“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.”
“You wicked woman.”
“Rules are rules.”
There are no rules to this game. We’re toying with each other, and we both know it.
“I’ve never worn women’s undergarments before,” I say as I dangle it in front of her. “I need help.”
She takes the bra from me. “Can’t even dress yourself. Poor thing. Bless your heart.”
“Ah! I know what that means. Just put it on me and swear to never tell anyone.”
She slips the armholes on me, then sets the straps on my shoulders. She eases behind me and pulls, then grunts. “Of course it won’t snap.” She turns me around to face her, then puffs out the cups. They end up between my throat and the top of my chest.
“Oh yeah, you’re so sexy,” she murmurs, and I laugh; then I catch myself in the reflection of the mirror behind the minibar and groan.
“This is outrageous.”
“Yep. Ronan Smith in lingerie. I have TMZ on speed dial—” She reaches for her phone, and I toss it out of her hands.
“No pics. Prepare to lose, sweetheart. Let’s do this again.” I’m ready to win this thing.
She gives me a pointed look. “I’m wondering why you didn’t ask me to be your fake girlfriend.”
“Because I’m confident.” And this bra is the fucking sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Totally going to jack off with it.
We throw again, and I win. “Yes!” I pump my fist while she scowls, her hands on her hips.
“What do you want?”
I think on it. “First, we should do more than three throws. You in?”
“Maybe.” She looks over at Darth Vader. “I’d like a dark villain. I could hang clothes on him—or dance with him. So what do you want?”
I skate my eyes over her. “You don’t have much on you.”
“This is true. I’m rather poor.” She sticks out one boot, showing a long, shapely, tanned leg. “How do you feel about boots?”
“They’re not my size.”
“But they are one of my prized possessions.”
“Lie. They’re from high school. I want a kiss,” I murmur.
She waltzes over to me, hips swaying. Then, fast as lightning, she reaches up and brushes her mouth over my scarred cheek.