He’ll play dirty to get his girl
and outrageously sexy! Dirty Player brought all the feels and left me panting
for more!”—Annika Martin, New York Times Bestselling Author
It started as a joke…
want to talk about that look. In
fact, up until ten seconds ago, I’d been doing a bang-up job of ensuring we
haven’t had the opportunity to discuss it all evening. It’s a big ballroom, and
if Greg happened to be at the north end, I managed to stay south. The few times
I couldn’t stop our paths from crossing, I made sure to pull someone, anyone, along with me, thus ensuring
the conversation stayed far, far away from the look that got away from
it had been working. Unfortunately, my conversation buffer just saw her fiancé
come in, and the little traitor sprinted off, leaving me staring up at Greg.
Nothing to distract me from this gorgeous man in his tuxedo and the trouble I’m
having keeping my eyes to myself.
surrounded by good-looking men on a regular basis, and it never gets to me. But
with Greg, I can barely breathe. I can hardly look at him without heat spilling
into my cheeks, and as to tearing my eyes away? Forget it.
crazy. I’m not fifteen. This isn’t my first crush.
crush at all.
one of my oldest friends and the guy I just promised I wouldn’t objectify
tonight. We’re friends. Just friends.
more hookups between us.
head, mentally amending the no-more-flirting clause, because this is Greg. Flirting is like breathing
for him—an involuntary response, and one I sort of cherish.
discussed you avoiding me,” he says.
at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t—
passes by, and I swipe a glass of white wine from his tray. “I’m not.”
a low laugh that slides right through to the deepest parts of me.
hear it.” He steps closer, ducking his head so his next words are directed at
me and me alone. We’re standing in the middle of hundreds of people, but when
his eyes are on me like that, a glint of amusement edging a more serious
intent, it feels like we’re alone. “Should we discuss that look?”
burn hotter, and I toss back half my glass in one swallow. “It was just one
again, letting up on the eye contact as he surveys the crowd. “There’s that just
word again. I’m starting to think maybe you don’t think it means what it really
means. And P.S. … it wasn’t just one.”
guy. “Greg, we’re past it. Everything is fine.”
I don’t look at any part of him for more than a fraction of a second, we’re
subscribing to the fake-it-’til-you-make-it school of thought here.
his shoulder in my peripheral vision. “Well, that’s a relief.”
It’s definitely good. Right? I hazard another look at his face. “But out of
curiosity, can I ask why?”
of his mouth curves, and I feel the tug of it all the way through me.
you weren’t past it—if, for example, another one of those rogue looks
got away from you while we were in the midst of this crowd—I could see where
that might be a problem.”
myself to focus on the orchestra set up across the room. Only Greg isn’t done.
if by some miracle they don’t catch the look in your eyes, and I
do… then we’d have to worry about them seeing the look in mine.
The one that says it’s only going to be a matter of seconds before I’ve got one
hand in your hair and the other finding out what’s under that incredible
swallow, but my throat makes a dry clicking sound, so I drain my glass.
empty from my hand, Greg returns it to a passing waiter.
amused, the sexy jerk. He knew exactly what kind of effect that casual
reference to getting under my dress would have.
there’s zero chance of another one of those looks getting away from me. Ever.”
is probably a stretch, but he doesn’t have to snort about it. Cocky bastard.
let it go. Let him have his little laugh.
drink from his hand, I tap my index finger against the condensation-covered
glass before bringing it to my lips. Club soda and lime.
strong enough to justify what blurts past my lips, but I can’t stop myself. “So
you don’t need to give what kind of tiny and delicate I’ve got going on under this dress another
stiffens, and his eyes cut to my chest. He’s built like a superhero, but
despite his apparent laser focus, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t actually have
wanted was the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. Maybe to gloat a little.
one of us is the type to relinquish a win so easily.
you’re going to have to be careful. Tiny and delicate sounds like it might not
survive these rough hands of mine.”
catches as need spears through me, and my center goes hot and liquid.
mouth, wanting to say something sharp that puts him in his place. But I can’t
make a sound. I can’t think about anything but the snap of elastic and my
panties falling apart in his big… rough… hands.
to be waiting for the comeback that isn’t coming too.
stretch and pull.
meet and, suddenly, that smug satisfaction washes clean off his face as his
nostrils flare and his eyes turn to midnight. I’m pretty sure this is the look
he warned me about.
Now you’ve done it, Jules.”
shaky breath. “I know.”
romantic, stress baker, and housekeeper non-extraordinaire, Mira Lyn Kelly is
the USA TODAY bestselling author of more than a dozen sizzly love stories with
over a million readers worldwide. Growing up in the Chicago area, she earned
her degree in Fine Arts from Loyola University and met the love of her life
while studying abroad in Rome, Italy… only to discover he’d been living right
around the corner from her back home. Having spent her twenties working and
playing in the Windy City, she’s now settled with her husband in rural
Minnesota, where their four amazing children and two ridiculous dogs provide an
excess of action and entertainment. When she isn’t reading, writing, or running
the kids around, she loves watching the Chicago Blackhawks and action/adventure
movies, blabbing with the girls, and cooking with her husband and friends.