Page 47 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

So this was what he wore to sleep.

It was so casual yet intimate, like he’d unwittingly offered me a peek at his most private?—

“Scarlett.”

“Hmm?”

“I hate to interrupt your ogling, but can you please get up? As much as I love having you on top of me, this tile wasn’t designed for comfort.”

My gaze snapped up to his as realization dawned for the second time that night.

I was still straddling him.

Asher’s eyes creased with mirth as I shoved off his chest and scrambled to my feet.

Forget malicious spirits. If I died tonight, I only had myself to blame.

Here lies Scarlett DuBois, a victim of self-inflicted humiliation.

“I wasn’t ogling you,” I lied, drawing the tatters of my dignity around me in a last-ditch shield.

“Sure, and rain isn’t wet.” Asher stood, looking remarkably put together for a quarter past three in the morning. Further proof the universe didn’t play fair. “It’s alright, darling. I won’t hold it against you.”

“What did I say about calling me ‘darling?’”

“I’d say I get a pass considering you almost rearranged my face with my own cookware.”

He—well, okay, he had a point. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never is a long time.” A wicked grin stole across his face. “However, I’d expect frequent mentions of this night for the next fifty years or so.”

“Bold and erroneous of you to assume we’d still be talking in fifty years.”

“Stranger things have happened. If you’re lucky, it might even be seventy.”

I pictured wrinkled, white-haired versions of ourselves bickering in a nursing home somewhere.

The image didn’t repulse me as much as it should’ve.

Another gust of arctic air billowed from the open fridge door.

Asher’s gaze slid from my face down to my neck and chest. His smile faded, and an electric shiver rippled down my spine.

Neither of us moved to close the door.

Tension swallowed our earlier levity, and I was suddenly conscious of how little I was wearing.

I hadn’t wanted to sleep in my workout clothes, so Asher had lent me one of his shirts. The vintage black tee hit mid-thigh. Underneath it, I wore my favorite lace knickers—and that was it.

No bra.

My nipples hardened to painful points beneath Asher’s scrutiny. His eyes darkened, and an answering pulse throbbed to life between my legs.

I wasn’t a casual fling person. I’d tried. They didn’t do much for me, so my vibrator and I had developed a close relationship over the years. Usually, it was enough, but right now, it wasn’t the thought of my Maximus 3000 Ultra that made my body sing with heat.

It was the thought of what Asher could do with his hands and mouth when his gaze alone turned me on.

It was the fantasy of me straddling him again—only this time, we were both naked.