“You think a hand on my thigh is going to rattle me?”
His laugh is mocking.
“It’s doing something.”
“Barely.”
God, he’s infuriating.
I inch my hand higher, just a little, and his muscle tightens beneath my palm.
“Try harder,” he says quietly, almost taunting.
His gaze drops to my mouth and he exhales slowly.
“Admit it,” I breathe. “If things were different, if this wasn’t fake, you would.”
“You’re drunk enough to say things you’ll regret,” he murmurs.
“And you’re sober enough,” I shoot back, “to think about saying them back.”
He tilts his head, eyes burning into mine like a challenge.
“If I wanted you,” his fingers brush my waist, “you wouldn’t be able to sit right for a week.”
Everything inside me drops, flips, ignites.
He straightens, jaw tight, breathing uneven. He grabs my wrist with intent, and lifts my hand off his thigh, holding it between us. He releases me almost reluctantly, then steps back, leaving a hollow ache where his body was.
“Let’s get back to the team,” he says, already walking.
Like he didn’t feel it.
Like I imagined all of it.
I stare after him, pulse still racing, skin still burning where he touched me.
No.
I didn’t imagine anything.
And next time?
I won’t stop at his thigh.
A slow smile curves my lips as I push off the barstool and follow him.
If he wants to play this game…
I’ll show him exactly how much I can tease.
Chapter six
~DOMINIC~
Tinnie owes me a fucking apology.
She “kindly requested” that Jessica and I participate in a sports magazine promotional shoot, but anyone with half a brain knows Tinnie doesn’t request. And apparently, captain of the Miami Blazers or not, I’m not immune to her bulldozing.
