Dangerous Games: A Standalone Second Chance Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  “Plow guy? Please tell me that’s not code for something inappropriate.”

  He chuckles. “For once, it’s not. This street is private property, so she has to arrange for it to be plowed in the winter. She claimed he was so busy with the roads in town that there’s no way he’ll be able to get up this way for at least four days.” His voice oozes sarcasm. “If you ask me, Grams is full of shit.”

  “Why would she lie about that?”

  He joins me, leaning back against the counter, re-crossing his arms. “Why do you think? I know I’m not the only one who noticed Grams’ strange behavior these past few days. At least stranger than normal.”

  I laugh. “You’re not. It appears as if she’s trying to play matchmaker between us.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s why she insisted on going to church. When I spoke with her, she claimed she had no idea about the snowstorm, but that woman watches the weather like a hawk.”

  “I remember. And not just in this area. Everywhere. She could tell us when there was an arctic blast in Florida, downpours in the Pacific Northwest, tornados in Oklahoma.”

  “Which is why I get the feeling this was all part of her master plan.”

  “Did you tell her about Vegas?” I ask in a low voice.

  He stiffens, wide eyes meeting mine.

  “It’s okay if you did,” I add quickly. “I’m not mad or anything.”

  He shakes his head. “I haven’t talked about that night in over year. Not until yesterday with you.”

  “Then how does she seem to know?”

  “There are some things on this planet you can’t explain, and Grams is one of them. If I asked, she’d probably claim she had a vision.”

  “I’m not sure whether to be intrigued or embarrassed by the idea of Grams having a vision about what we did in Vegas.”

  He rakes a nervous hand through his hair, a boyish grin crawling across his lips, making his dimples pop. That’s all it takes for the butterflies to flap their wings in my stomach. I adore his dimples. Love how carefree and unaffected they make him look.

  “Especially if she had a vision about what we did in the shower.”

  My cheeks heat at the memory. Sex with Asher was insanely hot. I’d never had an orgasm as intense and mind-numbing as I did with him. But the next morning, when he pinned me against the wall of the shower and thrust into me like a man starved, he did things to my body I didn’t think possible. To this day, it’s still one of the most erotic moments I’ve ever experienced. Hell, everything about being with Asher is still one of the most erotic encounters I’ve ever experienced.

  “That was pretty hot,” I offer.

  “Glad I could satisfy you. Feel free to leave a five-star review on Yelp.” He winks playfully.

  I lightly jab him in the side, to which he feigns pain, then eventually straightens. “So, what should we do first?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Today.” He nods toward the window over the sink, the lake in the distance barely visible through the heavy curtain of falling snow. “It’s a snow day. How should we spend it? What did you do during your snow days growing up?”

  I pinch my lips, mentally rewinding to my younger years. “I’d usually drag my mom outside to build a snowman.”

  “That’s not an option right now. It’s coming down hard. And that wind is pretty fierce. What else did you do to occupy your time?”

  “Drank hot chocolate.” I beam, a nostalgic gleam in my eyes.

  “What else?”

  “Watched movies.”

  “What movies?”

  “The Wizard of Oz,” I answer without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Really?”

  “Or The Sound of Music.”

  “Well, then…” He pushes off the counter, walking away. “I’ve got some work to do.”

  “Heading back to the music room?” I ask, trying to hide my disappointment. I get that he has an album to work on, but I’d hoped he’d work at the piano in the great room, like he had all morning.

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Hot chocolate.” He opens the pantry, pulling out a jar of what appears to be hot chocolate mix. “And I’m pretty sure Grams owns both those movies, so we can have the perfect snow day.”

  “It would still be a perfect snow day without all that,” I say sincerely, my heart swelling that he’s giving up his time to do this for me.

  He glances over his shoulder as he ignites the burner on the stove, putting the kettle on it. “I’m glad you think so.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What do you need me to do next?” Asher pushes the potatoes he’d just sliced off the cutting board and into the pot, then faces me.

  After the third day of being snowed in at Grams’ lake house, Asher and I have developed a routine. He’d make breakfast around ten, then we’d lounge on the couch — me with a book, him with a notepad as he attempted to jot down potential song lyrics. At some point in the afternoon, I’d put together a light lunch, usually just some cheese, meats, and fruits that we’d snack on while talking about everything and nothing. He’d occasionally break out his guitar, toying around with a melody. But since the day he wrote “My Favorite Almost”, he hasn’t written anything. I’m not sure if it’s because he can’t, or because he’s enjoying his time with me.

  “Add water and put them on the stovetop. Medium-high should be good.”

  “You got it.” His arm brushes against mine as he lights one of the burners. I flash him a smile, then remove the ground beef and vegetable mixture, which will be the base of the Shepard’s Pie, from the heat, setting it aside until the potatoes are done cooking.

  The fire in his gaze warms my skin as he leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed in front of his chest, a gentle smile tugging on his lips. “I like this.”

  I stand across from him, mirroring his stance. “I like this, too. I…” I cut my thought short.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I quickly shake my head. “It’s nothing.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

  “I’ll never think anything about you is stupid.”

  I worry my bottom lip, then slowly lift my eyes to his. “I just… I always imagined the guy I ended up with would do this with me.”

  “Do what? Cook?”

  “It sounds corny, but… I don’t know…” I blow out a long breath. “During my childhood, my parents always cooked together. Hell, they still cook together. Mom’s the chef in the family, but my dad stays by her side, always willing to lend a hand, whether it be making a salad or chopping potatoes.” I smile at Asher, then look past him, my gaze distant as I talk about my parents and the love they still display for one another, even though they’ve been married nearly forty years. “Every so often, they steal a sly glance at one another. Or a kiss. And there are a few ass squeezes I try to ignore because, well… They’re my parents.”

  Asher chuckles, his gaze brimming with affection.

  “In those simple moments when they’re doing an everyday, mundane task, there’s so much love between them.” I avert my eyes, pinching my lips together. “I guess I’ve always wanted that, too. Wanted to find someone who makes the ordinary seem extraordinary.”

  When I peer into Asher’s eyes, they swirl with the same love and respect I witness between my parents on a daily basis. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just admires me in a way every woman wants a man to look at her. Like Prince Charming regarded Cinderella when she walked into that ball, not caring she was a maid. Like Humphrey Bogart hungered for Ingrid Bergman right before he put her on that plane out of Casablanca, and his life. Like Cary Grant revered Deborah Kerr when he visited her apartment and learned the reason she never showed up at the top of the Empire State Building, as she promised.

  “Maybe you already have,” he whispers, his gaze never leaving mine, almost begging me to agree. To give him this chance. To cross that line
.

  I part my lips, shaking my head, searching for the words I need. But, as seems to be the case lately, they’re nowhere to be found at this crucial moment.

  He swiftly pushes off the island, caging me against the counter in two long strides. When he places his hands on the surface and leans his weight on them, it takes all my resolve not to shift my gaze to his flexing biceps. But the intensity in his deep pools of brown won’t let me. It steals my breath. The hairs on my nape stand at attention, my nerve endings stirring.

  “I’m not going to pretend I haven’t thought of the same thing,” he begins, impassioned. “That I haven’t fantasized about what life could be like with you, especially these past few days when we’ve been playing house, as you call it. Because I have. And a part of me doesn’t want to just ‘play’ house with you anymore, Iz. A part of me is desperate for the real thing. To work toward building a life together, as crazy and impulsive as that sounds. But that’s who I am, who I’ve always been. Crazy. Spontaneous.”

  “Asher…,” I plead, but it falls on deaf ears.

  “I’ve thought how I’d love nothing more than to slip out of bed before you woke up every morning to surprise you with breakfast in bed. How I could get used to rubbing your feet while we both relaxed on the sofa.”

  His hands go to my hips. Before I can react, he lifts me up, setting me on the counter. He presses against my legs, and I part them, whimpering as he grinds against me. When he brings his mouth toward my neck, I close my eyes, tilting my head to give him better access. But his lips never touch my skin, making the ache in my core grow more vibrant and pronounced with every passing second.

  “How I’d look forward to every evening,” he croons, his voice husky, wanton, reckless. “To cooking with you in the kitchen. But I won’t be happy with a few sly glances or ass grabs, Izzy.” My eyes flutter open, and I watch as he moves his hand up to my neck. He still doesn’t touch me. Instead, his hand hovers so close as he roams along my collarbone, over the swell of my breasts, and down my stomach. “Because being around you makes me hungry. Turns me into a man starved.”

  His chest heaves as he focuses on my lips, shameless in his need for me. I should push him away, not feed into this fantasy. But we’re back in our bubble. And I don’t want it to burst. Not yet.

  “What would you do?” I ask in a barely audible voice. “In this fantasy of yours… What would you do?”

  A slow smile curves his mouth as he inches toward me. But like before, his lips stop shy of caressing my skin. “You’d be standing by the island, peeling carrots.” His words come out soft, even, yet still filled with lust.

  “That’s rather specific.”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think about this over the past year.” His mouth is poised above the curve of my neck, his nearness making me lightheaded. “I’d walk into the room but wouldn’t alert you to my presence yet. I’d take a few minutes to appreciate the view. Adorable tank top. Short skirt. Heels that make your legs go on for miles.”

  I open my eyes, giving him a sardonic look. “Cooking? In heels?”

  He places a finger over my mouth, silencing me. “This is my fantasy. Not yours.” He glares at me, his finger lingering on my lips before he gradually pulls it away. Then he scoops me off the counter, positioning me as he mentioned in his fantasy, my back to him as I stand in front of the island.

  I keep my eyes forward, but the heat on my nape alerts me to his presence mere inches from me. I lick my lips, my skin flushing, breathing increasing.

  “I’d finally approach and swipe your hair over one shoulder.” He does as he states, a breath escaping my lungs as his fingers delicately brush against my shoulders. Even through the t-shirt covering my skin, I relish in the slight touch of his hands on my body, regardless of how fleeting.

  “Then what?” I whimper.

  “I’d bring my lips up to that place where your neck meets your shoulders. Which is right…” I hold my breath as the warmth of his mouth inches closer to that spot. “About…” My heart thunders in my chest, core clenching, muscles tightening. “Here.”

  I close my eyes as I brace to feel his lips on me, to revel in his kiss. It never comes.

  “But I won’t kiss you.”

  Dizziness overtakes me, my legs turning to jelly. “Jesus Christ.” I place my hands on the island, needing it to support myself.

  “Not yet anyway.”

  “Why?” I whine.

  “Because I don’t think you’re hungry enough. Not yet.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I can read your body better than you can.” He forces me around. “I can tell when you’re happy, sad…” His lips quirk into a smirk. “Horny.” His arms trap me against the island. “Most importantly, I know when you’re at your breaking point. Know when you’re about to fall over that edge and into sweet oblivion.” He studies me for a moment, assessing my flushed complexion, my labored breathing, my desperate gaze. Then he shakes his head. “You’re not quite there yet.”

  “A little taste never hurt anyone.” I crane my head, my lips seeking his.

  With a harsh grip on my hips, he lifts me onto the counter again, forcing my legs apart. This time when he thrusts against me, he’s not gentle, making it more than apparent how desperate he is for me. I gasp, which turns into a moan when his hands roam my body, his touch resolute.

  “I would never be satisfied with a taste. I’d need to savor every last drop of you. I couldn’t do that if I made a habit out of snacking on you throughout the day.”

  “I think you still could. I have faith in you.”

  “Is that right? Should a taste be on the menu?” He arches a brow, edging toward me. My gaze remains transfixed on his every move, urging him forward, but he stops with his lips poised mercilessly close to mine, permitting me to make the final decision of whether to cross this line.

  “Perhaps it could be,” I murmur, about to erase the last whisper between us, when the sound of something sizzling cuts through. We both fling our wide eyes toward the stove.

  “Shit.” I push against him and he steps back, allowing me to jump off the island. With quick movements, I rush to remove the pot of potatoes that had boiled over, turning off the gas. Asher dons an oven glove and lifts the grate off the burner, then carefully soaks up the spilled water with a dish towel.

  I move the pot to a different burner, igniting it and setting it to medium-low. I focus on the potatoes as I stir them. I don’t look at Asher, don’t say anything, both of us staring at the stove for what feels like an eternity.

  I can’t stop thinking about Vegas, about the first time I was on the brink of kissing him when all the lights clicked off, leaving the entire city in complete darkness. Back then, I took it as a warning. Could this be the same thing? Is this a warning that, if we continue playing this dangerous game, disaster is around the corner?

  Before I have a chance to give that too much thought, Asher’s husky laughter reverberates through the room. My eyes float to him. Just like the other day when I slipped and slammed my naked body against his, bringing him to the floor, I can’t help but join in, the ease and contentment covering his expression warming my heart. They say laughter is the best medicine. And right now, it’s the perfect elixir to the doubt filling me.

  “We really know how to steam things up, don’t we?” he remarks.

  “I guess we do.”

  “Come on.” Turning from the stove, he swipes the two wine glasses off the island, heading toward the great room. I follow behind. “I’ll play you a song. It’s probably best I find something to keep my fingers occupied. I can’t be trusted alone with you in the kitchen.” He lowers himself onto the bench behind the baby grand piano, setting our glasses on the top.

  “I’m not so sure this is any better.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  With a sly smile, I saunter up to the rim of the piano, swaying my hips a little more than I normally would. “You may have fantasies about kitc
hen sex…” I fold my body over the closed lid, then turn to face him, propping my head up with my hand. “But my fantasy is piano sex.”

  He closes his eyes, every muscle in his body seeming to tighten. “That’s it. It’s official.”

  “What is?”

  “I’ll be jerking off later to the idea of fucking you on a piano.”

  “You’re sick,” I joke, pushing myself off the lid.

  “What? I told you in Vegas. You used to be the queen of my spank bank.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

  “What’s that?” I whisper back.

  “You still are.” He winks, then flashes me that same debonair smile, which causes me to giggle.

  “Then maybe I’ll let you in on a little secret.” I grab my glass, taking a healthy sip of wine.

  “What’s that?” He peers at me with seductive eyes.

  “You’ve been the king of my…nub hub for years.”

  He chuckles. “Nub hub?”

  I shrug. “It’s the best I could come up with on such short notice. I’m not a goddamn poet like you are.”

  He gets up from behind the piano and steps toward me, slinging his arm around my shoulders. “I like it. And I like that I’m the king of your nub hub. I’m officially putting that on my epitaph when I die. Asher York. Beloved son. King of Isabella Nolan’s nub hub. And once a top 100 musician.” He pulls me onto the piano bench, positioning his fingers on the ivory keys. “Do you know what else I like?”

  “What?”

  “That we can joke about these things. That the tension and strain that seemed to drown you a few days ago is gone. That I have my Isabella back.”

  I smile. “And I like that I have my Asher back, too.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Did you pack any boots?” Asher asks the following morning when I emerge downstairs after a shower. I slow my steps, eyes floating over the living room to see him dressed in his normal jeans and t-shirt. But he’s tugging on a pair of heavy work boots, a down jacket covering his shirt.