Page 143 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
poppy
. . .
The thing about Turner and I is…we never back down from a challenge.Apparently, we’re both addicted to making our lives more difficult.
Not in a dangerous way; but in a “let’s see how long you can sit across from me at a rooftop bar, lit by string lights and my freshly glossed lips, without touching me once” kind of way.
Because that’s the game we’re playing tonight.
No touching.
No casual knee brushing.
No protective hand on the small of my back. No stray fingers wrapping around the stem of my wine glass under the guise of helping me steady it if I get a baby bit tipsy.
Just looks. Just words.
Restraint is the name of the game…
Basically the same way we’d played the “no making noise” game the last time we’d had sex. I sigh. There’s something so wickedly satisfying about watching him squirm when all he wants to do is drag you into his lap and ruin your lipstick.
Turner looks good enough to lick.
Black button-down shirt, open at the throat. Forearms braced on the high-top table like a damn GQ ad. His gaze?Lethal. Laser-focused like he's already making a list of ways to destroy me once the game is over…
My skin is hot, and my body is on fire but I’m thriving.
“I can do this,” he says casually, sipping his drink, fingers wrapped around a crystal cocktail glass, amber liquid swirling. “I have self-control.”
I lift my glass, tilt my head, and take a slow sip of wine. Let the rim graze my lips.
“You sure ‘bout that?” I ask, voice syrupy and innocent. “Because your jaw’s been clenched since I crossed my legs.”
He sets his drink down with precision and rests his chin on his hand.
“I’m fine.”
I uncross my legs again and when I do, his eyes track the movements.
Of course my dress doesn’t help. I wore this shit on purpose to remind him what he’s been missing since I moved out (not that he needed it). It’s black. Short. The hem hits mid-thigh and threatens to climb higher every time I shift in my seat. The fabric hugs like a second skin—satin, maybe, or some kind of sin-spun velvet.
Whatever it is, it catches the light every time I move, drawing his gaze to places I know he’s already imagined his hands.
Spaghetti straps. Bare shoulders. A neckline that dips low enough to make him reconsider the entire concept of this foolish game.
And the back? Practically nonexistent. Just one thin strap across the shoulder blades, leaving the rest of my skin on full display, glowing warm under the rooftop lights.
He swallows hard. Adjusts his collar again.
I pretend not to notice. But I notice everything.
“What if I told you I wasn’t wearing underwear?”
He blinks.
Like his brain has officially short-circuited.
Then he exhales through his nose and mutters, “Ah. So we’re playing dirty tonight? Nice.”
