Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,34
a tray back to my amazeballs couch, where Ainsley’s made herself at home with her knees tucked under her, her pink-tipped toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her llama pants. She’s got the board ready to go and her tiles all picked out and neatly arranged on one of the racks.
“Impressive,” she says, nodding to the tray I’m balancing one-handed.
“I was a waiter before I was a club owner. And a bartender, and a bouncer and a booking agent. I even did a short but memorable stint as a DJ. My dad always said it was a good idea to learn a business from the ground up.”
“He sounds like a smart man.”
“He is.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t want to talk about my father now. Or business.
I set the tray down a safe distance from the board, pull up a chair and sit across from her with the coffee table between us. Can’t have her peeking at my rack, or accusing me of peeking at hers. Although from here, I’ve got a sweet view of the only rack I want to see. Her tank top doesn’t hide much. I’m getting an eyeful of her breasts, tight against the thin, clingy fabric, the outline of her dusky nipples clearly visible. My fingers twitch with the need to peel it off her, but I resist the siren’s song of immediate gratification in favor of the more tempting idea that’s beginning to form in my sex-obsessed brain.
She thinks I don’t know how to have fun? I’ll show her what fun is.
I drag my gaze from her perfect tits and carefully select tiles from the drawstring bag on the table. “How about we make this a little more interesting?”
She reaches for her brandy. “What did you have in mind? A wager?”
“Of sorts.” I lift my drink to my lips but stop short of sipping. “Have you ever played strip Scrabble?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ainsley
JAKE GLOWERS AT me as I come back into the living room. “What the hell are you wearing?”
I glance down at my outfit. I’ve thrown on a sweatshirt, plus two pairs of socks, a pair of Converse high-tops and my Yankees cap. I almost put a bra on, too, but the thought of harnessing the girls back up again was too much to bear. “I told you, if we’re playing strip Scrabble, I’m starting off with more than a tank top, pajama pants and underwear.”
He gives me a quick once-over then studies his own attire. “Swap tank top for T-shirt and pajamas for sweats and that’s all I’m wearing.”
“That’s your problem.” I plunk myself back down on the sofa, stretching out this time instead of curling up like a human pretzel. This thing was made for lounging. I get why Roscoe’s so attached to it. Fortunately, I don’t have to fight him for space tonight. Jake’s shut him away in the master bedroom, where he’s probably taking up most of the king-size bed, so he won’t disturb our game. “I’ve never played strip Scrabble before. What are the rules?”
“For every fifty points your opponent scores, you lose an article of clothing. If you challenge a word and win, you get to put one thing back on. But if you lose, something else comes off.”
“Sounds easy enough.” I twist the simple sterling silver pinkie ring I always wear on my left hand. “Does jewelry count as an article of clothing?”
His forehead creases, and I know he’s counting the piercings in my ears—two in the right, four in the left. I’m not sure if he’s spotted my tongue stud. And he sure as hell hasn’t seen the tiny silver chain hanging from my belly button. I went a little body-bling crazy when I escaped the repressive big-city-law-firm atmosphere of DK&G. I’ve contemplated getting a tattoo or two to go along with the multiple piercings, but I haven’t figured out what I want yet. Or where. If I’m going to get something permanently inked on my body, it has to be meaningful. And someplace it won’t hurt like—
“Hell, no,” Jake declares, unknowingly completing my thought. Apparently the six—or seven—piercings he can see are six or seven too many for strip Scrabble. “I’m already at a big enough disadvantage.”
“Chicken.”
He shrugs and makes a show of rearranging his tiles. “I prefer to think of it as pragmatic.”
“You can think of it any way you want. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re afraid of getting your ass kicked by your dog walker.”
“Executive concierge,” he corrects, smirking at