I shrugged and sat down next to her. “You surprise me.”
“What, because I have decaf?”
“No, because I know your secret.”
“What secret?”
I grinned, well aware I was risking having the coffee poured all over me. “You made your nephew have a poster of me so you could stare at it.”
She looked at me shocked, her jaw dropping open. After a couple of seconds she shook her head and then burst out laughing, a genuine laugh, followed by a slap on my arm that jolted me more than it should.
“You really don’t think that, do you?” She looked incredulous. “Please tell me you don’t think that?”
Her hand was still on my arm.
I moved my other to put my hand over my heart and tried to look wounded. “You’ve killed me.”
She laughed again, gripping my forearm.
“Did you just try to flex your muscles?”
I had, and I did it again. Her hand stayed on my arm. “They’re too good to not show off.”
She laughed again. At me. This wasn’t the flattering sort of titter women I’d been out with the past had given; this was her laughing at me. I didn’t mind; my ego wasn’t fragile enough to be bothered about being laughed at – fuck knew I had opposing fans shouting shit at me every week – but most women, other than my mother and sister-in-law, we’re all too keen to flatter me at any opportunity.
“You don’t like my muscles?”
Her hand travelled further up my arm to my biceps. I swallowed, my hyper-awareness of her touch making my skin electric.
“Your biceps are a little small. Maybe you should work on them more.”
“Really?” I flexed.
Her hand didn’t move away, her fingers pressed in more instead.
“Really. I bet I could beat you in an arm wrestle.” Dee took her hand away and I was bereft.
Her elbow went to the table, her hand outstretched. I had no idea how to play this. I knew she was strong; I’d seen her paddle that kayak like her life depended on it, and I couldn’t not notice how her body was lithe toned muscle.
I took her hand in mine, her slim fingers entwining around mine, and my head went there – both heads – wondering what it would feel like to have her hand on my cock, whether she could get her fingers round its girth. And like that, I was hard.
Little Miss Sunshine Sparkles looked up at me from under long eyelashes. “I hope you’re not going to let me win.”
“What does the winner get?” I gripped her hand, firming up my elbow on the table.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Pride? Bragging rights?”
“How about they pick?”
She looked concerned. “Within reason.”
“The loser has the right to say no.”
A nod, the briefest of nods, and then she started to count down.
I’d debated letting her win, but then she’d have known I’d done that. She was strong, but so was I, and I was probably a good sixty or seventy percent heavier than her.
I relaxed for the first few seconds, waiting for her to push first, which she did, trying to get my hand to budge.
