Maverick (Sin City Saints Hockey 1) - Page 41
I glance down at my red bikini, which is actually not that little. It’s a conservative cut that doesn’t ride up my ass.
“I’ll never be as tan as you, but I’m trying,” I say.
“You look hungry.”
I arch a brow. “Do I?”
“Yeah, when I came out here and you were looking at me just now, it was like you were ravenous for…something.”
“I should probably go grab a bowl of cereal,” I say lightly.
“Nah, come for a swim with me. I just went for a run and I need to cool off.”
“I think that might make me hungrier,” I say with a grin.
“I’m good with that.”
Standing up from my chair, I say, “Shouldn’t you be going to the nearest barbershop today?”
The Saints won their fifth game in a row last night. Maverick texted me during the locker room celebration and said that one of his teammates had brought clippers to shave his head on the spot, but he convinced them to let a professional do it.
“I made an appointment for Thursday,” he says.
“Were your teammates excited?”
He scoffs. “You would’ve thought we won the cup. They’re already hatching new shit for me to do. If we win ten in a row, they want me to get a tattoo.”
“Wow. Good luck with that.”
“Speaking of luck…I have an idea.” He winks at me. “I’ll tell you in the pool.”
He walks over to the deep end and executes a perfect dive into the pool. If I tried to dive in, I’d end up doing a belly flop. Instead, I walk over to the stairs at the shallow end and take them one at a time.
The water feels amazing. After nearly a month of living at Maverick’s house, I’ve gotten very used to the luxuries here. The bathroom I use has a shower with three showerheads and a soaker tub. The stove has a convenient pot filler I use when I’m making pasta. Even my bed is the most comfortable I’ve ever slept in, with high-thread-count sheets.
Maverick swims down to my end of the pool and resurfaces, pushing his wet hair back. He’s easily the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. My body is in a constant state of attraction around him these days.
I should tell him Ro’s moving out. All I have to do is open my mouth and say the words, and tell him I’m moving back to my apartment. I should, but I don’t.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” he says. “A bet.”
“A bet?” I smirk at him. “You want to end up with waxed legs, hotshot?”
He grins and shakes his head. “Something a hell of a lot better.”
My stomach flips with nervous anticipation. A bet? What could this possibly be?
“I’m intrigued,” I say.
“A night of blackjack at the casino of your choice.” His gaze is locked onto mine. “We each get $1,000 in chips. No more rebuys. We play until one of us is out of chips. If you win, I’ll take you to dinner anywhere you want. If I win, we spend the night together.”
My lips part, my mouth suddenly dry. My first instinct is to tell him no. We’ve already decided being together would be a major distraction for both of us. And I’ve been winning big in my private games—I’m on the verge of leaving for Philly to find Will Roan.
“One night,” he says. “I won’t ask for more if you don’t want to. I just want one night to show you what we can be.”
He wants to fuck away my good judgment. How could one night ever be enough? I know it’s a dangerous idea, but every cell in my body is telling my mouth to accept this bet.
“I’ll have an edge,” I say.
“Will you? Blackjack’s not a game of experience.”
“When?”
His lips curve up in a smile. “We’ll have to wait until the team loses. How many more can we win in a row, though?”
I laugh. “Because you want your balls to be smooth for me? If you win the bet, I mean?”
“No.” He shakes his head, cringing. “Because I can’t get off during this winning streak.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “Hockey players are superstitious. I’ve been wearing the same socks and eating the same pregame meal for all five of the last games. I need to do things the same to keep the streak going.”
I give him a look of disgust. “Please tell me you’re washing those socks.”
“Nope. But it’s working.”
“So you aren’t jerking off these days?”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, it’s hard, so to speak. But I have to stay strong, keep the streak alive.”
“Oh, you poor thing. All that pent-up arousal, and no outlet for it.”
On impulse, I reach up to the neck of my bikini top and start slowly untying it.
“I accept your bet,” I tell him. “And on another note, how do you feel about skinny-dipping?”
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