Page 68 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

I pressed tighter against him, eager for more.

Every second of the kiss unraveled another inch of me. The glide of his tongue. The firm hold on my neck. The delicious escalation in pressure—soft at first, then harder, more demanding.

I was falling apart, and he was the only thing holding me together.

I slid my hands over his back and across his shoulders before I dug my fingers into his hair.

He groaned, and another wave of pleasure rippled down my spine.

Time lost all meaning. We could’ve been there for minutes, hours, or days, but as always, physics prevailed.

Oxygen grew scarce, and when it finally ran out, we broke apart gasping.

Our ragged breaths filled the enclosed space as we stared at each other, our chests heaving.

Gradually, the world seeped back into my consciousness—a flash of movement outside the curtain here, a lyric underlaid with bass there.

My mouth was still swollen from our kiss when the fog fully dissipated and left me with the cold, hard reality of what we did.

In a nightclub.

Surrounded by people who would be all too happy to snitch to the tabloids about Asher Donovan and his mystery girl, a.k.a me.

Anxiety flooded my bloodstream and chased away the dregs of lust.

Oh God.What had I beenthinking?

Asher must’ve picked up on the shift in mood because his face turned somber. He had a tiny cut on his bottom lip from where I’d nipped it, and embarrassment swirled at the evidence of what I’d done.“Scarlett?—”

“I have to go.” I pushed past him and hurried toward the exit, head bent, heart in my throat.

He didn’t stop me, and I didn’t look back until I was free of Neon’s seductive darkness.

The queue outside still stretched around the corner. I ignored the stares from the waiting clubgoers and climbed into the first available cab, my mind spinning from how quickly the day had spun out of control.

It’d started with innocent drinks at the Angry Boar and ended with me running away after kissing Asher Donovan.

I came out tonight hoping for excitement. Well, I got it—a little too much of it.

I gave the driver my address and was about to text Carina when my phone rang.

Vincent.

My heart stalled. It was two in the morning in Paris. Why was he calling at this hour?

He couldn’t know about the kiss. It happened literally minutes ago.

The party had a no-cameras policy, but what if someone saw us go into the alcove and texted him?

I am so stupid.I hadn’t thought about the Vincent angle to our relationship in weeks. I should’ve, considering he was one of the reasons I’d stayed away from Asher for so long, but his physical absence made it easy to forget.

My earlier drinks climbed back up my throat as I answered his call. “Hello?”

“You’re up.” I heard the whistle of a kettle in the background. “I was expecting your voicemail.”

He didn’t know.Otherwise, he wouldn’t have expected my voicemail.

Relief loosened the knot in my lungs.