“We have a deal?”
“Yes. And also…” I nod to her deck of cards. “Deal.”
She rolls her eyes and deals.
When the cards are laid out, I suppress a groan. No need to broadcast that I have shite for a hand—numbers and suits all over the place.
I discard two of the biggest outliers and draw. A ten of diamonds and a two of spades. With the ten already in hand, it’s the best I’m going to do.
“Okay. What do you have?” she asks.
“A pair.”
“I should hope so.” She raises an eyebrow and darts a glance to the lad.
I bark out a laugh. “At least they’re big.” I throw down my tens.
“Ha.” She lays down three of a kind. She grins and gives a bounce. “Not big enough.”
“You wound me, you do. So how do we pick? Is it the loser doing the choosing or the winner?”
She tilts her head to the side, taking me in. “Let’s make it the loser.”
Shite. I’d hoped to get a better idea on how this should be playing out by getting her to choose. I decide to be bold.
I rub my hands together and move them to the hem of my T-shirt. Her eyes flare with heat. But I keep moving my hands and slip off one of my trainers, tossing it on the floor where it lands with a dull thunk.
She shakes her head. “Lame, Conor.”
I shrug. “Gotta be starting somewhere, yeah. Can’t go straight to the good stuff now.”
She levels me with a get-real stare. “You know I’ve seen you with your shirt off.”
I waggle my brows. “So you looked, did ya?” I don’t know where this playful side is coming from. I’m thinking it’s this bubble outside of reality we have, free of obligations. Or maybe it’s simply Claire.
She just gathers the cards and shoves them my way. “Deal, hot stuff.”
“Hot stuff, is it? I like that.”
“Deal.”
So I deal. She takes the Jim Beam bottle into the kitchen. I twist around and watch. She fishes out a tumbler and fills it with ice, the crunch and clatter of the cubes filling the room. She pours the whole bottle in and returns.
Then she locks her gaze with mine and takes the tiniest sip possible.
For some reason, the sight has me laughing my cacks off. She sets the glass down on the end table, chuckling too.
This time I have the best hand, my pair of Jacks beating her pair of eights. Without ceremony, she removes one of her shoes.
Then I win again. She sticks up her chin. “I have an unreasonable love for the song ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ by Bonnie Tyler.”
I snort. “Go on now. You’re having me on.”
“Nope.”
We keep at it, deal after deal, each deciding which to do, having a good laugh the whole time, though there’s an edge of tension, which keeps notching up as slowly, piece by piece, we’re sitting across from each other on the couch, and she’s only wearing her bra and knickers, and I only have my butt-huggers on. Which I’m trying to pretend isn’t showing exactly how turned on I fucking am.
So far I’ve learned that, besides loving Bonnie Tyler, she once was laughing so hard in the common area of her college that she puked up the bright red Gatorade she’d just downed and that she once dove into a pool and emerged without her bikini top, not realizing it had come off.
I’ve confessed to having my shorts pulled down during a tackle at a packed stadium in Croke Park, Dublin. The Jim Beam is long gone.
Unlike regular strip poker where we have no choice but to take off something we’re wearing for a loss, this time it’s a choice, and so each time one of us peels off a piece of clothing, it’s strangely…revealing. And in more ways than visual. We’re choosing to be going there.
I’m feeling full of myself when I lay down four of a kind. Will she remove an item of clothing this time? And will it be the bra or knickers…?
My wishful thinking is dashed when she lays down a straight flush with a flourish. “What’ll it be, big guy?”
Shite. For some reason, I’m reluctant to find myself bollock naked. Because if I do, I’ll no longer be able to keep pretending that I don’t have a raging hard-on and bluer balls than a bleeding Smurf. She’s bound to notice. In fact, she just did because when she thinks I’m not looking, she flicks her gaze there and quickly away, and scarlet dots her cheeks.
So I blurt out, “My long-term girlfriend in Ireland dumped me.”
What the bloody hell? And cue this moment as ripe for confessing as leaving myself bloody mortified.
Her eyes round. But she just shakes her head. “Well, she was an idiot.”
I laugh, because what else will I be doing otherwise? I gather up the cards and deal again. This time she loses.
I’m dreading her saying something just as terrible, because somehow it would feel as if she were trying to smooth things over by making things “even.” But it wouldn’t. It would leave myself feeling mollycoddled.
But she surprises me. She looks up, and without ceremony, her arms twine to her back, pushing her chest forward, and unhook her plain white bra. Which I’ve been valiantly trying to ignore how well they hold up her perky breasts.
The bra sags, and those breasts… Oh, they spring free, open to the air. And to my gaze.
I can’t help it. I’m a guy. I stare.
And swallow.
My hands flex on the deck of cards I was in the middle of gathering, bending them. I drop the cards, spraying them across the couch cushion.
Smooth, Conor.
As I stare, the tips begin to… Fuck me, they begin to harden, don’t they?
My breathing gets a little uneven, and I glance back up to her face, searching her eyes. She’s searching mine too, her gaze fierce with defiance, but with a hint of vulnerability, as well as indecision.
Decision apparently made, she leans closer.
My breath hitches, and I swear to Mother Mary, Joseph, and Jesus on the feckin’ cross, every nerve ending on my skin comes alive in anticipation. I lean closer.
She whispers, “Deal the cards.” And flicks a wicked glance down at my growing erection.
Fuuuck.
I blow out a breath and lean myself back. I gather up the cards, all the while telling my dick to stand down.
I guarantee you, I’ve gone thick as a plank, since all my blood is hurtling south. So, yeah, I lose the next hand. Frankly, the last few minutes become a haze for me.
So when I lose, I look up.
Her gaze is challenging.
I could confess to another embarrassing thing.
Or, I could take off my butt-huggers.
I take off my butt-huggers.
And I can’t help but notice that she looks as if she’s holding her breath.
Chapter 9
Claire
My gaze is glued to Conor’s long fingers as he catches them on the elastic waist of his boxers and tugs downward. My blood is thrashing its beats so hard, it almost matches the tempo of the rain beating down outside. All through the game, it was a challenge not to notice his growing erection. Each time he opted to remove an article of clothing, I felt a flare of triumph.