Something flickered in her eyes.
Fucking lightning.
Right there in those eyes glimmering with mischief.
“You’re on.” She winked at me, leaning over the table to grab her jacket as she kept her eyes on me, daring mine to dip and take another glance at her chest. I chalked my stick as I focused on her face.
The view was just as sweet up top.
“Skills,” she repeated, pausing a beat to chew on that pouty lip of hers some more as she contemplated her next words. “Fine…” She grins, fingering the material of her jacket before lifting her gaze back to me. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Game on.
She’d lose more than just her fucking blazer by the end of the night.
And I was the guy who was going to make it all happen.
-Four-
Gina
He was different—in a good way. No, in the best way. There was no suit, no stuck-up, holier than thou persona radiating from the leather jacket he shed. He was comfortable in his skin—curious and confident, possessing a swagger none of the men surrounding me would know the first thing about. I slid my arms into my jacket, keeping my eyes trained on his, unwilling to be the one to break the stare off we seem to be engaging in.
His lips threatened to curve, his eyes playfully assessing every feature of my face, not willing to surrender and take in the rest of me like every other man did. His tongue snuck out of his mouth, tracing his bottom lip before he tore his eyes from mine and focused on collecting the balls from the pockets.
I wanted his eyes back on me, holding me captive as everyone and everything else faded away. I watched intently as he grabbed the triangle rack and traded it for the diamond one on the wall. Dropping it to the center of the table, he crosses his thick forearms against his chest. The ink displayed on his arms stares back at me and I can’t help staring. Peering at the vibrant colors snaking up his right arm, I try to figure out every piece decorating his skin. Stars, little black stars that looked like he drew himself with a Sharpie fill in the blank canvas. As my eyes travel with them I wished for him to shed his shirt the way he had his leather jacket so I could see how far up his arm the stars reach.
“Do you know how to play nine ball?” he asks, smirking as my eyes lift to his face. He totally caught me checking him out.
“Of course,” I reply, recovering and rolling the nine ball across the table for him to place in the center of the diamond. “Fast-paced game,” I comment, and this time I don’t hide the way I openly stare at him, drinking him in from head to toe.
“What can I say? I like living in the fast lane.” He winks at me, lifting the diamond rack from the table.
“I’m shocked,” I quip, lifting my empty glass toward the bartender.
His eyes follow mine toward the bartender and me and my martini are forgotten as he locks eyes with the server and holds up two fingers.
He turns his gaze back to me.
“Why don’t you skip the fancy drinks and live a little,” he dares, holding his fingers in the air as he quirks an eyebrow. I can feel the bartender stare back and forth between us but I don’t pull my eyes off the man daring me.
“What’s your poison?” he continues to taunt, his voice husky as his eyes narrow and dip to my mouth.
Suddenly, I don’t want the martini, craving whatever it is he’s drinking. Not because I was the type that followed with what everyone else was doing but because I wouldn’t mind knowing what he tasted like. Did he taste smooth like whiskey or tangy like tequila?
Focus Gina.
He’s just a man.
A really fucking hot man. I blame this on my vibrator. I should’ve gone for the Rabbit—clearly the Bullet wasn’t cutting it these days.
“Yes? No?” he questions, bringing his eyes back to mine.
“Two shots of Fireball, please,” I tell the bartender gawking at us.
“Make them doubles,” he counters, smiling devilishly at me and for the first time. I start to worry if I’m out of my league. I don’t doubt I can beat him at the game of pool but I fear I won’t be able to beat him at the other game he’s initiating. You know the one—the game a man and woman play innocently before their whole fucking world, everything they thought they knew and wanted, is turned upside down.
“Who breaks?” I ask, clearing my throat.
He doesn’t move, keeping his stance casual, like we weren’t about to wage war on a pool table—let alone one another.
“Ladies first,” he murmurs, biting the inside of his cheek as his eyes lazily drift over me. “Always first,” he adds, pushing off the table. I swear he growls as he waves his hand across the length of the table and narrows his eyes into tiny slits. “Have at it.”
“Quite the gentleman,” I tease as I walk around the table. He shakes his head tightly as he chalks his stick.
“Trust me, darlin’, ain’t nothing gentlemanly about to go down here,” he assures.
Lining up my shot, I lift my eyes to his face, expertly firing away as I study him, gauging his reaction. He didn’t even glance at the table to see the cue ball kiss and pocket the two ball. No, he kept those eyes on me and grinned. Everything about him exuded badass but when he smiled—it was a cross between a boyish grin and a cocky smirk. It was sexy and dangerous—extremely dangerous.
He started for me, slow and confident until he was behind me, invading my senses with the scent of his cologne. Clean, musky, fucking delicious.
“Push out,” I call, distracted but ready to attack the cue ball again. He braces his arms against the table beside me and leans over the edge with me, copying my stance and diverting my attention from the game to him.
“What’s your name?”
I stare at him for a moment, taking in his strong profile and rigid jaw. I wonder what color his hair is and have to stop myself from pulling off the backward baseball cap to find out.
“Everyone calls me, Gee,” I rasp, clearing my throat.
“That wasn’t the question,” he reminds me, dragging his brown eyes away from the table and back to mine. I don’t know what it was about the way he looks at me but it's uncanny, like he’s undressing my soul with his eyes.
“Gina,” I breathe. “My name is Gina.”
“Gina,” he repeats my name testing it out on his tongue. “See now that wasn’t so hard was it?”
He steps back to give me space. I take a moment to find my bravado before taking my shot without hesitation. The bartender returns with our drinks as I pocket yet another ball. Mr. Badass hands me a shot glass, takes one for himself and raises it between us.
“To the winner,” he toasts. The boyish grin back on his face, illuminating the intensity that was bouncing off us.
“Cute, you’re toasting me already,” I reply, clinking the rim of my shot glass to his as I wink at him. He knocks back the shot in one gulp before setting the empty glass down and stepping around me to show me his moves.
“What’s your name?” I croak, the taste of cinnamon whisky palpable on my tongue. He doesn’t answer me right away and for a moment I think he’s ignoring me completely, but he’s concentrating on the game on the table and not the one we’re playing. He sinks one ball, steps around the table and prepares to repeat the action.
“Stryker,” he mutters, pocketing his next shot.
It was an odd name—well for me it was. Everyone in my family was named Rocco, Victor, or Anthony. I think I have twelve first cousins named Rocco and all the girls were mostly named Celeste after my paternal grandmother.
“Stryker? Like that’s your real name?” I ask thoughtfully, reaching for his half-empty bottle of beer to take a swig from to wash away the whiskey. “Is it your last name?”
“It’s his road name,” a voice spoke from behind me, causing me to twirl around and glance at the biker. Oh, there’s two of them.
“Road name?” I turn back to Stryker just in time for his next shot to score. His friend had distracted me and I c
ompletely missed the kiss.
Wait a minute.
Are they working me?
I grab my cue stick and nudge him out of my way with my hip.
“That wasn’t the question,” I mock, glancing at him from the corner of my eye, catching the smirk I’m beginning to grow fond of, play across his mouth. “What’s your real name?”
I emphasize the question as I narrow my eyes, trying to pick a low point ball when I feel his breath against my ear.
“Stryker’s the only name that I go by,” he replies roughly, blowing his warm breath across my ear, sending goosebumps across my body as I take my shot.
I’m so fucked.
The ball completely misses the pocket and the cue ball conveniently lines up perfectly for his next shot to sink in with hardly any effort—like all he had to do was blow on it, just as he did my ear and it would drop.
Bastard.
I turn on my heel, narrowing my eyes as I push my palm against his chest.
“Is your bedroom voice part of your skills?”
His eyebrows rise, and his trademark boyish smirk lights up his whole face—and a fire between my thighs. I blow out a breath, waving my hand to dismiss my comment and the innuendo laced with each word.
“Don’t look at me like that! You completely did that on purpose,” I accuse.
He laughs, taking one step closer—then another, swallowing all the space between us. I hear the cat calls around us and for the first time I didn’t care what the men I work with thought of me—too engrossed with Stryker to give a damn. His eyes work me over from head to toe enticing every nerve in my body. I put my poker face on, pretend I’m not affected by the way he looks at me—the feral way his eyes fuck me into oblivion.
“My bedroom voice?” he purrs, his voice laced with amusement.
“Yes,” I say straightening my shoulders as I tip my chin toward him. “See? It’s gone right now. Right now, you’re speaking normally but before you had that raspy tone, the one that promises sex.”
“I assure you that wasn’t my bedroom voice,” he says pointedly, cocking his head to the side as his amused eyes bore into mine. “You looking for promises, Gina?”
“Yeah, right,” I laugh, as I slip my blazer down my arms.
Fuck this.
I was sweating, and he was already playing dirty.
“I’m looking to win,” I argue, poking my finger into his hard chest. “And you’re not playing fair,” I say, taking my lower lip between my teeth.
“I’m not the type of guy that makes promises—not with words or the tone of them, but I’m feeling generous.” He hooks his finger beneath the strap of my camisole as he leans close—so close I can feel his breath against my lips. “I promise you I don’t have a bedroom voice. All I have are dirty words and there’s nothing raspy about them. They’re brutal, they’re honest and they aren’t full of false pretenses. Like pool I use my skills in the bedroom and my body does all the talking.”
Holy mother of God.
He drops his hand from my shoulder, glances down at my chest and I wait for him to give my treacherous nipples a two-finger salute but instead he takes a step back and looks over at the table.
“It’s your turn.”
Who the fuck wanted to play pool anymore? I wanted those words—I wanted to be underneath him as he said those dirty words. I wanted to educate him, teach him those words were a promise. The promise of an orgasm—one that wasn’t battery operated.
“Unless, you want to throw the game,” he counters, the beer bottle hovering against his mouth before he takes a long gulp, finishing it off. My eyes are transfixed on his Adam’s apple as the ale slides down his throat.
“I’m fine,” I hiss, tearing my eyes away from him to study the pool table. “Dirty talk is overrated,” I lie.
What I wouldn’t give for some dirty talk.
I’d even accept defeat.
Concentrating on the position of the balls and what’s left, I know if I take this shot and it hits the five ball I can align it with the nine ball—sinking both of them automatically and declaring me the winner. I could do it—I have done it. Several times. But a part of me didn’t want the game to end, enjoying every second with the stranger named Stryker.
Confidently, I take the shot and spin around, sure that I lined myself up for the win. I raise an eyebrow at him as he keeps his gaze on the balls completely unfazed by the win I had just set up. I notice the pair of dog tags dangling from his neck and impulsively reach for them, closing the distance between us as I stare at the markings engraved in the silver.
“Are these real?”
“People wear fake dog tags?” he counters, incredulity ripe in his tone as he brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
A self-proclaimed expert in dirty talk.
A badass biker—like real deal motorcycle club and all.
And a military man?
Talk about a trifecta.
Even if I don’t win the game—I’d say I struck gold tonight. Decision made. I was going to win this game and collect an orgasm as my winnings. Yep, sounds like a solid plan.
“I was a United States Marine,” he states.
“Was?”
“Was,” he confirms. “Looks like you’re about to hand me my ass,” he grunts, changing the subject back to the game at hand.
I bite the inside of my cheek and watch him glare at the pool table. I was a no holds barred type of woman—if I was curious about something I asked questions. One might argue that I asked too many questions and even call me a pain in the ass. But I also knew when to push and when to pull back and everything about Stryker’s demeanor told me to pause. He didn’t want to be discovered and I shouldn’t care enough to ask. We were just two strangers playing pool—my nipples didn’t get that memo though and continued to beckon for Stryker’s attention. They didn’t care we just met—they were begging to be discovered.
He averts his eyes back to mine.
“You going to seal the deal or throw the game?”
Snapping out of my Stryker induced coma, I walk around the table, draw in a deep breath as I lean over and prepare to fire the winning shot. I can feel his eyes burn into me from behind as my stick kisses the ball. I turn around to meet his gaze, watch intently as he shoves his hands into his pocket and glances over my shoulder at the table. Cheers implode around us as and I figure it’s because I’ve won yet another game.
“I won,” I say, taking my blazer off the back of the chair before stepping toward him.
“You missed,” he points out, licking his lips and grabbing his stick. Eyes wide, I spin around and see my ball missed its target. Without another word from Stryker, I watch as he leans over the table and delivers the winning shot.
“Time to collect,” he says cockily.
Dumbfounded I stare at the empty table.
I lost.
“That’s my man,” his friend says, jarring me away from my shocked state. He slaps his leather jacket against his chest and forces Stryker to take it back. “Bro, that might be the quickest grand I ever made. It’s fucking good to have you home.”
Keeping his eyes pinned to mine, Stryker doesn’t acknowledge his friend who in turn looks over at me and smiles mischievously at me.
I’m Linc,” he introduces himself. Stryker takes that as his cue, spreading his arm wide in front of Linc, blocking him from advancing any further.
“Get lost,” he growls as he steps in front of Linc and cocks his head to the side. Still reeling from the loss, blocking out the taunting of my co-workers I continue to hold Stryker’s gaze. I watch as he cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes slowly travel the length of me. He nods as if he’s made a decision and then he beckons me with the crook of his finger.
“Time to collect,” he says matter-of-factly.
“We didn’t bet anything,” I counter, straightening my shoulders as I mimic him and let my gaze wander the length of him. Jesus.
“I tell you what, how abo
ut I buy you a drink and then I’ll give you a ride.”
I stare at him, raising an eyebrow as I laugh at him.
“Isn’t that line overused? I bet every biker once in their lifetime has offered a woman a ‘ride’ on the back of their bike. You strike me as a guy who can do better than that.”
“Touché,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “But I wasn’t referring to my bike,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at his friend. “Give me a minute and I’ll try to muster up another line,” he turns his back to me and closes in on his friend. With his back facing me I take the opportunity to check out his ass—damn, it’s as perfect as the rest of him. I lift my eyes when I hear Linc laugh and our eyes meet as he waves at me before turning back to Stryker.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Linc calls, turning around and making his way through the crowd.
“It was nice to meet you,” I call out as Stryker spins around and casually closes the distance between us. His hip brushes against mine as he angles his head to the side and his eyes latch onto mine.
“Fuck lines,” he growls.
I swallow, holding my composure as I square my shoulders back and raise an eyebrow.
“I’ll give you honesty because my truth is better than any fucking line you’ve probably heard before.”
Involuntarily my tongue glides across my lips as I watch him reach behind him and turn the baseball cap around so that the rim shadows his eyes. His eyes are darker, feral even, as they narrow and he steps closer. I can feel his hot breath against my wet lips.
“Truth is, I want to take you home, Gina. I want to take you home and whisper dirty things into your ear. Filthy fucking things,” he clarifies, running the tip of his index finger down my bare arm.
And just like that my early suspicions became confirmed—I was so fucking out of my league. But hell, I wasn’t about to let that stop me.
“What’s your truth, Gina?”
“I knew you could do better,” I said as I reached for the dog tags around his neck, yanking them as I pulled him closer.
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 4
