Spy Girl (Spy Girl #1)

“This is a really complex game,” he says, probably expecting me to choose something like Mario Kart.

I shrug noncommittally. I’m pretty sure this game is some kind of a litmus test. Daniel’s way of screening girls. Which is odd. Never once in all the accounts I’ve read of his hookups have I read about there being pizza and Battleground involved.

We opt to go into battle together rather than against each other. And although the competitor in me wanted to go head-to-head and kill him in the game, my lady parts remind me that might be bad for his ego, which may have an adverse effect on his performance in bed.

I’m kicking butt in the game and, although we are partners against the bad guys, I’m amassing points at about a three-to-one ratio to his.

He pauses the game and slides out of his jacket. “I can’t move in this monkey suit,” he says. “Undo my tie, will you?”

I oblige, as I’m sure any girl would when asked to remove an article of his clothing—although, I was hoping for his pants.

He undoes his top two buttons and rolls up his shirtsleeves, getting comfortable. And serious.

Which makes me smile.

His forearms flex as he takes the controller and continues the game. This round our score is more even, mostly because I’m obsessing over his muscles and not giving the game my all.

He’s cursing, banging on the controller, and pulling up his weapons cache trying desperately to even the score.

My dress becomes increasingly uncomfortable and, in theory, could be hindering my performance.

I pause the game.

“What are you doing?”

“Give me your shirt,” I instruct.

He just squints his eyes at me, so I lean over, unbutton it, and strip it off him.

And I’m trying hard not to drool.

Fine. A photo much like this one, where he’s lounging on a couch shirtless may, in fact, be hanging in M’s dorm room.

I stand and turn my back to him. The back of my dress is cut low and held in place by a short zipper that dives from my waist down to my ass.

“Unzip me, please.”

He curses under his breath but complies.

I slide out of the dress, my back still to him. I’m wearing a minute red satin G-string and nothing else. I was going to put my hand across my chest but decide not to. I mean, we’re friends, and they’re just boobs. No big deal.

Besides I can do a few litmus tests of my own. If it weren’t for the testosterone that oozes off him in waves, I’d think maybe he was gay.

I give him an eyeful of boobage as I lift his shirt off the couch and put it on. It covers my undies nicely and looks hot with my heels. I plop back down, even going so far as to unfurl my legs across his coffee table and cross them in a way that shows off my sky-high black pumps, whose red soles match my dress and lipstick.

Daniel is studying me closely. A quick glance at the semi he’s sporting under his pants reaffirms my intel on his testosterone levels. I’m contemplating commanding him to remove his pants, so I can put them on, too, when the doorbell rings announcing our pizza delivery.

Make that pizzas. He ordered two.

Upon seeing my quizzical expression, he shrugs and throws one in the fridge. “One for now. One for breakfast.”

“Shouldn’t you be eating egg whites with spinach or something?”

He chuckles and sets the box in front of us then holds a gooey piece up to my mouth. I take a bite, savoring the combination of cheese, spicy sausage, roasted red peppers, and sweet pineapple.

“Mmm. This is my new favorite pizza,” I groan.

He hands me the piece and takes his own, ripping into it.

His ferocity is hot.

I savor another bite then pull my legs up onto the couch crisscross style, being careful not to stab myself with my heels. I mentally kick myself realizing this is probably not nearly as sexy a position as having my long, tan legs sprawled across his table, but when he glances down and the dimple forms, I stay put. My underwear are skimpy and don’t cover all the parts. I’m pretty sure he just got flashed.

I demolish piece number one and reach for the box. I might be amassing points faster, but he’s winning the eating game, having mowed through three pieces already.

His appetite for food seemingly quelled, he holds a piece to my mouth again. His cerulean eyes remind me of the deep blue of a starry night sky. He is staring at my lips, wrapped around the crust.

“I’m glad you like the pizza,” he states, his gaze returning to my crotch. “You’re good at Battleground. You should know I don’t like to lose. We may not be leaving this couch tonight.”

“Fine with me,” I say, my desire growing as I care less about this stupid game.

I unzip his pants to find his hard-on peeking out above his boxer briefs and proceed to straddle him.

Our lips collide, and he annihilates my mouth with his tongue. He’s treating my mouth much like he did the video game—full on siege.