After teaching her the brutal simplicity of poker and scribbling down the hierarchy of hands on a scrap of paper, her expression is pinched, like she’s wrestling with herself on making the call. I watch her, the way she bites her lip in concentration, and it takes everything in me to focus on my own hand.
Shifting through my cards, I discard the dead weight, the ones that won’t help me win. I grunt, the sound a rough approximation of approval.
“What kind of person were you before you joined your club? Or like, when you were my age?” She pinches a card, her thumb worrying its corner as she debates her move. Her eyes, when they finally flicker up to meet mine, are wide with a sincerity that feels like a punch to the gut. “I feel like you know all this stuff about me, but I know nothing…” She hesitates, then adds, her voice barely a whisper, “I want to know everything I can.”
The question hangs in the air, thick and uncomfortable. She makes it sound like I’m some relic, but I’ve only got five years on her. Five years that feel like a lifetime when I’ve spent it alone—without her.
The memories surface like oil—slick, dark, and unwanted.
“I was reckless,” I say, the words leaving my mouth tasting sour. “A punk with a death wish, honestly. Got in trouble for the sake of the noise, for the fight. I thought the chaos made me strong.”
I wait for her to make her swap, the pause letting the ghost of that stupid, angry kid flicker between us. A heavy sigh slips past my lips, carrying the weight of that old shame.
“I decided to let the man I was before die on that asphalt.” I meet her gaze, needing her to understand this more than anything. “The person I am now… the one who built himselfback from the wreckage… he’s the one I want you to see. He’s the only one worth a damn.”
She frowns, a deep crease forming between her brows as my words settle in the space between us. Instead of replying, she abandons her hand on the surface, their faces a silent surrender.
Then she moves, rising from her spot with a fluid grace that steals the air from my lungs. I try not to let the sight of her get to me. She’s swimming in another one of my old hoodies, the gray fabric swallowing her frame, and who knows what she’s wearing underneath. The hem rides up, revealing the smooth skin of her bare legs, and the thought of what isn’t visible is a torment all its own.
Before I can process it, she’s grabbing the edge of the low table we’re sitting at. With a determined grunt, she drags it away, the legs scraping harshly against the wooden floor. The action is so sudden, it leaves me gripping my useless cards, staring up at her in pure wonder.
She doesn’t stop there. She plucks the cards from my frozen fingers and tosses them aside, a flurry of kings and aces scattering across the floor.
“Why do you look upset?” The question is out of me before I can stop it, my voice rougher than I intend. “What can I do to fix it?”
And as I speak, my body betrays me. My hand reaches for her of its own volition, a magnet drawn to its pole. My fingers brush against the soft skin of her thigh, just below the hem of the hoodie, and the contact is like a spark to gasoline. By now, I’m all familiar with the heat that comes with each touch.
A shiver ripples through her, but she doesn’t pull away. Her eyes, blazing with a fire I put there, lock onto mine.
“You don’t get to talk about yourself like that,” she says, her voice low and trembling with a ferocity that staggers me. “Youdon’t get to act like the person you were is some kind of stranger you’re ashamed of.”
She leans down, her hands braced on my shoulders, crowding my space, her scent filling my head. I can’t stop the tortured groan that leaves my lips.
Settling on my lap, she grinds against me to get comfortable, punishing me in an entirely different manner. “I like you. All of you. The man you are now was built by the punk you were then. I’m taking offense on his behalf.”
Her words hit me in the chest, a blow that cracks something open inside me. Here she is, defending a shadow she’s never met, simply because he’s a part of me.
My other hand comes up to cradle her jaw, my thumb stroking her cheek. I’m lost in her, in this dizzying, perfect madness. “Eliza…”
“Don’t you ever insult the man I like again,” she whispers, her breath warm against my lips, and closes the last inch between us.
Once more falling weak to this same pull we have on each other, our kiss doesn’t take long to make our game completely forgettable.
Her mouth claims mine with a new, devastating confidence. She must have been taking notes, studying every move I’ve ever made, because she’s using my own tricks against me, and it’s fucking annihilating.
She breaks from my lips, her mouth trailing a searing path along my jaw, her breath a hot, teasing tickle against my skin—then she goes lower.
Her lips press against the ruined, scarred skin of my neck. A flicker of old insecurity, a phantom shame, tries to surface, but a ragged groan instantly swallows it as she flicks her tongue against my throat. The sensation is searing, a direct line to mycock, which is already swelling, straining painfully against my shorts.
A sharp hiss escapes through my clenched teeth when her teeth scrape against a sensitive cord of muscle. It’s accidental, clumsy, but fuck, it’s the biggest turn-on of my life.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, her voice thick, and she soothes the spot with a slow, apologetic lick.
Eliza has to know what she’s doing to me. She has to feel the proof of it pressed against her thigh as she shifts, rubbing herself against me in an unsteady rhythm that promises everything.
Then, she pulls away.
Her chest is heaving, her face flushed a beautiful, feverish pink. Her eyes, heavy with desire, hold mine captive. Without a word, her hands fist in the hem of my hoodie, and she pulls it up and over her head, tossing it aside.
