He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, but I can feel the weight of his attention like a challenge. With one finger, slowly motioning me over.
Damn him.
Idon’t have to say a word. One flick of my finger, curling in a slow, deliberate motion, and Amelia knows exactly what I want.
She hesitates, just for a second, before lifting her glass and taking a slow sip, like she isn’t affected. Like she isn’t burning under my stare just as much as I am under hers. But then… she sets her drink down and stands, making her way over with that lethal mix of confidence and restraint that drives me absolutely out of my mind.
She stops just close enough that I catch the faint scent of her perfume, that crisp, clean scent I’ve spent the last three days pretending doesn’t make my head spin.
“Summoning me now, flyboy?” Her voice is smooth, teasing, but there is an edge to it. A challenge.
I let my gaze drag over her slowly, taking my time before meeting her eyes. “Figured it was only fair since you’ve been watching me all night.”
Her lips part slightly, and I don’t miss the way her fingers curl at her sides—like she wants to hit me or maybe grab me. Maybe both.
“Careful,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “I might start thinking you actually enjoy my attention.”
I chuckle, low and quiet. “Oh, I do.” I let my eyes dip to her mouth, lingering. “The real question is, how much do you enjoy mine?”
Her breath hitches—small, nearly imperceptible, but I catch it. And it does something to me, knowing that after three days of pretending, three days of rules and boundaries, I can still get to her with nothing more than a look.
Behind us, Nesta is still at Noah’s side, adjusting his stance with a flirtatious smirk, but neither of us is paying attention to them anymore.
Amelia tilts her head, her voice dropping into something dangerous. “If you think I’m as easy to fluster as the girls you usually charm, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
I grin, slow and full of promise. “Oh, Commander.” Reaching past her, I grab a dart from the table, deliberately brushing against her. “I don’t want to fluster you.” I place the dart in her hand, curling her fingers around it. “I want to unravel you.”
She inhales sharply, but before she can fire back, I step away, giving her space—giving her a chance to decide if she wants to keep playing this game.
Because one way or another, by the end of the night, I will win.
And she is going to be in my bed.
The game starts innocently enough—if anything between Amelia and me could ever be called innocent.
At first, she stands a respectable distance away, lines up her shots with that perfect focus she carries everywhere, and throws like she has something to prove. Which, of course, she does. Amelia never plays to lose.
But the longer we play and the more whiskey we drink, the closer we get.
Now, her back is to my chest as I line up her next throw, my hand covering hers, guiding her wrist. I lean in close enough that my lips nearly brush the shell of her ear.
“Loosen up, Commander.” My voice is low, meant just for her. “You’re too tense.”
She exhales slowly, and I feel the shiver she tries to suppress. But she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t tell me to back off.
Instead, she shifts just enough to glance at me over her shoulder, eyes dark with something I feel in my bones. “You are the reason I’m tense, flyboy.”
I tighten my grip on her fingers. “Then I guess it’s only fair I help you unwind.”
She doesn’t answer, just faces forward again and throws the dart. It lands dead center.
“Bull’s-eye.” I hum and let my hand slide down her arm before finally stepping back. “That’s one way to relieve some tension.”
She turns then, facing me fully, and if I thought the whiskey was making things blurry, I was wrong. Because there is nothing unclear about the way Amelia is looking at me now.
“You talk a lot of shit for someone who’s losing,” she murmurs, tilting her head.
With a chuckle, I pick up my dart and close the distance between us again. I can smell the whiskey on her breath and feel the warmth of her body just inches from mine. I lift my arm to throw, but she moves at the last second, trailing a single finger down my forearm, slow and deliberate.
