Page 134 of Lucky Shot

Oblivious to my train of thought, Whitney is flirty, giggly, carefree, and everything she says makes me laugh.

“Foosball,” she shouts when she sees the table and runs toward it like a loopy gazelle. “Come on, Hardy. Show me your moves.”

“My moves?” I ask.

“Yes. Your moves,” she says, drawing her words out and shimmying her hips. “I want to see them.”

“You have seen them.” I lean my shoulder against the wall and enjoy the show of everything that is Whitney Barnes.

“All of them?” she asks suggestively. She licks her tongue out to wet her bottom lip and grins as her eyes scrape their way over every inch of me.

My cock jerks in reaction. “I still have plenty more to show you.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “I doubt you have any of the right moves to beat me here. I am the foosball master, you know.”

“Foosball master?” I chuckle.

“Right here. Right now.” She points to the table like she’s challenged me to a duel.

“You want to play foosball?” I can think of a dozen other things I’d rather do. All of them have to do with what those puckered lips can be wrapped around.

“Yes.” She gives a dramatic nod. “The rules are—”

“There are rules?”

She waggles her eyebrows. “Baby, once a competitor, always a competitor.”

I throw my head back and laugh but love the way that word makes me feel—baby. What the fuck is happening to me?

“Whoever wins the point gets to ask a question.”

“A question? Like what?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Really?” I take my position opposite the table from her. “This really is a silly, little game, you know. Shoot the ball around pretend men into a tiny goal.”

“Well aware.” She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and spins one of the handles so the men on that rod go spinning.

“I’m beginning to think the only reason I have any remote chance here at winning is because you’re drunk.”

“Tipsy.”

I eye her as she hums a song and practice spins the rod. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

“They don’t call me Lucky Shot for nothing, Hardy.”

My eyes move to her breasts. How they move beneath that thin, tight tank top she has on. This is going to be torture.

“Game on,” she says and grins.

We play the first ball and it doesn’t take more than thirty seconds for her to take me to the cleaners.

“Woo-hoo!” She throws her arms up and does a little dance.

“This is not fair. That was such a . . .”

Her grin widens. “Lucky shot?” Her laugh floats around the room. “My first question is . . .” She makes a show of thinking over what it’ll be before her eyes light up. “Biggest failure?”