Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love)

Disappointment slams into me. My gaze drinks in her plump lips, the elegant line of her throat. “Why?”

“It will make things complicated. We have a history.”

“I’m going to change your mind,” I hear myself saying, stepping closer to her. “First, we can keep the arrangement professional.”

She winces. “And when you leave, I’ll still be here dealing with the aftermath.”

I brush a piece of lint off her shoulder, my hand lingering as if it has a mind of its own. “I’ll make sure you aren’t to blame, Nova.”

Her tongue darts out and touches her lip.

“Let’s play for it,” I purr.

“Play?”

“Hmm. You worked in a bar. I’m sure you’ve played pool or thrown your share of darts?” I nudge my head at the back of the room.

She thinks about it. “I’m not great at games. Sabine decimates me in chess. Strategy was never my thing.”

“I’m not good either.”

“Please. I’m not sure this is fair.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of woman to turn down a bet, Nova. I bet you can’t beat me.”

She stiffens, her eyes narrowing. Gotcha.

“Come on.” I take her elbow and guide her to the back.

She picks up the dart shaft and runs her fingers over the flight on the end. “Let’s do darts, then. What are the stakes?”

“If I win, you’ll agree to be my fake girlfriend. You decide what you want if you win.”

Her gaze drapes over me slowly, taking in my loose nylon sports pants and an old Pythons shirt. She cracks her knuckles. “Let’s make this interesting. We throw three darts. The one who hits the closest to the bull’s-eye gets something each time. A boon.”

“Hmm, sounds like you’ve done this before.”

“You have lots of pretty things in this room.” She nudges her head at the big-screen TV. “Very nice.”

“All right. I’m in.” I am so going to kick her ass.

She inclines her head. “We should practice.”

“Please.” I move and let her stand behind the throw line of the dartboard.

She throws one, and it hits the wall.

I huff out a laugh.

“I’m warming up,” she snips.

Her next five darts hit the outside of the bull’s-eye, and my lips twitch.

“Here, let me help.” I move behind her and take her arm. “Don’t put too much weight on the front of your feet, or you’ll lose stability.”

She leans back against me as I hold her throwing hand. My other hand goes to her hip, and her body aligns with mine, fitting. I take a deep breath, sparks flaring over my skin.

I clear my throat. “The way you hold the dart is called the grip. First, don’t apply much pressure. Use your index finger . . . here . . .” I caress her finger, putting it where it goes. “Find where it’s level . . . that’s it . . . support that with your thumb, and then use your other fingers . . .” She moves to get a better position, and her ass brushes against me. I force my cock to settle. We stand there for several moments, neither of us moving.

I step back. “Now, relax your posture, and release the tension. Keeping your eyes on the board, let your elbow be at a comfortable fixed position. Good. When you throw, move your arm, throw like it’s a paper airplane, but don’t change your elbow. Try to release all your fingers at once. If you don’t, you’ll screw up the stability of the dart. Extend your arm as if it’s aiming for the target you want to hit.”

She throws, and it hits the triple-score ring outside the bull’s-eye.

A grunt comes from her. “Dammit.”

She throws several more, missing, then scowls at me.

I take my practice round, being a little reckless with my throws to bolster her confidence.

The contest begins, and I go first, my shot hitting inside the bull’s-eye and to the left.

She steps up to the line and gives me a sweet smile, one that I know is a little sly, then throws her dart and hits the middle of the bull’s-eye. She gasps, then claps, a delighted expression on her face. “Will you look at that? I win the first one!”

“Lucky shot,” I mutter.

“What should I ask for?” she says as she taps her chin.

“Please don’t take my TV. I need my football this weekend.”

She laughs as her gaze lands on my shirt, and I pop an eyebrow, amused. I tug up the end of it. “You want my shirt? You used to be a fan . . .”

“Nope.” She sits and spins around on a barstool. “I want the Heisman. I know you won’t give it up forever, but I want it for at least, let’s say, a month.”

I burst out with a laugh. “That’s my baby. I kiss it every morning!”

“You agreed to anything. Plus, it won’t be far from you. Just next door.”

I exhale. “You can have it for one week. You must keep it away from Sparky. Keep your air between sixty-eight and seventy-two. Don’t set it near anything—”

“Done!” She jumps off the stool and marches over to the Heisman and picks it up, hugging it. “It’s so pretty. And hard.”

“Don’t use it for sexual pleasure,” I reply with a grin.

“M’kay. Maybe.” She sashays back to the dartboard, setting the trophy next to her phone on a table. She uses her phone to turn on music, and the sound of Otis Redding’s “My Girl” fills up the room. “All right! Let’s do the next round.” She hums the song as she picks up her dart, throws, and hits dead center.

“You’re a dart shark,” I accuse as I take my spot. “Admit it. Your practice shots were total bullshit.”

“I said I wasn’t good at strategy games . . . but I love me some darts.”

“You played me.”

I shake my head, then throw, hitting close to hers. We both rush to the board to check the darts.

“Tie,” I say. “We each get a boon.”

She bites her lip. “You go first.”

My gaze lingers on her tank top.

She uses her Texas drawl on me. “This isn’t strip darts, honey. My shirt isn’t coming off.”

“Fine. I want your bra for a week.”

“No.”

“You got my trophy, and you can’t spare a simple bra? Wow.”

“Ugh. You’re a whiner.” She tugs her arms inside her shirt and moves around, obviously unhooking it, then pulls it out from her neckline. All very skilled. Her nipples poke through her shirt as her breasts sway. She tosses it at me, and I catch the red lace fabric.

I hold it up to my face, then run my tongue along the edge of one of the cups.

Breath whooshes out of her, her lashes fluttering. “Ronan . . . I . . . what are you doing?”

Something I shouldn’t, but . . . “I never said I’d play a clean game.”

“Don’t use it for sexual pleasure,” she grouses. “Okay, my boon is . . .” She pauses. “I want you . . . to put my bra on.”

“You wicked woman.”

“Rules are rules.”

There are no rules to this game. We’re toying with each other, and we both know it.

“I’ve never worn women’s undergarments before,” I say as I dangle it in front of her. “I need help.”

She takes the bra from me. “Can’t even dress yourself. Poor thing. Bless your heart.”

“Ah! I know what that means. Just put it on me and swear to never tell anyone.”

She slips the armholes on me, then sets the straps on my shoulders. She eases behind me and pulls, then grunts. “Of course it won’t snap.” She turns me around to face her, then puffs out the cups. They end up between my throat and the top of my chest.

“Oh yeah, you’re so sexy,” she murmurs, and I laugh; then I catch myself in the reflection of the mirror behind the minibar and groan.

“This is outrageous.”

“Yep. Ronan Smith in lingerie. I have TMZ on speed dial—” She reaches for her phone, and I toss it out of her hands.

“No pics. Prepare to lose, sweetheart. Let’s do this again.” I’m ready to win this thing.

She gives me a pointed look. “I’m wondering why you didn’t ask me to be your fake girlfriend.”

“Because I’m confident.” And this bra is the fucking sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Totally going to jack off with it.

We throw again, and I win. “Yes!” I pump my fist while she scowls, her hands on her hips.

“What do you want?”

I think on it. “First, we should do more than three throws. You in?”

“Maybe.” She looks over at Darth Vader. “I’d like a dark villain. I could hang clothes on him—or dance with him. So what do you want?”

I skate my eyes over her. “You don’t have much on you.”

“This is true. I’m rather poor.” She sticks out one boot, showing a long, shapely, tanned leg. “How do you feel about boots?”

“They’re not my size.”

“But they are one of my prized possessions.”

“Lie. They’re from high school. I want a kiss,” I murmur.

She waltzes over to me, hips swaying. Then, fast as lightning, she reaches up and brushes her mouth over my scarred cheek.

My breath hitches as she lingers, her fingers lightly caressing the line from my temple to my neck. My heart twinges, shifting in my chest, aching for . . . something I can’t have.

She stares at me. “I like your face. It’s you. Oh, you were pretty before the scars—in fact, I liked to call you Henry Cavill . . . that jawline is wicked hot—but now . . .” Her shoulders shift. “You have character. Meaning. You survived and came out on the other side flawed . . . yet beautiful.”

I frown, grappling with how I feel about her words. “I’m not beautiful.”

“Beauty isn’t on the outside. I learned that in the pageants. I met some beautiful women who were ugly on the inside and some who were incredible. Beauty is how we go on, the life we create around us. Living a life that’s meaningful. I’m not sure I’m there, to be honest. I’m trying hard. We all are. I know that coming home was good for me, even though the reason is sad. Truthfully . . .” She sighs, a contemplative expression on her face. “I needed an anchor in my life, a sense of belonging, and Sabine and home are it.” A laugh comes from her. “Look at me. I’m making us talk about serious things when we should be throwing darts.”

It dawns on me that I don’t have an anchor—unless you count coaching.

She might be the first woman to ever kiss my scars. Sure, I’ve been with women since that night with Nova—carefree, lighthearted young women, the kind I could forget—and usually they just pretended my scars weren’t there. Perhaps they didn’t know what to say. Perhaps they just wanted to forget they existed.

“Let’s move on,” I say and ease away from her.

She throws first and hits just outside the bull’s-eye; then I go, and my dart hits the wall.

“Dammit.”

She’s chanting “I beat Fancy Pants” while I glower in the corner. Stopping, she stands in front of me. “I want Darth Vader for a week. You have to deliver him to me.”

I groan. “He’s very expensive. And heavy.”

“This game was your idea. Let’s go again. I can do this all night,” she sings.

I line up and throw, but my dart goes off center. I curse again.

Her stance is spot on, her elbow perfect as she throws straight to the bull’s-eye.

I heave out an exhale as she waltzes around the room, stopping at the Princess Leia snake cuff. “I want the bracelet. Forever. It’s mine anyway. I need it to complete my outfit.” Her head turns, and she cocks an eyebrow. I stalk over to where she is, flip open the case, and slap it in her open hand.

“You don’t even like Star Wars,” I mutter.

“You hate losing, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I growl.

She fiddles with the cuff, not able to work the clasp, and I take it from her, push her sleeve up, and attach it. On its own accord, my hand grazes down her arm.

“This game feels like foreplay,” she murmurs, then sways away from me.

“I never envisioned foreplay with me in a bra,” I complain.

She laughs. “Round six is up.” She throws, and her dart is off center.

I step up and send the dart straight into the middle of the board. Score. I face her, smiling.

She toys with the end of her ponytail. “I’m not taking off my clothes.”

I take a seat on one of the stools. “I need to think on this.”

She sits across from me, cupping her chin in her hands as our gazes cling. I fucking love looking at her, and it isn’t just her beauty. There’s an infectious quality about her smile, a sense of irrepressible joy that surrounds her.

Playing darts with her might be the best time I’ve had in this big house.

“Tell me something about you,” I say. “Something I don’t know. A secret.”

“A secret . . . hmm . . .” There’s a long pause; then, abruptly, she yells and hops around the room.

“What?”

She plops on the floor, yanks her boot off, tosses it away, and then rubs her arch. “Cramp. All that positioning in front of the dartboard . . . maybe the stilettos I wore. It’s been a while since I wore them. I don’t know. Ugh. My calves hurt too.” Her face scrunches in pain.

I bend down and take her foot. “Here, let me.” I press my thumbs into her arch, rotating them with deep pushes. “It hurts at first, but try to relax your leg muscles, okay?”

“Okay.” She winces, little puffs of air coming from her. “Sorry. I ruined the game. I was going to make you dance around in my bra on the next round. Or take the big-screen TV. Mama’s is ten years old . . . ouch! It hurts. Why?” she wails.

“Could be dehydration or the shoes or just about anything.”

“I can’t stop the shoes. I’ll be seeing Andrew!”

“You’d dress for a man who hurt you?”

“I’ll be dressing to make him see what he missed.”

My lips tighten at those words. “Flex your leg again,” I say and massage into her foot, pressing on the top toe, then drawing my hand out to her heel.

Relief crosses her features, a sigh coming from her. “It’s gone. God. Your hands are like magic. Thank you.”

“No problem. I’ve had a million cramps.” I sit down next to her on the floor. Her tank top has ridden up, and I see her stomach. I pull it down just as she does, and our hands meet. Our fingers pause, then lightly lace together. My thumb brushes over the top of her hand. Small circles on soft skin . . . heat ripples over me.

“Tell me your secret,” I murmur, leaning closer to her face.

A slow blush works up her throat. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

A shuddering breath comes from her as she gazes up at me, pupils dilated.

My breath quickens. “Nova . . .”

Her mouth parts. “Ronan . . .”

At the sound of my name on her lips, the desire I’ve been pushing away rushes in like a tsunami. Forget fucking Andrew. Yes, she’s still in love with him, but . . .

Her hand tangles in my hair, cupping my scalp. “What is this . . . ,” she murmurs.

This is crazy. It’s undeniable spark. Desire.

Part of me tells me to stop, to not go down this road, that I’m crossing a dangerous line . . .

I lean down, and she meets me halfway, our breaths mingling as our mouths cling in a desperate kiss. Her lips are pillowy, like satin, and I groan at the lush feel of her. Our lips pull away and go back again, searching for more. I tug on her lower lip with my teeth, and she does the same to me. Our tongues tangle, tasting each other, until we pull away gasping. It’s as if our mouths recognize each other, syncing in an age-old rhythm.

I hover over her, aligning my body with hers as my forearms support me.

“Pull up your shirt,” I breathe out.

She eases it up, exposing her full, creamy tits, and I take a nipple in my mouth and suck. Her areola is a dark pink, and I tease my tongue around it, then nip with my teeth. I move to the next one as my mouth learns the shape of her, the curves, the freckles on her chest, her collarbone. I taste it all. My dick rotates against her shorts, slow and easy, then harder. Her hands slide around my waist and under my pants to my ass, pulling me closer.

Sparks explode when she reaches around to cup my cock through my joggers. I push into her hands, groaning.

“Nova . . . ,” I whisper as I stare down at her. Her sapphire eyes glow with heat, and something inside me pauses, terrified, a war inside my mind.

This is the moment . . .

When I should stop.

But—

And that’s when the office door flies open.