“Are you sure now?” Even though you’ll beat my arse.
She sits cross-legged at the end of the couch, her back pressing up against the arm. I settle on the opposite end, and she deals the cards. Unlike at the launderette, the play is a bit more challenging because we keep slapping our cards down, which makes the couch cushions—and the cards—want to go flying.
Soon we’re laughing and slapping our hands down as hard as we can, and I’m thinking I haven’t felt this light in ages.
I gather the cards and deal the next round. “We should’ve thought to add something to drink to the survival list.”
She looks up with a grin. “Hang on.” She launches from the couch with such enthusiasm, all the cards slide into the back crease of the couch.
She’s back in an instant, holding up an airplane bottle of Jim Beam. “Got this when I thought we were just delayed.”
“Just the one?”
“Of course. It was only for me.”
I gather the cards into a tight stack and shuffle, the sound of the cards snapping against each other filling the room. “Want to play for it, yeah?”
She settles again on the couch. “What you got in mind?”
I cut the deck. “Hand of poker?”
Her eyes flash with challenge, and damn if that doesn’t send some blood south. Shite.
“Challenge accepted.”
I hop up.
“Where you going?”
I look back at her and wiggle my eyebrows. “If one of us is winning that lock bottle, I think we need to be doing it up right. With a glass. Savor it like you like to, I'm thinking.”
“And ice!” She laughs and waves her hand holding the bottle toward the door, presumably in the direction of the ice machine. “It’s starting to get dark. I’ll light the candles while you’re gone.”
While I haven’t acquired a taste for ice in my drinks, if that’s what she likes, I’ll be getting it for her, yeah. I slip on my trainers, grab the ice bucket, and head down the hall. Since the power is out, the ice won’t dispense, of course, but I’m hoping it has some kind of lid.
Sure enough, it does. I hold the lid up and scoop the bucket into the mound of ice. This probably violates some health code, but fuck it.
Claire
I get the candles lit near the couch, their strawberry scent easing into the room and the tiny flame cutting through the twilight settling into the room. Conor’s absence also gives me a chance for a pee break.
Also? I need a moment, because when he suggested poker, the words, make it strip poker, nearly popped out of my mouth.
I’m not horrified by that impulse. That’s not what’s making me pause.
What’s making me pause is the fact that I…well, paused. That’s not me. At least that’s not the me I strove so hard to become.
I’m the tough girl. One who expresses her wishes.
I wash my hands and dry them, taking my frustration out on the poor white towel. The flashlight on my phone is pointed straight up, as it rests on the counter, but it’s enough to see.
The thing is, if it was anyone other than Conor, I’d have said it just to get a reaction out of a male friend. And if it led somewhere, well, it depended on the guy, but I wouldn’t say no if it was all in good fun.
So why the damn pause? Some tough girl I am. My interactions with guys are always on my terms, and if they don’t like it, they can walk.
I yank open the door and smack into a large, hard, male body. “Ooof.”
Conor must have heard the door opening because he’s facing my direction. Which means all of my front is intimately pressed against all of his.
Oh, um, wow. His free hand settles on my hip, a warm, firm grip. “Chill the beans now there. Didn’t mean for you to take a hopper.”
God, I love all his expressions. A delicious, demanding heat coils through me, startling me of breath. I stand there stiff, as if contact with this hunk of Irish masculinity has inexplicably flash frozen me.
If I was a chick with a fully paid subscription to the flirt manual, I’d know what to do. Some coy word. Some signal that I’m interested.
Wait.
I don’t want him to know. He can’t know. If he learns, and rejects me, I might be tempted to change.
That springs me away from him, all right. And…smack. My head hits the door jamb, and I bow forward.
He takes a step so that my head is now pressing to his chest—oh God, his chest—and he cradles my head, rubbing the sore spot. “Jaysus. That had to hurt.”
“It does.” The gentle touch of his warm hands, his fingers carefully sifting through my hair and massaging my scalp, is starting to ease the sting. Man, that feels good.
Which allows me to open my eyes from their screwed-tight position. And notice.
Is that… Is that a bulge in his jeans?
“It does hurt,” I repeat for some inane reason as that swirling heat from a moment ago narrows into a blazing arrow of need straight to my core.
“Is this helping, yeah?” he asks, his voice low and near my ear, as his fingers continue working their magic on the sting.
“Yes,” I breathe as I watch him grow harder.
Seeing his reaction? Knowing there’s a better chance I won’t be shot down…changes things. And I’ve wanted him for so long it’s getting ridiculous at this point. I mean, I should just go with it, right? I have to believe that my walls are strong enough that I won’t change into a dang doormat.
And because I am that tough girl, I lift my head. “Now. About that poker. Care to make it strip poker?”
Chapter 8
Conor
Strip poker?
Her words send a shock wave straight to the semi I’ve been sporting. The lad jerks, totally on board with the plan. “Are you being serious?” I set the bucket of ice on the kitchen counter.
She pokes me in the chest, her eyes sparking as she looks up at me. Inches from me. “Yes. But let’s add some twists to it.” She saunters back to the couch. I’m not quite sure how to be reading this situation. Part of me hopes she’s meaning what I think she is…
Of course, visions of us later in the game pop into my increasingly fevered imagination. Her sprawling on the couch in just her bra and knickers. And one sock. Why the fuck I’m after imagining one sock on, I have no idea.
It could also be that this is one of those language misfires. Stripping is stripping, though, right?
She plops onto the end of the couch and tucks her legs up. She dangles the bottle of Jim Beam. “We’ll still play for this, but since it’ll be gone in like two regular shots, we’ll add a twist.”
“A twist?” I settle on the other end, trying to do it in a way that adjusts the situation down there without being crude about it.
She takes the cards and shuffles them like some Vegas dealer. “Yep, the winner has to take the tiniest sip possible from the mini bottle.”
I swallow. “And the loser?”
She breaks the deck of cards and shuffles again. “And the loser has two choices. The first one is you have to confess to something you think is embarrassing. And the second is”—she looks up, a wicked gleam in her eye that I’m liking way too much—“you take off an article of clothing.”
Fuck, yeah. Stripping is stripping. “Deal.”