Beauty and the Baller(40)

“You wicked woman.”

“Rules are rules.”

There are no rules to this game. We’re toying with each other, and we both know it.

“I’ve never worn women’s undergarments before,” I say as I dangle it in front of her. “I need help.”

She takes the bra from me. “Can’t even dress yourself. Poor thing. Bless your heart.”

“Ah! I know what that means. Just put it on me and swear to never tell anyone.”

She slips the armholes on me, then sets the straps on my shoulders. She eases behind me and pulls, then grunts. “Of course it won’t snap.” She turns me around to face her, then puffs out the cups. They end up between my throat and the top of my chest.

“Oh yeah, you’re so sexy,” she murmurs, and I laugh; then I catch myself in the reflection of the mirror behind the minibar and groan.

“This is outrageous.”

“Yep. Ronan Smith in lingerie. I have TMZ on speed dial—” She reaches for her phone, and I toss it out of her hands.

“No pics. Prepare to lose, sweetheart. Let’s do this again.” I’m ready to win this thing.

She gives me a pointed look. “I’m wondering why you didn’t ask me to be your fake girlfriend.”

“Because I’m confident.” And this bra is the fucking sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Totally going to jack off with it.

We throw again, and I win. “Yes!” I pump my fist while she scowls, her hands on her hips.

“What do you want?”

I think on it. “First, we should do more than three throws. You in?”

“Maybe.” She looks over at Darth Vader. “I’d like a dark villain. I could hang clothes on him—or dance with him. So what do you want?”

I skate my eyes over her. “You don’t have much on you.”

“This is true. I’m rather poor.” She sticks out one boot, showing a long, shapely, tanned leg. “How do you feel about boots?”

“They’re not my size.”

“But they are one of my prized possessions.”

“Lie. They’re from high school. I want a kiss,” I murmur.

She waltzes over to me, hips swaying. Then, fast as lightning, she reaches up and brushes her mouth over my scarred cheek.

My breath hitches as she lingers, her fingers lightly caressing the line from my temple to my neck. My heart twinges, shifting in my chest, aching for . . . something I can’t have.

She stares at me. “I like your face. It’s you. Oh, you were pretty before the scars—in fact, I liked to call you Henry Cavill . . . that jawline is wicked hot—but now . . .” Her shoulders shift. “You have character. Meaning. You survived and came out on the other side flawed . . . yet beautiful.”

I frown, grappling with how I feel about her words. “I’m not beautiful.”

“Beauty isn’t on the outside. I learned that in the pageants. I met some beautiful women who were ugly on the inside and some who were incredible. Beauty is how we go on, the life we create around us. Living a life that’s meaningful. I’m not sure I’m there, to be honest. I’m trying hard. We all are. I know that coming home was good for me, even though the reason is sad. Truthfully . . .” She sighs, a contemplative expression on her face. “I needed an anchor in my life, a sense of belonging, and Sabine and home are it.” A laugh comes from her. “Look at me. I’m making us talk about serious things when we should be throwing darts.”

It dawns on me that I don’t have an anchor—unless you count coaching.

She might be the first woman to ever kiss my scars. Sure, I’ve been with women since that night with Nova—carefree, lighthearted young women, the kind I could forget—and usually they just pretended my scars weren’t there. Perhaps they didn’t know what to say. Perhaps they just wanted to forget they existed.

“Let’s move on,” I say and ease away from her.

She throws first and hits just outside the bull’s-eye; then I go, and my dart hits the wall.

“Dammit.”

She’s chanting “I beat Fancy Pants” while I glower in the corner. Stopping, she stands in front of me. “I want Darth Vader for a week. You have to deliver him to me.”

I groan. “He’s very expensive. And heavy.”

“This game was your idea. Let’s go again. I can do this all night,” she sings.

I line up and throw, but my dart goes off center. I curse again.

Her stance is spot on, her elbow perfect as she throws straight to the bull’s-eye.

I heave out an exhale as she waltzes around the room, stopping at the Princess Leia snake cuff. “I want the bracelet. Forever. It’s mine anyway. I need it to complete my outfit.” Her head turns, and she cocks an eyebrow. I stalk over to where she is, flip open the case, and slap it in her open hand.

“You don’t even like Star Wars,” I mutter.

“You hate losing, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I growl.

She fiddles with the cuff, not able to work the clasp, and I take it from her, push her sleeve up, and attach it. On its own accord, my hand grazes down her arm.

“This game feels like foreplay,” she murmurs, then sways away from me.