Page 127 of Can't Always Get What You Want

For getting greedy.

For falling in love with a girl I was never supposed to touch.

God, I am so totally, irreversibly, undeniably…

Fucked.

27

nova

We’re out in public.

Can you believe it?

Our third outing—third date—if you can call it that.

The place is loud and buzzing—the good kind of loud, the kind that makes your ears hum with energy instead of ache. It’s a fancy steakhouse but surprisingly it's packed to the walls with people wearing Baddies jerseys and hoodies.

Cars outside are honking, celebrating the teams’ win long after the game came to an end.

Luca’s hair is still damp from his post-game shower, mostly hidden beneath a black ball cap pulled low over his brow—clearly an attempt to be less recognizable. He’s wearing a fitted, black thermal shirt that hugs his chest and arms, and I can’t stop staring…

So handsome.

So unaware of the way he looks right now.

We’re seated at the bar while waiting for a table, elbows brushing on the slick surface, our drinks sweating in front of us. My margarita has too much salt on the rim, but I lick it anyway and try not to stare at his mouth.

Yum.

"You want another one of those?" Luca nods at my drink. "Or are you just gonna keep licking the glass like that to make my dick hard. Because it’s working.”

I twirl the straw. "Maybe both?"

He shakes his head, clearly amused. "Can’t take you anywhere."

I grin into my glass, pretending not to notice the way his thigh presses against mine under the bar.

His smirk is slow and lethal when he drops his hand casually to my knee beneath the counter. Squeezes.

Not obviously—just the lightest touch, testing how far he can go. His thumb strokes a slow circle, and I have to take a deep breath to keep from sliding his hand between my thighs.

“We could leave,” he offers optimistically. “Slip out the back, have sex in the back seat of my car.”

The bartender appears with a bowl of bar mix snacks, saving me from having to formulate a witty response. I thank her and shoot Luca a death glare that’s entirely fake, because my insides are absolutely not chill.

I pop a pretzel into my mouth and chew.

His fingers are still on my leg.

So far, no one’s recognized him—not that he’s making it easy to stay incognito. He’s doing that athlete thing where he tries to blend in. Shrink himself. But his body, voice, energy—they’re impossible to miss.

Especially when he’s got one hand on me and the other stealing the saltiest chips from the bowl, shoving them in his mouth three at a time.

“Behave,” I murmur, resting my hand on top of his, stilling the slow ascent of his fingers up my thigh.

He smells like his post-game shower—clean and warm, with a hint of whatever body wash he uses—makes me want to drag my nose along his throat. Suck on his neck.

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