It is enough to send my shot wide, the dart landing nowhere near the target.
Amelia grins, stepping in just a little closer. “Oh no,” she mocks, voice full of something wicked. “Was that distracting?”
I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. “You really want to play this game, huh?”
She lifts a shoulder. “You started it.”
I take my time looking at her, the dim lighting of the bar making the sharp angles of her face even more devastating. I know where this is going. She knows where this is going.
But I won’t be the one to break first.
So I lean in and brush my lips dangerously close to her ear. “Just remember, Commander,” I murmur, feeling the way her breath catches, “I always finish what I start.”
And judging by the way she swallows hard, eyes flicking to my mouth for just a second too long, she knows damn well I mean it.
At some point, the game stops being about darts.
It is the subtle touches first—Amelia’s fingers grazing my wrist when she passes me a dart, her hand lingering as she slides past me to take her shot. Every brush of skin, every casual lean into my space, feels like a taunt, a dare.
I give as good as I get. A guiding touch to her waist, the ghost of my breath against her neck when I lean in too close to “help” adjust her stance. My fingertips tracing the inside of her wrist under the guise of steadying her aim. Every move is deliberate, calculated, and laced with the tension that makes my pulse thrum in my veins.
And the whiskey? That only makes it worse. Or better.
By the time Nesta and Noah call it a night, Amelia and I have already begun our own minor war.
I lean on the dartboard as she finishes the last sip of her drink, her gaze lifting to meet mine. The bar has emptied a little, the music still playing low, but the air between the two of us is anything but relaxed.
“You good, rookie?” Her voice is smooth, but her eyes watch me like she can read every thought running through my head.
My lips slowly curve. “Depends. Are you still pretending not to be affected by me?”
Her gaze still doesn’t waver. “Are you?”
Pushing off the wall, I huff a quiet laugh and shake my head. “I need to hit the bathroom. I’ll be back.” I brush past her on my way to the back hall of the bar.
The moment I step into the bathroom, I get a feeling that my Phoenix is going to be following behind.
Hearing the click of the door lock confirms that suspicion a few minutes later.
Turning around, I find Amelia standing with her back against the door, watching me.
I arch a brow toward her. “Commander.”
She doesn’t say a word at first. Just studies me. The tension between us is stretched tight. Then, slowly, she takes a step forward toward me.
My back hits the sink.
Her hands come up, palms pressing against the counter on either side of me, caging me in. Well, this is a first. I am usually the more aggressive one in the relationship, but hell, I can work with the change of roles.
“You like to push, don't you?” she says, tilting her head.
I drag my tongue across my lip, letting my gaze dip, first to her mouth, then lower to those gorgeous breasts that I want to devour. “And you like to pretend you don’t want me.”
Her breathing stutters, but she doesn’t move.
She doesn’t stop me when I reach for her, my fingers lightly moving up her thigh. Or when I grip her hip, tugging her even closer to me so she can feel just how much she turns me on.
Her hands slide up my chest, slow and teasing, nails scraping just enough to cause me to exhale harder than I mean to.
