The Bet (Winslow Brothers 1)

I push and shove my way through the throngs of people blocking me from some much-needed fresh air, my consideration for their personal space practically nonexistent. I take a deep gulp to keep myself from descending into a full-blown panic and barrel past the interior security guard and coat check area like a woman possessed. The dark glass entrance taunts freedom across the room, and my heart races inside my chest with the first vestiges of an actual anxiety attack.

I don’t know what’s got me this worked up, but Lord almighty, I have to get out of here.

Jogging as fast as my five-inch heels will let me, I cross the space and grab on to the handle of the door to pull it wide open, but before I can, a heavy body hits me, forming completely to my back.

“Leaving already?” a deep, rich voice rasps in my ear, his hand coming up to press into the door in front of me. I recognize him immediately, and my body melts backward like butter without my permission.

“What are you doing here?” I ask on a lie of sorts, already very much knowing the answer. Him being here is the very reason I’m here. Which, given the fact that this could have been one of the biggest career opportunities of my lifetime if I’d stopped being so fixated on a stupid guy, is pretty pathetic.

God, Sophie.

“Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. You know why I’m here. You’ve been watching me all night.”

I whip my head to the side.

“And how would you know that?”

I can feel his provocative smile against my throat.

“Because I’ve been watching you.”

I hate myself so much for how easily I give in—for the way my body pulses toward him and my breath escapes my lungs. This is a man who left my bed without so much as a goodbye, and yet, here I am, panting over him.

This is not on Sophie Sage’s list for acceptable behavior when it comes to suitors. Not at all.

But Dr. Winters says to have fun. To not think so hard. To just enjoy dating for a while, right?

Just enjoy.

Sucking in another gulp of air, I steel myself against my racing blood and spin in his arms, reaching out immediately and grabbing him by the tie. He smirks, the asshole, and I just about want to crawl out of my skin and wrap it around him, anything to get him inside me faster.

Oh my gosh. This is demented. If I didn’t really need therapy before, I definitely need it now.

“Who gave you permission to touch me again?” I challenge boldly, completely contradicting how I feel just to prove to myself that the rational version of me is still in there somewhere.

The corner of his mouth kicks up, and my heart flips over in my chest.

“Don’t worry, babe. If you want me to earn it, I’ll earn it. All you have to do is say please.”

Bless my own heart, I’m in trouble.

Jude

At my words, Sophie’s body shivers in my arms, and I smirk mischievously, knowing I’ve hooked her. Combine her newfound determination to challenge me with the fact that I can barely feel the rest of my body for all the blood that’s now in my cock, and I know one thing without a shadow of a doubt.

She’s not going anywhere but a bed tonight, and she won’t be alone.

“Come on,” I urge when she doesn’t verbally refuse my efforts. “Let’s go back inside and act like we know each other.”

As I pull back from her grip, my tie slides through her hand until we’re a full two feet apart. I reach out an offered hand, and after a few long moments of careful, slightly angry consideration, she takes it, sliding her petite hand inside my palm.

I don’t wait—in the game of women, there’s no room for hesitation—and lead her back through the lobby entrance, down the hallway, and into the main room of the club. The din of partygoers and Ki-Ki’s full volume crushes us immediately, sucking us further into its vortex with every step we take toward the dance floor. I’ve almost broken through the crowd at the edge when an irate tug at my hand pulls me to a stop.

I spin to face her and place my lips at her ear to ensure I’m heard and ask, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not this easy, you know?” she spits, flaming leaves whipping wildly in her unique eyes.

“I never said you were,” I correct mildly, the ignition of my arousal by her sexy attitude becoming harder and harder to ignore. As a man who’s never had a type other than hot, eager, and willing, I’m surprised to find that, evidently, argumentative is a turn-on.

“Well, even if you didn’t say it, I just felt like you needed to know it. I don’t spread my legs for anything that sniffs in my direction, and I don’t need you to take some weird form of sexual pity on me either.”