Page 72 of Ruined Vows
“I don’t lose,” she says. “I regroup.” But the smile in her eyes gives her away. She likes the game, and she’s jonesing for the next challenge.
“Sounds like something a loser would say,” I murmur.
She stalks over, yanks another beer from the bucket, and pops the cap off on the edge of the table like she invented the move. Then looks at me over the rim.
“Darts?”
I nod. “Loser buys the next round.”
“I thought you were a billionaire.”
“I like watching you reach for your wallet.”
She scoffs, takes a long drink, then walks toward the dartboard with the kind of strut that could end careers.
God, she’s chaos.
And it hits me—hard and stupid—that my brother wouldloveher.
David’s going to take one look at her and call it before I can deny it.
“She’s the one,”he’ll say. And I won’t argue. Because I’llknow he’d be right. Even if she throws every dart like she’s trying to pin me to the wall next.
We drink beer and trade challenges. Then, she surprises me and barely misses the bull’s eye.
“Rigged,” she mutters, suppressing her disappointment.
“Skill,” I counter, as my dart pierced the red dot.
She punches me in the arm as guys would do, and I catch her hand. I hold it a second too long and pull her in for a kiss. A playful, lingering kiss.
And sheletsme.
Then, she regroups and pulls away, not like a spooked deer, but gracefully. Then, she saunters up to the dartboard with the swagger of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing—and exactly how good her ass looks doing it.
It’s criminal. I’d say she’s cheating in our game of hearts and wit, but I’m not one to complain just because the opposition uses their assets with skill.
But damn, her jeans hug her hips like a second skin. The shirt also allows for the low curve of her back, which is visible when she leans forward to grab the darts, and when she stands, her shirt pulls her just enough to taunt me with her perfect, silken skin and voluminous breasts.
Then, she turns and places one hand on her hip. Hair loose has worked itself free now—half-fallen from its braid, so she reaches up and loses it, letting her hair cascade over her shoulders.
And me?
I’m trying not to groan out loud in the middle of a dive bar with three ex-cons and a drunk with a harmonica five feet away.
She walks toward me and lines up her next shot.Thwack.Dead center. She doesn’t even react—just glances over her shoulder at me, and raises one brow.
“You gonna stand there and stare, or are you throwing?” She says, challenging me.
I’m not one to back off a challenge, and I take a long pull of my beer as I drink her in. “Why would I rush? This view doesn’t suck.” But what I don’t say is that I’m captivated. Hell, I’m a goner.
She smirks, as if she knows she’s working my cock over, then zeros her eyes back on the board.
Another dart is thrown. Thwack. Just off the center.
“Don’t get cocky,” I say.
“Too late,” she replies flippantly.
