Deserving It

by Angela Quarles

  She settles again on the couch. “What you got in mind?”

  I cut the deck. “Hand of poker?”

  Her eyes flash with challenge, and damn if that doesn’t send some blood south. Shite.

  “Challenge accepted.”

  I hop up.

  “Where you going?”

  I look back at her and wiggle my eyebrows. “If one of us is winning that lock bottle, I think we need to be doing it up right. With a glass. Savor it like you like to, I'm thinking.”

  “And ice!” She laughs and waves her hand holding the bottle toward the door, presumably in the direction of the ice machine. “It’s starting to get dark. I’ll light the candles while you’re gone.”

  While I haven’t acquired a taste for ice in my drinks, if that’s what she likes, I’ll be getting it for her, yeah. I slip on my trainers, grab the ice bucket, and head down the hall. Since the power is out, the ice won’t dispense, of course, but I’m hoping it has some kind of lid.

  Sure enough, it does. I hold the lid up and scoop the bucket into the mound of ice. This probably violates some health code, but fuck it.

  Claire

  I get the candles lit near the couch, their strawberry scent easing into the room and the tiny flame cutting through the twilight settling into the room. Conor’s absence also gives me a chance for a pee break.

  Also? I need a moment, because when he suggested poker, the words, make it strip poker, nearly popped out of my mouth.

  I’m not horrified by that impulse. That’s not what’s making me pause.

  What’s making me pause is the fact that I…well, paused. That’s not me. At least that’s not the me I strove so hard to become.

  I’m the tough girl. One who expresses her wishes.

  I wash my hands and dry them, taking my frustration out on the poor white towel. The flashlight on my phone is pointed straight up, as it rests on the counter, but it’s enough to see.

  The thing is, if it was anyone other than Conor, I’d have said it just to get a reaction out of a male friend. And if it led somewhere, well, it depended on the guy, but I wouldn’t say no if it was all in good fun.

  So why the damn pause? Some tough girl I am. My interactions with guys are always on my terms, and if they don’t like it, they can walk.

  I yank open the door and smack into a large, hard, male body. “Ooof.”

  Conor must have heard the door opening because he’s facing my direction. Which means all of my front is intimately pressed against all of his.

  Oh, um, wow. His free hand settles on my hip, a warm, firm grip. “Chill the beans now there. Didn’t mean for you to take a hopper.”

  God, I love all his expressions. A delicious, demanding heat coils through me, startling me of breath. I stand there stiff, as if contact with this hunk of Irish masculinity has inexplicably flash frozen me.

  If I was a chick with a fully paid subscription to the flirt manual, I’d know what to do. Some coy word. Some signal that I’m interested.

  Wait.

  I don’t want him to know. He can’t know. If he learns, and rejects me, I might be tempted to change.

  That springs me away from him, all right. And…smack. My head hits the door jamb, and I bow forward.

  He takes a step so that my head is now pressing to his chest—oh God, his chest—and he cradles my head, rubbing the sore spot. “Jaysus. That had to hurt.”

  “It does.” The gentle touch of his warm hands, his fingers carefully sifting through my hair and massaging my scalp, is starting to ease the sting. Man, that feels good.

  Which allows me to open my eyes from their screwed-tight position. And notice.

  Is that… Is that a bulge in his jeans?

  “It does hurt,” I repeat for some inane reason as that swirling heat from a moment ago narrows into a blazing arrow of need straight to my core.

  “Is this helping, yeah?” he asks, his voice low and near my ear, as his fingers continue working their magic on the sting.

  “Yes,” I breathe as I watch him grow harder.

  Seeing his reaction? Knowing there’s a better chance I won’t be shot down…changes things. And I’ve wanted him for so long it’s getting ridiculous at this point. I mean, I should just go with it, right? I have to believe that my walls are strong enough that I won’t change into a dang doormat.

  And because I am that tough girl, I lift my head. “Now. About that poker. Care to make it strip poker?”

  Chapter 8

  Conor

  Strip poker?

  Her words send a shock wave straight to the semi I’ve been sporting. The lad jerks, totally on board with the plan. “Are you being serious?” I set the bucket of ice on the kitchen counter.

  She pokes me in the chest, her eyes sparking as she looks up at me. Inches from me. “Yes. But let’s add some twists to it.” She saunters back to the couch. I’m not quite sure how to be reading this situation. Part of me hopes she’s meaning what I think she is…

  Of course, visions of us later in the game pop into my increasingly fevered imagination. Her sprawling on the couch in just her bra and knickers. And one sock. Why the fuck I’m after imagining one sock on, I have no idea.

  It could also be that this is one of those language misfires. Stripping is stripping, though, right?

  She plops onto the end of the couch and tucks her legs up. She dangles the bottle of Jim Beam. “We’ll still play for this, but since it’ll be gone in like two regular shots, we’ll add a twist.”

  “A twist?” I settle on the other end, trying to do it in a way that adjusts the situation down there without being crude about it.

  She takes the cards and shuffles them like some Vegas dealer. “Yep, the winner has to take the tiniest sip possible from the mini bottle.”

  I swallow. “And the loser?”

  She breaks the deck of cards and shuffles again. “And the loser has two choices. The first one is you have to confess to something you think is embarrassing. And the second is”—she looks up, a wicked gleam in her eye that I’m liking way too much—“you take off an article of clothing.”

  Fuck, yeah. Stripping is stripping. “Deal.”

  “We have a deal?”

  “Yes. And also…” I nod to her deck of cards. “Deal.”

  She rolls her eyes and deals.

  When the cards are laid out, I suppress a groan. No need to broadcast that I have shite for a hand—numbers and suits all over the place.

  I discard two of the biggest outliers and draw. A ten of diamonds and a two of spades. With the ten already in hand, it’s the best I’m going to do.

  “Okay. What do you have?” she asks.

  “A pair.”

  “I should hope so.” She raises an eyebrow and darts a glance to the lad.

  I bark out a laugh. “At least they’re big.” I throw down my tens.

  “Ha.” She lays down three of a kind. She grins and gives a bounce. “Not big enough.”

  “You wound me, you do. So how do we pick? Is it the loser doing the choosing or the winner?”

  She tilts her head to the side, taking me in. “Let’s make it the loser.”

  Shite. I’d hoped to get a better idea on how this should be playing out by getting her to choose. I decide to be bold.

  I rub my hands together and move them to the hem of my T-shirt. Her eyes flare with heat. But I keep moving my hands and slip off one of my trainers, tossing it on the floor where it lands with a dull thunk.

  She shakes her head. “Lame, Conor.”

  I shrug. “Gotta be starting somewhere, yeah. Can’t go straight to the good stuff now.”

  She levels me with a get-real stare. “You know I’ve seen you with your shirt off.”

  I waggle my brows. “So you looked, did ya?” I don’t know where this playful side is coming from. I’m thinking it’s this bubble outside of reality we have, free of obligations. Or maybe it’s simply Claire.

  She just gathers the cards and shoves them my way
. “Deal, hot stuff.”

  “Hot stuff, is it? I like that.”

  “Deal.”

  So I deal. She takes the Jim Beam bottle into the kitchen. I twist around and watch. She fishes out a tumbler and fills it with ice, the crunch and clatter of the cubes filling the room. She pours the whole bottle in and returns.

  Then she locks her gaze with mine and takes the tiniest sip possible.

  For some reason, the sight has me laughing my cacks off. She sets the glass down on the end table, chuckling too.

  This time I have the best hand, my pair of Jacks beating her pair of eights. Without ceremony, she removes one of her shoes.

  Then I win again. She sticks up her chin. “I have an unreasonable love for the song ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ by Bonnie Tyler.”

  I snort. “Go on now. You’re having me on.”

  “Nope.”

  We keep at it, deal after deal, each deciding which to do, having a good laugh the whole time, though there’s an edge of tension, which keeps notching up as slowly, piece by piece, we’re sitting across from each other on the couch, and she’s only wearing her bra and knickers, and I only have my butt-huggers on. Which I’m trying to pretend isn’t showing exactly how turned on I fucking am.

  So far I’ve learned that, besides loving Bonnie Tyler, she once was laughing so hard in the common area of her college that she puked up the bright red Gatorade she’d just downed and that she once dove into a pool and emerged without her bikini top, not realizing it had come off.

  I’ve confessed to having my shorts pulled down during a tackle at a packed stadium in Croke Park, Dublin. The Jim Beam is long gone.

  Unlike regular strip poker where we have no choice but to take off something we’re wearing for a loss, this time it’s a choice, and so each time one of us peels off a piece of clothing, it’s strangely…revealing. And in more ways than visual. We’re choosing to be going there.

  I’m feeling full of myself when I lay down four of a kind. Will she remove an item of clothing this time? And will it be the bra or knickers…?

  My wishful thinking is dashed when she lays down a straight flush with a flourish. “What’ll it be, big guy?”

  Shite. For some reason, I’m reluctant to find myself bollock naked. Because if I do, I’ll no longer be able to keep pretending that I don’t have a raging hard-on and bluer balls than a bleeding Smurf. She’s bound to notice. In fact, she just did because when she thinks I’m not looking, she flicks her gaze there and quickly away, and scarlet dots her cheeks.

  So I blurt out, “My long-term girlfriend in Ireland dumped me.”

  What the bloody hell? And cue this moment as ripe for confessing as leaving myself bloody mortified.

  Her eyes round. But she just shakes her head. “Well, she was an idiot.”

  I laugh, because what else will I be doing otherwise? I gather up the cards and deal again. This time she loses.

  I’m dreading her saying something just as terrible, because somehow it would feel as if she were trying to smooth things over by making things “even.” But it wouldn’t. It would leave myself feeling mollycoddled.

  But she surprises me. She looks up, and without ceremony, her arms twine to her back, pushing her chest forward, and unhook her plain white bra. Which I’ve been valiantly trying to ignore how well they hold up her perky breasts.

  The bra sags, and those breasts… Oh, they spring free, open to the air. And to my gaze.

  I can’t help it. I’m a guy. I stare.

  And swallow.

  My hands flex on the deck of cards I was in the middle of gathering, bending them. I drop the cards, spraying them across the couch cushion.

  Smooth, Conor.

  As I stare, the tips begin to… Fuck me, they begin to harden, don’t they?

  My breathing gets a little uneven, and I glance back up to her face, searching her eyes. She’s searching mine too, her gaze fierce with defiance, but with a hint of vulnerability, as well as indecision.

  Decision apparently made, she leans closer.

  My breath hitches, and I swear to Mother Mary, Joseph, and Jesus on the feckin’ cross, every nerve ending on my skin comes alive in anticipation. I lean closer.

  She whispers, “Deal the cards.” And flicks a wicked glance down at my growing erection.

  Fuuuck.

  I blow out a breath and lean myself back. I gather up the cards, all the while telling my dick to stand down.

  I guarantee you, I’ve gone thick as a plank, since all my blood is hurtling south. So, yeah, I lose the next hand. Frankly, the last few minutes become a haze for me.

  So when I lose, I look up.

  Her gaze is challenging.

  I could confess to another embarrassing thing.

  Or, I could take off my butt-huggers.

  I take off my butt-huggers.

  And I can’t help but notice that she looks as if she’s holding her breath.

  Chapter 9

  Claire

  My gaze is glued to Conor’s long fingers as he catches them on the elastic waist of his boxers and tugs downward. My blood is thrashing its beats so hard, it almost matches the tempo of the rain beating down outside. All through the game, it was a challenge not to notice his growing erection. Each time he opted to remove an article of clothing, I felt a flare of triumph.

  I have no idea what I’m doing, but it seems to be working, and I’m gonna keep going with what I’m doing.

  The fabric catches on the tip of his cock, and Conor eases it over and shoves it down his muscular thighs, tossing it onto the floor to join the other pieces of our clothing.

  I pull in a shuddering breath.

  Whoa. I can’t…I can’t even begin to describe how he looks right now. At this moment. But I’m going to try. Because—holy wow. He’s magnificent. His broad shoulders, the biceps a perfect curve, block my view of the kitchen. The candlelight casts shadows across his skin, making smoky gray shapes dance and flicker across his chest as if it enjoys playing across its surface. Like I want to.

  Then there’s the nicely delineated pecs, with a sprinkling of dark red hair decorating their smooth planes and marching down the bumps of his abs to…yeah, wow, the proudest and largest cock I’ve ever seen. Boy, am I not kidding.

  It jerks a little as if my staring has caught its attention.

  Shit.

  I’m staring.

  I dart my gaze back to his, and he’s staring too. At me. With eyes that are hooded. And filled with desire.

  For me.

  Holy shit. Heat rushes across my skin, and a zing happens down in my girly parts.

  But it’s clear he’s letting me control what’s going to happen between the two of us, which I really, really appreciate.

  I can do this. I can have casual sex with him and not get all…emotional. Walls in place? Check. I snap the metaphorical elastic on my big girl panties and edge forward on the couch. “Can I touch you?”

  He pulls in a shuddering breath, the action tightening his muscles all over. “Please, yeah.”

  Thick, eager anticipation swirls in the air between us as I reach forward and touch the tip, velvet smooth and warm. His whole body tenses, and a low moan escapes that he quickly swallows.

  God, that’s sexy.

  I circle my fingers around his shaft and skim them down and back up, barely touching the hot, silky skin. Like my fingers are mapping the contours.

  Then I give a little squeeze, and his hand shoots out and holds my wrist.

  “Claire,” he chokes out.

  I look up at him. “Yes?” My breaths are shallow.

  He swallows and looks into my eyes. “What is it you’d be wanting?” His voice is low, and it holds so much in those words—anticipation, trepidation, need, heat. The low pitch, the cadence, the words, and the meaning riding them, they all seep inside, giving me my answer.

  What do I want? “You.”

  It’s as if I lit the fuse to a bomb that just hit its payload, because he
launches forward, pushing me back against the couch. My breath leaves me in a rush. His whole body covers mine, the soft nap of the couch fabric a cool embrace against the skin of my back. The playing cards crinkle beneath me.

  Holy shit. This reaction. It’s for me.

  His mouth crashes into mine, feverish, and all other sensation flees except the magnificent feel of his lips crushing mine, hot, urgent. If I ever even allowed myself the fantasy of imagining our first kiss, I would have guessed it’d be like this—up front, impatient, rough. Our mouths are taking swipes at each other, and I fist my hands in that luscious red hair of his to try to hold his head still, to get the right angle. Which works, and our tongues tangle. The taste of him—carnality laced with bourbon—bursts along my taste buds, lighting me up, and I soak it in. Swirling heat blooms in my chest and arrows down, pooling in my sex.

  Our breaths are coming fast, our frantic mouth tango making it difficult to catch air. I want to be on top, though. Not that I don’t like the delicious feel of him stretched out over me. Believe me, I do—boy, do I—but I want to direct this, especially if it’s my only chance to be with him.

  We girls have needs too, and in my experience, this is the only way I can be sure they’re met. And, yeah, I want them met. With him. I glance sideways—there’s enough gap between the couch and the oversized, footrest-slash-coffee table. I pinch his side.

  “Roll,” I gasp against his lips.

  He jerks in surprise, holding himself up by his elbow. Which gives me room and leverage to lock my legs around his and roll us both off the couch.

  He lands on the carpet with a startled oof, me splayed across all that delicious, hard muscle that makes up Conor’s gorgeous body. I rise up and adjust myself against his hard girth. Outside the window, which I have a clear view of, the world is gray, rain lashing like ropes against the window. I’m still sporting my boring white panties, but his thickness, and his heat, is pressing hard against my core right through the cotton. Gawd.

  I rock forward and back, smoothing my hands along his work-of-art chest, his tiny hairs tickling across my palms. His strong, broad hands fly to my waist and brush up my stomach until he’s cupping my boobs.