Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation)

Her face paled, save for two slashes of crimson across each stunning cheekbone, which couldn’t have been starker if he’d actually slapped her. “Crystal,” she managed, and then turned her back on him and started toeing off her shoes.

Shit. He’d pounded that point home more brutally than necessary—mostly in an effort to get the message through his own thick skull—but she’d been on the receiving end of his frustration. She’d simply been taunting him, and testing him, because there was a big, horny elephant in the room and neither of them could pretend it wasn’t there. In an attempt to make it go away, he’d ended up insulting them both.

With her back still to him, she bent over and peeled her pants off, leaving her in snug, black shorts-style panties. Really snug. Really short. The fabric stretched low across her hips but ended high enough to leave plenty of territory bare. The bikini she’d worn yesterday had been smaller and more revealing, but he still had to close his eyes for a moment to block out the sight of her heart-shaped ass packaged up like a gift not quite contained by the wrapper. Sweat-drenched nocturnal fantasies from last night resurfaced—fisted sheets, tangled limbs, thighs parted wide and that ass lifted high while her sultry voice echoed in his mind. Yes, Luke. Yes to anything. Everything. All you want. Yes.

Christ. This favor to Eddie was going to be the end of him. He ground his teeth and opened his eyes. She straightened, and their gazes clashed in the mirror.

“Just for the record, Luke, I don’t have to pay men to sleep with me.”

Chapter Four

The son of a bitch had the decency to look away first. He stared a hole through the wall while a muscle ticked in his jaw, and a flush of color rose in his cheeks, though whether anger, embarrassment, or exasperation brought about the ridiculously attractive involuntary responses, she couldn’t guess.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, causing his nostrils to flare, and, God help her, the sight sent billions of tiny bolts of lightning zinging straight to her erogenous zones. She was pathetically hard up when a simple thing like flaring nostrils dissolved her into a puddle of need, but the realization didn’t stop her from wondering if he inhaled with the same disciplined power when he fucked.

You have absolutely no chance of finding out.

But then he pulled his gaze from the wall and pierced her with it.

Holy shit. You have a 50 percent chance of finding out, and a zero percent chance of living through it.

That hot, moody stare dropped away, raked her ass, then ricocheted to the mirror, bounced off her tits, and finally landed back on her face. She mustered up a self-defensive smirk even though it amounted to

playing with fire, because in those volatile depths she saw a testosterone-charged version of the same raw lust tormenting her, shot through with a truly impressive amount of steel-eyed resolve.

Could she tip the balance between lust and resolve? Yeah, if she pushed the right button, right now, he’d throw her over the nearest surface and hate-fuck the smirk right off her face.

But then where will you be?

In the unacceptable position of knowing she’d lived up to his insultingly low expectations. Worse, she’d have to withstand a boatload of self-recriminations, and she had plenty of those to deal with already. That realization took care of the smirk. She drew herself up to her full height, which still only put her at his collarbone, and returned his stare. The light gray T-shirt he wore turned his eyes all the more stormy.

He took another deep breath, and finally answered. “You don’t pay men to sleep with you. Good. We’re on the same page.” Then, to her surprise, he added, “In case your ego needs to hear this, Trouble, I know damn well guys fall all over themselves just to get a chance to jack off to the memory of you shooting them down. I watched them do it last night at the bar. What I’m establishing here is that I’m not going to be one of them.”

This was her moment to gather up her pride, and she took it. Lifting her chin, plastering a cool smile on her lips, she replied, “No. You’re not. Feel free to jack off to the memory of me telling you that.”

Her firm rejection earned her a fleeting smile—a silent touché—that managed to make her feel better.

“See? We’re on the same page again.” He pulled his phone from the pocket of his dark-blue training shorts. “Step over there and stand straight, facing me.”

Awareness skittered along her nerve endings as he framed her up on his screen and snapped off shots before she could even adopt a proper pose.

“Okay. Turn to the right.”

All of a sudden, the idea of standing in her underwear while he took shot after dispassionate shot made her feel oddly vulnerable. She put a hand on her hip. “You know, it would take less than five minutes for me to run back to the villa and change into something that conforms to your idea of workout attire.”

“That would be my five minutes, and I’m not willing to forfeit them. When you earn a break, if you want to take five minutes of your time to change clothes, that’s up to you. Face right.”

She turned and rolled her eyes at the far wall. “Okaaaay. When do I get a break?”

“You don’t ‘get’ a break. You ‘earn’ one. When, depends on you.”

Jesus, he was a hard-ass. “So this is some kind of…what? Punishment?”

“It’s a consequence. Face the wall.”

A consequence that left her stripped down and standing with her nose in the corner like a recalcitrant schoolgirl? Behind her, he clicked away, and she’d never felt more aware of how much skin she had exposed. Her face burned. “Semantics.”

“Face left.” After she followed his instruction, he continued, “No. A punishment is a penalty inflicted for an offense. A consequence is an outcome resulting from an action. The outcome can be negative, positive, or neutral.” He lowered the phone and scrolled through the shots, making selections. “I’m a big believer in consequences.”