep my balance.

In an instant, the ball is bouncing again between us, just as rapidly as my heart beats against my sternum, each thump stronger with growing anticipation of what comes next. But we both know how this ends. And for me, I know it’s a guaranteed win, no matter if I make the next point or lose. And I’m realizing, even with the anticipation invading my body, strip Ping-Pong might be my favorite kind of match to play, even when I lose—which I do.

I step back from the table. “I’m not a punk like you,” I tell Crosby, reaching for the hem of my dress. I hide my chuckle, finding it ironic that for the first time I’ve planned my outfit to be a strategy for my game.

Crosby stops me, holding out a hand. “Wait.”

With my fingers gripping the bottom of my dress, I watch Crosby reach behind, retrieving his glasses. “Carry on,” he tells me, folding his arms across his chest before shrugging at me when I raise an eyebrow. “I could give two shits about the game. Do you think I want to miss onemillisecondofyou, Maxine?”

I bite my lip, loving the drop in his voice, how it sends a sheet of heat across me.

“Take it off,” Crosby commands before tilting his head. “Slowly.”

I return to my previously interrupted task, lifting the black linen sundress over my head, feeling the flush in my body begin in my toes and increase with the more skin I bare to him. Tossing the dress to the couch, I let my arms hang at my sides, my wrists rubbing against the lace band of the black underwear that matches my bra. It’s nothing more or less than a swimsuit, which Crosby has seen me in at the club. And yet, I’ve never felt so exposed in my entire life, as if he sees through the fabric where he’d find my nipples hardening and the apex of my thighs pooling with want. It’s a desire and need—not just for Crosby. I had that the first night we met.

But the distance between us, the way he stands as judge and jury as I bare myself for him... I want to please Crosby in a way that confuses me because it’s more than I want to be pleasedbyhim.

“You’re fucking gorgeous.”

My eyes fall to the ground.

“Uh-uh,” he immediately tuts, and the tone of his voice—sharp, commanding—involuntarily draws my eyes from the ground and back to his. “Eyes on me.”

I clench my jaw, almost choking on my swallow at that one.

Crosby hums. “Actually, you wanted to make things interesting, right? Eyes onus.”

A few swift steps and Crosby is beside me, tugging my forearm to lead me around the couch.

My chest heaves when I find us in front of the full-length mirror against the wall. I see the way the muscles in my stomach clench when one of his large, warm hands presses against it and pulls me back to him.

All the air leaves my body when we’re flush together, my ass rubbing against him, swelling with hardness.

“I’m going to take this off, alright?” Crosby lifts my bra strap, pressing a kiss beneath it, and I have to force myself to nod.

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