And with that?
He turns and walks toward the back door like he didn’t just burn the entire kitchen down with his words. I stand there in the kitchen for a full five seconds after he’s gone, trying to remember how to breathe, think, and function like a normal person.
Rope.
Jesus.
By the time I manage to pull myself together and find my way into the living room, he’s already got a board game pulled out. Life, of all things. Classic. Harmless. Which would be fine if his earlier description didn’t still have my brain fogged with heat and my thighs squeezed so tight I’m surprised I can walk.
Phern’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, clearly in a better mood now, sipping on her mug and eyeing us like she knows. The smug little smirk she shoots me as I sit down nearly does me in.
Sam, for his part, looks infuriatingly unaffected. Relaxed. Leaned back against the couch. Flannel sleeves rolled up, forearms on display, hair still damp from the shower, and that damn hickey I gave him on full display.
“You the competitive type, Charlie?” he asks, casually handing me car piece for the game.
I lift a brow. “Only when there’s something worth winning.”
His eyes spark just for a second. “Oh, there’s something.”
Jesus take the wheel.
Phern rolls her eyes. “If this turns into stripLife, I’m leaving.”
“No promises,” Sam murmurs, not looking away from me.
I shoot him a glare, but my pulse is pounding.
We start playing. The first few rounds are harmless. Quiet. But every time Sam’s fingers brush mine and every time his knee bumps mine under the table, it sends a jolt straight through me.
It doesn’t help that he keeps watching me. Not obviously. Not constantly. But enough. Enough to make me squirm. Enough to make it feel like every single spin of the wheel is part of a much dirtier game.
“I think I’m winning,” I murmur, leaning forward just a little more than necessary.
His gaze drops. Lingers. “Depends on how you define winning.”
I smirk. “Well, I’ve got twins, a boy, and some pretty good payday cards.”
His smile darkens. “Oh, do you?”
And I’m just about to say something back when Phern slaps her hand on the board.
“Okay!” she says. “New rule. No eye-fucking during your turn.”
Sam looks deeply unbothered. “That’s gonna be hard.”
“Try harder,” she deadpans.
I laugh, even though I’m internally combusting.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
Because we both know this game has a time limit and when it’s over?
All bets are off.
