Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(59)

Despite who I am at my worst.

And he’s not pretending to be anyone he’s not either. I know this side of Wyatt. I’ve seen him with my brother. With the other guys we grew up with. With their sisters.

With Tucker.

Even with Lydia.

The difference is, he doesn’t hold back with me.

He lets me see his ugly sides too.

He’s barely turned the car off in the garage before I lean across and grab him by the shirt and pull him in for a kiss.

I’ve always hated that Wyatt always seems to know exactly how to do everything.

That hatred does not extend to how well he kisses.

No, I’m seriously enjoying that right now. From my roots to my toes. Every bit of me is lit up, turned on, and ready.

“Ellie,” he gasps, pulling back. “Inside.”

“Race you.”

“Okay, gimpy.”

“Oooh, you—”

I cut myself off, because he’s flinging open the car door, and there is no way I’m not even putting up a fight.

Or maybe I’ll fight dirty.

“Wyatt? I don’t think I can walk by myself.”

I bat my eyelashes.

He snorts with laughter.

I grin.

And he circles the car to pull me out. We stand toe-to-toe, belly-to—huh.

“That’s not your belly,” I whisper.

He looks down between us. “No, it’s not.”

“So it’s not some kind of intestinal protrusion either?”

“You are a pain in the ass,” he says with a laugh, and then I’m up in his arms—not over his shoulder, but cradled close to his chest while I loop my fingers together behind his neck.

I press a kiss to the pulsing vein under his rugged jawline.

“You don’t suck at that,” he says huskily, so I kiss him again. Except this time I graze my teeth over the throbbing vein and follow it with a quick swipe of my tongue.

He stumbles through the door and puts me on the ground. “Do you know what I need?” he growls.

I arch my belly into his hard length. “I have an idea.”

He nods. “That’s right. Strip darts.”

My eyes jerk wide, and he grins. “C’mon, Ellie. You’ve gotta earn this body.”

“Oh, those are fighting words,” I say, my own smile growing in direct proportion to the arousal pinging through my veins.

Strip darts.

This is going to be fun.

I take the lead, ignoring the twinge and fatigue in my leg to pull him down the hall and around the corner into the game room. I hit the lights, and he instantly turns the knob to dim them.

“Ah, a real challenge,” I say softly, drawing my fingertips down the corded muscles on his forearms. “Throwing pointy objects in the dark.”

“Guess you’ll have to trust me not to miss.”

I let him grab the darts out of the board while I lean against the pool table, and when he returns, he hands me the set. “Ladies first.”

“Oh, no, I’m much more motivated at seeing what I’m working toward. Gentlemen first.”

The challenge in his smile is pure Wyatt, but it’s also…more.

“Rules?” I ask.

“One of us gets a bullseye, the other takes something off.”

“And one of us misses, we take something off.”

“In a hurry?”

“With the way you play darts, I’d never get my shoes off if I had to wait for you to hit a bullseye.”

“Prepare to lose your socks, Ellie Ryder.”

He throws his first dart, and it impales the wall six inches to the left of the board. “Bullseye,” he declares.

I shriek with surprised laughter. He grins, and pulls off one shoe. “So close,” he declares, and now I’m almost bent double.

His second dart gets closer to the board. “You’re gonna be handing me those pantaloons next,” he says while he kicks off his second shoe.

“Pantaloons?”

He gasps a mock gasp. “You’re not wearing pantaloons? Ellie, did you go to your friend’s wedding commando?”

“You know I didn’t.” But the idea of being commando, of being able to push him to the ground, straddle him, and take him inside me in an instant, is doing exactly what he wants it to do, and my panties are getting soaked again.

He grins like he knows it, and takes aim again.

This time, his dart doesn’t even stick. It bounces off the Dogs Playing Poker poster two feet to the left of the board.

“Damn,” he says, but he doesn’t sound the least bit unhappy.

Nor does he look the least bit unhappy when he shucks his khaki shorts and stands there tenting his St. Patrick’s Day boxers.

I’d laugh at the boxers, but there’s nothing funny about how hard he is.

No, that’s just plain intriguing. And arousing.

“You’re up,” he tells me, handing me my three darts.

“I’d say you’re up.”

“Recurring problem around you.”

“My nipples are commiserating.”

His eyes go dark. I turn to take my first throw, and he brushes my hair off my neck and presses a kiss to my nape.

Oversensitive aftershocks from his touch ripple across my skin. The dart doesn’t even reach the wall.