Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love #1)(39)

“Hmm, sounds like you’ve done this before.”

“You have lots of pretty things in this room.” She nudges her head at the big-screen TV. “Very nice.”

“All right. I’m in.” I am so going to kick her ass.

She inclines her head. “We should practice.”

“Please.” I move and let her stand behind the throw line of the dartboard.

She throws one, and it hits the wall.

I huff out a laugh.

“I’m warming up,” she snips.

Her next five darts hit the outside of the bull’s-eye, and my lips twitch.

“Here, let me help.” I move behind her and take her arm. “Don’t put too much weight on the front of your feet, or you’ll lose stability.”

She leans back against me as I hold her throwing hand. My other hand goes to her hip, and her body aligns with mine, fitting. I take a deep breath, sparks flaring over my skin.

I clear my throat. “The way you hold the dart is called the grip. First, don’t apply much pressure. Use your index finger . . . here . . .” I caress her finger, putting it where it goes. “Find where it’s level . . . that’s it . . . support that with your thumb, and then use your other fingers . . .” She moves to get a better position, and her ass brushes against me. I force my cock to settle. We stand there for several moments, neither of us moving.

I step back. “Now, relax your posture, and release the tension. Keeping your eyes on the board, let your elbow be at a comfortable fixed position. Good. When you throw, move your arm, throw like it’s a paper airplane, but don’t change your elbow. Try to release all your fingers at once. If you don’t, you’ll screw up the stability of the dart. Extend your arm as if it’s aiming for the target you want to hit.”

She throws, and it hits the triple-score ring outside the bull’s-eye.

A grunt comes from her. “Dammit.”

She throws several more, missing, then scowls at me.

I take my practice round, being a little reckless with my throws to bolster her confidence.

The contest begins, and I go first, my shot hitting inside the bull’s-eye and to the left.

She steps up to the line and gives me a sweet smile, one that I know is a little sly, then throws her dart and hits the middle of the bull’s-eye. She gasps, then claps, a delighted expression on her face. “Will you look at that? I win the first one!”

“Lucky shot,” I mutter.

“What should I ask for?” she says as she taps her chin.

“Please don’t take my TV. I need my football this weekend.”

She laughs as her gaze lands on my shirt, and I pop an eyebrow, amused. I tug up the end of it. “You want my shirt? You used to be a fan . . .”

“Nope.” She sits and spins around on a barstool. “I want the Heisman. I know you won’t give it up forever, but I want it for at least, let’s say, a month.”

I burst out with a laugh. “That’s my baby. I kiss it every morning!”

“You agreed to anything. Plus, it won’t be far from you. Just next door.”

I exhale. “You can have it for one week. You must keep it away from Sparky. Keep your air between sixty-eight and seventy-two. Don’t set it near anything—”

“Done!” She jumps off the stool and marches over to the Heisman and picks it up, hugging it. “It’s so pretty. And hard.”

“Don’t use it for sexual pleasure,” I reply with a grin.

“M’kay. Maybe.” She sashays back to the dartboard, setting the trophy next to her phone on a table. She uses her phone to turn on music, and the sound of Otis Redding’s “My Girl” fills up the room. “All right! Let’s do the next round.” She hums the song as she picks up her dart, throws, and hits dead center.

“You’re a dart shark,” I accuse as I take my spot. “Admit it. Your practice shots were total bullshit.”

“I said I wasn’t good at strategy games . . . but I love me some darts.”

“You played me.”

I shake my head, then throw, hitting close to hers. We both rush to the board to check the darts.

“Tie,” I say. “We each get a boon.”

She bites her lip. “You go first.”

My gaze lingers on her tank top.

She uses her Texas drawl on me. “This isn’t strip darts, honey. My shirt isn’t coming off.”

“Fine. I want your bra for a week.”

“No.”

“You got my trophy, and you can’t spare a simple bra? Wow.”

“Ugh. You’re a whiner.” She tugs her arms inside her shirt and moves around, obviously unhooking it, then pulls it out from her neckline. All very skilled. Her nipples poke through her shirt as her breasts sway. She tosses it at me, and I catch the red lace fabric.

I hold it up to my face, then run my tongue along the edge of one of the cups.

Breath whooshes out of her, her lashes fluttering. “Ronan . . . I . . . what are you doing?”

Something I shouldn’t, but . . . “I never said I’d play a clean game.”

“Don’t use it for sexual pleasure,” she grouses. “Okay, my boon is . . .” She pauses. “I want you . . . to put my bra on.”