Bad Cruz

Telling her I got nothing done seemed impolite and haughty, even if it was the truth. I pointed to my chin, nose, and a few more areas in my body.

“Everywhere, pretty much. The only thing that’s real about me is my heart. And I’ve been told it’s not the best. How ’bout you?”

Cruz’s quaking shoulder, pressed against mine, told me he heard me and was wildly amused by my answer.

My walls were coming down, fast and hard, and I was growing more and more enamored with the idea of fooling around with Cruz Costello. With clothes on.

Because when you think about it—it was the perfect crime.

He didn’t want word to get out.

I didn’t want word to get out.

I was feeling frisky.

He was… a man.

And we both knew this cruise had an end date, and neither of us had any ideas to continue this beyond the here and now.

Plus, I’d learned my lesson from a decade-and-a-half ago. I wouldn’t let him go all the way. I wouldn’t get pregnant again.

So what was the big deal?

Cruz was a gentleman. He’d never kiss and tell.

Tactically, I slipped my foot out of my sandal and used my big toe to brush his inner calf suggestively under the table while nodding at something Jocelyn said.

“…jawline reduction, but I told him, ‘Baby, while you’re there, give my nose a little shave, would you?’ Of course, I didn’t think he’d actually go for it…”

Meanwhile, Cruz nodded and sipped his beer, ignoring my undercover advance.

Fortunately, I was far too drunk to take offense. Or the hint.

Maybe I was being too subtle. There was no way he wasn’t game. The way he’d kissed me yesterday pretty much cemented the attraction was there. Also, he’d admitted I was a hottie at the pool.

I slipped my hand under the table and placed it on his knee.

Dang it, his thighs were as hard as a statue.

“…Chris Wade had 1,794 yards receiving, you don’t have to go ham when you’re running wide open,” Dalton explained to Cruz hotly, while his wife continued droning on, “…dimple creation will be my next procedure. I think I’ll be asking for one for our anniversary. Seven years of marriage counts as a big anniversary, right?”

When Cruz still didn’t get it, I dragged my hand up his knee, my little finger skimming his inner thigh. I hoped the rest of him was as hard as his leg. I chanced a glance at him.

He was frowning at something Dalton said and added, “They also have one of the worst pass protection units in the NFL, so that’s not saying much.”

My little finger almost got to his crotch, and finally—finally—Cruz’s left hand snaked under the table, too. Instead of stopping my hand, he placed his directly on the edge of my dress where the fabric met my skin.

A shot of pleasure ran through my spine at the contact on my sensitive flesh.

He pressed an ice cube on my inner knee.

Whoop.

“Two can play this game,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to be engrossed in Dalton’s football chat.

“Game on,” I uttered through a close-lipped smile directed at Jocelyn, who was now contemplating removing excess labial skin from her vag after she and Dalton had their third and final child, which she was planning on having next year.

I knew depressingly too much about their sex lives.