It’s a voice made to melt panties and weaken resolve. That alone is nearly enough to make me rethink my vow to remain married to my pie shop and leave dating to women with more tolerance for assholes and their feathered friends.
I shift to my right, sneaking a peek at the owner of the voice, and I am…lost.
Utterly lost, helpless to resist the magnetic pull of a thirtysomething, dark-haired man with Henry Cavill broad shoulders, the profile of a Roman warrior, a beard I want to feel against my face, and the plushest lips I’ve ever seen on a man, perfectly full and absolutely kissable. And on this massive, sexy beast in a three-piece suit—clearly custom made to accommodate his staggering broad-shoulder-to-trim-waist ratio—that mouth is perfect.
He’s perfect.
And just like that, I decide that he will be mine.
At least for a night.
Tonight, I will claim Rubik’s Cube victory and the pleasure of this gorgeous human’s company. Tonight, Gigi James is coming out on top.
Or on top and bottom and up against the wall and as many other positions as we can fit in between now and tomorrow morning.
2
West
I didn’t come to this party to meet a woman.
I’m here because my friend Graham texted me earlier today. It’ll be fun, he said. You can’t spend all your time in the States with your nose in your business. Plus, it’s a great way to say an ironic ‘see you later’ to all those dating games.
With that closing argument, I was sold. Dating shouldn’t be a game, but lately I’ve run into more than my share of women playing the prove yourself to me game, the hard-to-get game, and the if he texts first, he’s a chump game.
For fuck’s sake—how is that even a thing?
Yet, it is.
Since I’m so very done with figurative games, I said yes to real ones.
But right now, all I want to say is “Hello cleavage. So lovely to make your acquaintance.”
To think I nearly missed this chance encounter. If I’d sidled up to this bar a few minutes earlier, I might have missed this beauty in the purple dress—a dress that suggests the how does one get a woman out of a dress with so many tiny buttons and buckles game.
Thank you, kismet, for ensuring I was waylaid by an old schoolmate who’s still deep in the investment banking scene. I haven’t seen Nigel since uni, but he couldn’t wait to tell me how much money he was making and to flaunt his Vacheron Constantin watch as we chatted.
He almost clocked me in the nose with it. Twice.
Yes, I get it. You spent nearly $200,000 on a wristwatch. Good on you. And your wife just bought a Bentley.
Or perhaps it was a designer hedgehog. I can’t remember, and it hardly matters.
There’s a reason I rarely spend time with people who are obsessed with making money.
They’re dull.
But gamers? And not just any gamers, but vintage gamers? These are my people, and games belong at a party.
Graham’s off with his wife playing Jenga, which I think is a euphemism for foreplay. But with the two of them, everything is a euphemism for foreplay, as it should be when you’re disgustingly happily married.
But that’s all for the best since here I am face-to-face with the most stunning woman I’ve seen in ages. I hope she’s brainy too.
I noticed her the moment she walked in—the way she owned the room, the confidence in her stride, and in her smile too. A woman who’s unafraid to come to a party solo—that’s so damn sexy.
Like the rest of her—her curves, her smooth, creamy skin displayed by that fantastic dress with a bustier that’s doing everything a bustier should do.
Boost the assets.
All the assets. If they aren’t each an overflowing handful, I’ll eat my pocket handkerchief.
Her hair tumbles in soft, auburn waves over her shoulders, and her blue eyes shine with shameless appreciation as she meets my gaze, as if she’s just tasted the most delicious treat.
It’s a damn good look on her.
Especially when the tip of her tongue flicks out to lick the corner of her glossy pink lips, ever so briefly.
Yep, I’m not going anywhere else tonight. She’s where I want to spend the rest of the evening. Especially when I notice her earrings, and just like that, I know we have something in common.
With an elbow against the bar, I lock eyes with her, savoring the twinkle in hers. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but if you’re in need of a Rubik’s Cube partner, I can finish in under a minute.”
My opening line is a thrown gauntlet, and her lips curve up into a grin I want to kiss. “Well, what do you know? So can I,” she says. “Though I’m pretty sure that’s the only time when finishing in under a minute is something to boast about.”
“Exactly. I’m all for endurance and stamina in other areas. Like…swimming, for example,” I deadpan.
“Or reading?” she tosses back.
I tap my chin, considering. “Yes. A long read is a lovely thing. Or perhaps a twenty-four-hour ballroom dancing competition?”
She brings her hand to her chest, fingers splayed across the beautiful cleavage I can’t wait to worship with my mouth. “You’re speaking my language, mister. Those are some of my very favorite things. But I do believe you left out one important activity that requires stamina.”
I knock back some of my Scotch. “Ah, but did I? Perhaps I was simply being polite.”
“There’s no need for that. Especially since you say you have,” she waggles her fingers, her nails decorated in a bright ruby red, and whispers, “magic hands.”
Any cuber worth his salt should possess those.
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
The bartender hands her a coffee with a, “Here you go. Black and strong.”
She flashes him a grin. “Thank you. The only way to drink it.”
I beg to differ. The best way to drink coffee is to…not drink it. Ever. It’s a wretched beverage, but now is not the time to say so.
She lifts the mug and takes a swallow, leaving behind an imprint of her gorgeous lips on the white stoneware. When she sets it on the edge of the bar, my eyes stray to the marks. “Lucky mug.”
“I could say the same about your glass of scotch, Mister Magic Hands.”
“I’ll gladly accept that nickname.”
She takes another sip as she looks me over, drinking me in as seductively as she drinks her coffee. I feel like I’m being sized up for possible devouring and, holy hell, I like it.
With a satisfied sigh, she sets down the mug again. “I think our game of choice requires a certain amount of magic, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. Assuming we’re here, then, for the same game? What with your earrings, I assumed…” I gesture in the direction of the little Rubik’s Cubes hanging from her ears.
She reaches for one, running a finger over the miniature cube in her right lobe, as if she just remembered it’s there. “You assume correctly,” she says, then lowers her hand.
I eye her up and down, appreciating her attention to detail. Something about the way she’s put together—the thick curls of hair, the flouncy dress with all those buttons, the heels, and the charm necklace—suggests she likes looking good for herself, not for a man.