Devlin's Dare

by Sabrina York

  “And?”

  She leaned in. “You reviewed my bakery.”

  Shit.

  “I…ah. What’s the name of your bakery?”

  “Stud. Muffin.” The way she said it made it clear she expected him not to remember. But he did. That was an awesome bakery. One of his favorites, though he rarely got to that end of town.

  Now that he knew where she worked, he’d have to make the trek more often.

  “That was not a bad review.”

  “Three burps.” Damn. The girl could growl. “You gave it three fucking burps.”

  “Three burps is a good review.” It was a damn good review. Most eateries would breathe a sigh of relief to get two burps from him.

  She tossed her cue onto the table. “Three burps sucks. Plus, you had the audacity to complain that I don’t have gluten-free.”

  He leaned forward. “Do you?”

  If she narrowed her eyes any more, she’d be blind. “That is not the point.”

  “That’s exactly the point. If you don’t have gluten-free, then you don’t have gluten-free. There’s a large population of people in Seattle who don’t eat wheat and they need to know if—”

  “It’s a bakery! I use flour. So frickin sue me!”

  They glared at each other across the table. Well, she glared. He stared. Because in a flurry of passion, she was pretty damn intriguing. Her color was high, her lips parted, a fierceness etched her features.

  He wanted to kiss her.

  He wanted to kiss her bad.

  Charmaine arrived just then with their drinks. Devlin pulled out a couple twenties and handed them to her. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.” She slipped the bills into her pocket with a wink. “Give me a wave if you want another.”

  “Sure thing.” Devlin watched her walk away, barely focusing on the twitch of her ass. When he turned back to his companion, he winced at her expression.

  “I can buy my own drinks,” his pretty baker snapped.

  “Take the damn drink. It’s not a marriage proposal, for God’s sake.” Devlin smiled. An attempt to placate her, which didn’t work. “Consider it an apology. An extra burp, if you will.”

  “Fine,” she grunted. “One drink. Then we’re even.” She took a snort of her drink and unracked the balls, taking the first shot without flipping for it. But Devlin didn’t care, because when he stepped in to take the second shot, she let him.

  And she was drinking her drink. So they were even. Excellent.

  “But it hardly counts as an extra burp,” she muttered.

  He blew out a breath. “I’m telling you, three burps is a damn good review. You should see the review I gave Billy Bob’s Burger and Beer.”

  “I love Billy Bob’s.”

  “Those onion rings could give Dracula a heart attack.”

  “Those onion rings are heaven on earth.”

  “Greasy as hell. I could see through my napkin when I blotted them.”

  She studied him for a moment, then snorted, “Baby.”

  Something about her demeanor tickled him. Or maybe it was the fact that he was finally—finally—having a conversation with her. Or that he’d figured out why she was so mad at him—and what a relief that was. Regardless, something in her demeanor tickled him and he busted out laughing.

  She propped her fists on her hips and frowned at him, but he could see the amusement in her eyes. And then her lips twitched. And then she chuckled.

  And he knew he had her.

  He knew he would have her.

  Sometime this weekend he would have this woman in his bed.

  But first, he needed to discover her name.

  Chapter Five

  Tara stared at Devlin as he leaned over the table to take a shot.

  Damn.

  She’d been attracted to him the minute she laid eyes on him. When she’d plowed into him on the ferry, sealed against him from chest to groin, when his large hands had gripped her hips to keep her from plunging down the stairs, the heat between then had been undeniable.

  But when she’d discovered his nefarious identity, an unquenchable fury had consumed her. The desire to make him pay.

  That, combined with a couple of drinks, had resulted in her hair-brained idea to seduce him and leave him hanging…so to speak.

  She’d never expected the regret that had haunted her for the past week. She’d relived every moment of their aborted tryst over and over again. And in most of her fantasies…she hadn’t walked away. In many of them, they’d ended up wound together in a steamy tangle of limbs.

  He took his shot and stood, flicking a surreptitious glance at her. It was quick. It was scorching. Excitement fluttered in her belly.

  Damn.

  He was, without exception, the most attractive man she’d ever met.

  And on top of it all, he had to go and be charming.

  No one had ever charmed her out of a snit so easily.

  She kind of resented the fact that he could. He could smile and make a quip about burps and buy her a drink and all of a sudden, her resentment washed away in a tsunami of lust.

  And this was lust. Wasn’t it?

  She took her last shot, winning the game.

  He put out a lip in an alluring pout, though she suspected he’d let her win. “Want to play again?” Without waiting for her response, he racked the balls. He did, however, wait for her nod before he positioned himself for the break.

  But then he paused. “We should…play for something.”

  His tone irritated her. Or maybe it wasn’t irritation. The glint in his eye was scintillating.

  She leaned on her cue. “Like what?”

  He stood, looming over her, forcing her to tip her head to see his face. Well, the underside of his chin at least. God, it was gorgeous. A gorgeous chin. “How about…a dare?”

  That shimmy again. A cold-hot ripple through her womb. “A-a dare?” She forced herself to appear blasé, though she felt anything but.

  “Sure.” He bent closer. So close she could taste the earthy beer on his breath. “You seem like a daring sort. Besides…I owe you.” A whisper. Then he grinned. It was a wicked offering that made dread crawl up her spine. Or maybe not dread…

  Whatever. The heat made her uncomfortable, so she snorted. Glanced away.

  It was as though he knew her. Knew she couldn’t resist a dare. She never could. She fiddled with her cue. His eyes tracked the motion. His tongue peeped out to wet his lower lip. As though he was thinking about tasting…something.

  “Okay,” she said at long last. “What kind of dare?”

  He cleared his throat. “If I win…” his lips curled up at that. “You tell me your name.”

  Tara blinked. That was not the dare she’d been expecting. She’d been expecting him to ask her to finish what she’d started the last time they tangled. Anticipating that, perhaps. “My name?”

  “The whole name and nothing but the name.”

  “And if I win?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

  She studied him for a moment running scenarios in her head. Oh, there were a couple things that leapt to mind. Crowded her mind, in fact. She pressed them away. She was still infuriated with him over that piss poor review. He should suffer a little bit; a mere fraction of the mortification she’d felt when she’d read that blog. What would mortify a big, manly man like Devlin Fox? Ah, yes.

  “The Macarena.”

  He blinked. “The…Macarena?”

  “Yup. Here. Now. In this bar. You do the Macarena.” She leaned in and hissed, “With no music.”

  His chin firmed with what she imagined was determined resolve. He moved closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose, until she could see the sea-foam flecks in his irises. “I can handle that.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  She nodded. “Let’s play.”

  “Let’s do this thing.” He bent over
the table and took his shot. The crack of the break echoed in the room. Three striped balls rolled into pockets as though he were the puppet master and they were on strings.

  Tara frowned, suspecting he’d been sandbagging her in the last game. When he missed the next shot, she stepped up to the table. Concentrating hard, she took her shot. She sank the seven, five and three in succession, but the one banked of the edge of the corner pocket. Damn.

  He aimed for the eleven and sank it. Then the fifteen. And the nine. He had one ball left, not counting the eight ball. Sweat beaded her brow. She wiped her palms on her jeans. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. They were only playing for a name. Her name. But she desperately wanted to see him dance the Macarena. She desperately wanted to beat him.

  When he missed on the twelve, her breath came out in a whoosh. Marshalling her reserves, she focused and dropped the four, two and six. Then the one. She rounded the table heading for the eight, her final ball. With flawless form, she nailed it.

  The crow of victory was probably not necessary, but it felt damn good.

  She turned to him with a smirk. Drew a saucy circle with her finger. “Dance.”

  A blush crept up his cheeks. He laid his cue on the table and launched into a credible version of the Macarena—one arm out, then the other, palms upturned—then to the hips. All the while, whispering the words to himself.

  Her response was a barked laugh, a trill of exhilaration—because he was doing it. And damn, was he cute. But when he got to the hip wiggle, her laugh petered out as another emotion engulfed her. Another vision—a fantasy—filled her muddled mind. A vision that had been hovering there, lingering in her imagination, for a week.

  Devlin Fox was a hot guy—she knew that—but she hadn’t realized how deeply she wanted him, had no clue that a little swizzle of his hips would hit her so hard. Like a freaking Mack truck of hunger.

  By the time he finished she was drooling.

  It was probably the gin coursing in her veins—but she doubted it. This felt more like lust. Pure and unadulterated.

  It annoyed the crap out of her.

  Humiliating him hadn’t quite worked out the way she’d intended.

  “Well?” He put his hands on his hips and gazed at her.

  She swallowed heavily…so she could speak without a spray. “Fine. That was fine.”

  He grinned. “Another game?”

  A hint of panic snarled in her belly. “I, ah, have to get back.” Yeah. The last thing she wanted was to play another game with him, and perhaps lose.

  “Chicken?”

  Her heart stuttered. Shit. He could read her like a book. “I’m not chicken. I just have to get back.” She glanced at her watch, though she wasn’t wearing one. “My friends are waiting.” A lie. She’d come this weekend with Kristi, who was probably in the middle of a hot clinch with Cam right now. Bella and Holt had come too. They were probably clinching as well. Everyone was clinching. Except Tara. She tried not to let that annoy her too.

  It was her choice to be single right now. She needed to focus on her business.

  Men just got in the way.

  Oh sure, it started off all fuckity-fun, but then, inevitably, the guy would get all demanding and overbearing. Possessive. Toothbrushes everywhere…

  And that was when her warning system would kick into gear. That was when the little voice in the back of her head would start whispering, “No. He’s not the one.” Not the one who could give her that elusive security, that forever she craved.

  But forever was probably a fantasy anyway.

  Chet had been particularly annoying in the end. While she had enjoyed the companionship—and God knew she liked her sex—it wasn’t worth the hassle to put up with his crap. Not when she knew their relationship wasn’t going anywhere. Besides, when a girl needed to be in bed by seven in the pm—and up at three—there was a very short window for kinky fuckery.

  So she’d broken it off with Chet a month ago and she hadn’t been laid since.

  Her libido was not appreciative. Some days she wore lust like a cloak. She thought about sex all the time—and more so since she’d done that little dance with Devlin on the ferry.

  She didn’t relish the thought of lying in her cold and lonely bed all weekend listening to muffled moans from the rooms on either side of her.

  And now she had that vision of Devlin swizzling his hips to contend with. His muscles bunching beneath the fabric of his t-shirt as he danced the Macarena for her pleasure. The pink peep of his tongue as he concentrated on the moves.

  He leaned against the table with a snort. She tried not to fixate on his long, lean denim-clad legs. “It’s Friday night. Are you really going back at eight?”

  Was it only eight? It felt like midnight. “It’s past my bedtime.” A smirk.

  “Come on, Ponytail. One more game.”

  “What did you call me?”

  He reached around and yanked on her hair. “Ponytail.” He shrugged. “What else should I call you? Beautiful?”

  She glared at him. Not because he thought she was beautiful, but because he was clearly teasing.

  “Gluten girl?” He winked. “Sugar Muffin?”

  She crossed her arms. “Ponytail is fine.”

  He gave a mock bow. “Ponytail it is.”

  Damn it, he was exasperating.

  And adorable.

  She bit her lip to keep a smile from slipping out. He would see a smile as some bizarre form of encouragement. She was certain of it.

  As though she had acquiesced to another game, he collected the balls and racked them. “What shall we play for this time?” His steamy expression made it clear he would be asking for something far more daring than a name.

  Temptation prodded her. She knew it was stupid to tangle with a guy like this. He was far too attractive for his own good. And she was so frickin horny she could taste it.

  But so what? So what if she lost a game and had to give him her name, or a kiss or…

  She stiffened her spine. “What did you have in mind?”

  He studied her, stroking his pool cue as he considered his options, then winced as he followed her gaze and realized how suggestive the movement was. He blushed and chalked his cue.

  His blush deepened when he realized the scrape of the chalk over the tender tip of his cue was far more lurid.

  His chagrin amused her. And she liked that he wasn’t a cold-hearted predator, hunting females. Or a smarmy come-on artist. That some modicum of chivalry nested in his soul. At least enough for him to blush.

  Would it be so terrible to use him to slake her hunger?

  Just once?

  Nothing more than that, certainly.

  And he did owe her. At least one more burp.

  “Do you…” He cleared his throat. “Do you like peanut butter?”

  She gaped at him. “Peanut butter?”

  “Some people are allergic.”

  “I’m not allergic. You want me to make you a sandwich?”

  He fixed his scorching attention on her. It burned. “No. Loser has to lick peanut butter from some portion of the winner’s body.”

  The way he said it, whispered it, sent a jolt of electricity sizzling along her nerves. A vision of finishing what she had started in the alley last week skewered her like a bolt. Not that she’d thought about it, imagined it. Much.

  Tension between them ratcheted up. The bubble of attraction surrounding them tightened.

  “That, um, that sounds pretty intimate.” Not that she minded. But it was quite a leap from ‘tell me your name.’

  His attention shifted to her breasts, then trickled down and down, lingering here or then and landing on her feet. Her toes curled at the heat in his stare. He cleared his throat. “I…really like peanut butter.”

  “I…we don’t have any peanut butter.”

  “I have some. At my place.”

  “Ah…and your…roommates?”

  He scratched at his neck. Ran a finger around the collar
of his t-shirt. “I’m here alone.”

  Holy hell.

  They were close. Face to face. Almost nose to nose. He smelled delicious. Heat wafted off him in waves. She remembered what it felt like, that second of bliss, when they’d been chest to chest on the ferry. And she ached.

  One night. One fling. Just one.

  “Okay.”

  Shock flickered over his features, but only for a moment. Then he regained control of himself and gulped. “Okay?”

  She nodded. Grinned. Elation swamped her, body and soul. Because she’d made a decision. When Tara Romano made a decision, she was all in.

  And because she really did love peanut butter.

  Chapter Six

  She’d said yes.

  He could hardly believe it.

  It didn’t matter if he won or lost the stupid game. Someone was licking someone tonight. And he doubted it would stop there.

  Of course, there was always the possibility she was playing him, as she did last week. There was always the possibility she would lather his cock up with creamy peanut butter—it would be creamy, wouldn’t it? Crunchy might be a little too kinky for his tastes—and then laugh and walk away.

  That would be a hell of a mess to clean up.

  But what the heck. A guy had to take a risk once in a while. Especially if the potential prize was a woman like this on her knees, lapping at his…

  Shit.

  He focused on calming his raging hard on. He could barely bend over the table to shoot. Not that it mattered. Win or lose, he won. The thought of licking peanut butter from between her delicate toes was nearly as alluring. She would probably choose the foot. Judging from what he knew of her, she would revel in having him kiss her feet. He would revel in that as well. God. What he wouldn’t give to watch her squirm…

  “Darlings!”

  It took a moment for Devlin to emerge from the fantasy he’d been weaving in his head to realize the high-pitched call was directed at them.

  A beautiful nymph with long flowing blonde hair tripped in six-inch heels through the pistachio shells scattered on the floor—heading straight for them. Crap. Devlin tried not to grimace.

  She stopped, repositioning her Gucci purse beneath her arm. “I didn’t know you two were here this weekend.” Her gaze skated from Ponytail to Devlin and back again. “And I didn’t know you knew each other.” Her lashes batted. They were long and lush and probably horribly expensive. Everything Avery Warner did was expensive and over the top. She wiggled her lacquered nails in their direction. Her diamonds flashed, even in the dim light. “Are you two…a thing?”