Page 67 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

“So you didn’t have a threesome in Ibiza last year?”

Asher didn’t dignify me with a response. “Are you going to throw his number away?”

Yes. “No. Why would I? It could come in handy one day.”

I was playing with fire. I knew that. But instead of deterring me, the heat beckoned, urging me closer and closer until I eventually got burned.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Asher snapped. “I’ve seen what happens to girls who get ‘handy’ with him. It usually ends with tears and tissues.”

“So what if it does? That’s my problem, not yours.” I cocked an eyebrow, drunk off potent whiskey and the danger swirling in the air. “Why are you so interested in what I do with Clive, Asher? Are you jealous?” I threw his question from Monday back at him.

“What if I am?”

The air stilled. Asher’s quiet response cut through the music like a knife through silk. It lodged somewhere between my heart and throat, where my pulse beat with the frantic rhythm of a hummingbird’s wings.

“What happened to platonic?” I asked. Equally quiet. Equally dangerous.

It was a last-ditch attempt to cling tonormal, though my definition of the word had warped since I met Asher.

None of this was normal. Not us standing here. Not the way he was looking at me. Not the way my heart thrummed in reply.

It was enough to make me believe that normal was overrated.

Asher closed the distance between us with two deliberate steps.

My back pressed against the wall. I had nowhere to run; even if I had, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere.

I’d known, from the minute I left my house, that this might happen. Part of me had expected it.

The back and forth, the give and take, the denial and attraction—every piece of choreography had led us to this moment.

“Platonic.” The warmth of Asher’s breath brushed against my skin. “Does this feel platonic to you?”

I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’tbreatheas his hand trailed up my arm and over the bare curve of my shoulder. I burned everywhere he touched, my skin nothing more than a map of little fires that consumed whatever oxygen was left in my lungs.

Every muscle was strung tighter than a bowstring. When his palm reached the nape of my neck, my body instinctively arched, just enough to make his eyes flare with heat.

His hand curled, anchoring me in place. “I asked you a question, Scarlett.”

A breathless shiver ran from my head to the tips of my toes.

Does this feel platonic to you?

“No,” I whispered. “It doesn’t.”

Another breath shuddered from his chest.

That was the last warning I got before he pulled me toward him and slanted his mouth over mine.

CHAPTER 18

SCARLETT

The world burst into a kaleidoscope of sensation.

I gasped, shocked by the sudden onslaught. Asher used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue inside and exploring my mouth with such lazy sensuality that any resistance I might’ve had simply floated away.

Some men were gentle; others were aggressive. Everyone had their own technique, and Asher kissed the way he played—skilled, dominant, and so thorough in his approach that it left me dizzy.