Free Girl Gear 5: Wicked Games by Alison Kent Page B

hard to do, now that he'd moved his hand to rub the flat of his thumb over her nipple covered with the filmy, gauzy lace of her bra.
    "Football," he said with gritted teeth, as if anything more was too much to push past his binding erection. "Why the hell are you wearing a bra?"
    She'd asked herself the same question seconds ago, even as she'd wondered if getting up to lock the door would spoil the moment. "In case you haven't noticed, I need one. What about football?"
    "This weekend's game." He wedged her legs apart with one knee and didn't even pretend to ask permission as his other hand settled possessively between. "The Texans win, I keep your bottoms. The
Texas
lose, you model them for me."
    "How fair is any of that?" she asked, then gasped as he pressed the long edge of his index finger up against her sex.
    "I like winning." His hand beneath her top made quick work with the hooks of her bra. "And getting my way."
    "I can tell," she said as her breasts fell free, and he moved both hands to cup her fully. She couldn't help herself; she placed her hands over his and pressed herself into his palms.
    He growled and shoved his erection against the seam of her pants, grinding against her until she whimpered and edged toward orgasm.
    "Why the hell are you wearing pants?" he demanded.
    "I like pants."
    "Learn to like dresses."
    "Bossy."
    "Damn right," he said, and stepped back completely, leaving her panting and hanging on the edge.
    She stared at him, looking for signs that he'd truly lost his mind. "What was that all about?"
    His grin was bigger than that of a cat with a canary, sexier than a devil given his due. He smacked his lips as if he couldn't wait to eat her up.
    "That was about having dessert before dinner. Now, let's go before the traffic kills us."

----
    Chapter 5
    « ^ »
    A fter three and a half hours spent indulging in fine wine, conversation and even finer friends, Kinsey waved a final goodbye to Ray Coffey.
    He shut his front door, and she and Doug headed down the suburban home's long pebbled walkway toward their cars. Dinner had been great; even Sydney perked up after a shower and a plate of Patrick's cooking. Who wouldn't when faced with a meal like the one he'd just served?
    Seafood and fruit in an amazing combination of sweet citrus and hot spice, and a pudding or custard sort of dessert, the likes of which Kinsey had never eaten but could easily find herself addicted to.
    Patrick hadn't even stayed to eat, Ray explaining away his brother's vanishing act as the norm. The ravenous group of six had simply gone on to praise Patrick in absentia as they ate.
    They'd avoided talking about the fire or the fund-raising auction, and had instead chatted about Izzy's recent humanitarian efforts working with Doctors Without Borders in Mexico .
    Having listened to her stories, Izzy's dinner partners all admitted to their feelings of inadequacy in the charity department. Izzy had rolled her doelike eyes at such ridiculousness, as she called it, and turned the conversation to Baron's and Ray's lifesaving efforts.
    At the end of the evening, Kinsey had felt like a toad for complaining about being scheduled for the auction block. It was the very least she could do to help. And who knew? She might meet someone to whom she wouldn't mind being sold.
    Someone who wasn't Doug Storey. As if.
    Using the light from the moon and the streetlamp, she dug through the contents of her purse for her car keys, trying—but failing—to stifle a groan. She was stuffed. Miserably, uncomfortably stuffed. "I don't think I've ever eaten that much at one sitting in my entire life."
    "I gotta agree." Doug followed close on her heels—close enough that his shadow was in her way; she shifted her purse to her other shoulder. "You'd think Patrick wouldn't have any problem getting a position as a chef."
    "True, except I'd guess his training is pretty much limited to Caribbean fare." Her keys, finally. She really needed to downsize her bag. Not to