End Game (New York Stars Book 1)

“YOU LOOK INCREDIBLE,” I rasp when I see her head out of the elevator and walk toward me in the living room where I’ve been waiting for her.

But the power suit I expected her to wear is nowhere to be found.

Her smile is so effervescent, she makes me feel drunk as she mumbles, “Wasn’t going to let you down, not when I knew you’d be wearing the Brioni.” A whistle escapes her. “You look incredible too.”

Her hands settle on my chest and the pressure of her fingertips soothes something inside me. Something that’s restless whenever she leaves to go back to her apartment.

We’ve been dating for, like, two minutes, so it’s way too soon for her to come and live with me permanently, but fuck if I didn’t wish she would.

Cupping her cheek, I murmur, “You could never let me down.”

She turns pink. “Should have shown up in my cutoffs and hoodie, hmm?”

I grin. “No way anyone is seeing your ass in those cutoffs but me.” Still… “Thought you weren’t going to wear a dress.”

“It’s not a dress,” she says smugly.

That smug smile—kill me now.

“Sure it is. It has a skirt.”

“There’s more to a dress than that,” she retorts with a sniff then retreats. “See?” When she pulls at the skirt, it parts!

“They’re pants?!”

“Yeah. Flowy ones.” She spins in a circle. “Neat compromise, huh?”

“You could have shown up in a tux, Gracie, and I’d have thought you were beautiful,” I counter, watching how the floaty silk skims over her legs in a way that reveals her curves.

When she stops messing with them, the fabric settles in place. I look back at her and realize she’s studying me with a somber gaze.

“What?”

“You really mean that?”

“The tux? Of course, I do,” I scoff. “Hell, you rock pantsuits, Gracie. Your ass…” I kiss my fingers. “Perfect in them.”

Her grin is swift to blossom. “I do like a man with good taste.”

I snag her hand. “Then it’s official—you like like me.”

“Shut up. What are we? In ninth grade?”

“More like tenth. That was when you started dating Chad.” I gag at the memory. I’d only been with the Bukowskis six months before she started hanging out with that assface. “I hated him.”

“Oh, my God. Chad! I forgot about him. How the hell do you remember his name?”

Because I remember all the assholes she’s dated.

“I wonder what he’s doing.”

“He’s probably got a beer gut and a receding hairline.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

“He was. Don’t you remember how he hurt you?”

“Not really.” Her gaze drifts. “Didn’t he sleep with Marie-Beth Letterman?”

“And half the cheerleading squad.”

“I was punching above my weight,” she excuses, which, more than the fact I thought she was wearing a goddamn skirt, has me gaping at her.

“You sure as hell weren’t. Fuck my life, Gracie. Look at you! You’re gorgeous. And you were back then, too.”

Her gaze is suspicious. “Even with the spiky hair?”

“Even with the spiky hair and the fact you used more of my hair gel than I did.”

A laugh bursts from her. “Mom wouldn’t let me buy any. Man, you’ve got a better memory than me.”

Only for memories that revolve around her.

I was such a moron back then.

Watching her, knowing who she was dating, teasing her mercilessly… wanting to kill every last bastard who got to touch her when I couldn’t.

All the signs of a teenage asshole in love.

I wasted so much goddamn time not opening my eyes to my real feelings for her. I figure that’s why it’s important to me now that I don’t waste anymore.

I could play it cool, probably should with Gracie. She’s the kind of woman who likes to be kept on her toes. But fuck it.

If she seriously thinks she was punching above her weight with Chad of the Neanderthals, she needs the confidence boost.

“My memories revolving around you survived the many hits to the head over the last decade or so.”

“Shut up,” she argues with a snort.

I grab her hand. “I mean it, Gracie.”

That color I enjoy seeing in her cheeks makes another reappearance.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell Hanna first?”

Her nose pops up. “And ruin our night? Nope.”

The words might be confident, but her uncertainty comes through as she signs her death warrant—her bottom lip pops in and is sucked between her teeth.

Needing to lessen her nerves and uncaring about the pink lipstick she’s wearing, I duck and press my mouth to hers.

A soft breath escapes her, but her arms immediately swoop up, curving around my neck as she leans into me.

When her lips part, I keep it gentle, wanting her to know that she matters. Needing her to know that she always has.

Her body collides with mine, her softness hitting my muscles, her tits rubbing up over my chest in a way that makes me want to explore the neckline of her soft silk camisole so I can release them and get another taste of her.

With a groan, I pull back, but only so that I can unfasten the button that keeps her jacket together. As I do, the golden silk beneath the navy pops even brighter.

I run my finger along the deep V of the neckline and murmur, “How do you make smart casual look glamorous?”

Her smile is shaky. “I’m just glad you like it.”

“I like everything about you, Gracie Bukowski,” I rumble, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose.

One of my hands cups her breast, and she arches her back, pushing into me, moaning. “We have to leave soon. We should have left twenty minutes ago.”

My gaze darts to the clock on the back wall and I find she’s right.

Ordinarily, I’d say fuck it.

Screw anyone or anything that’ll get between her and me.

But this is so much more than a charity function. Sure, the program matters to me, but that’s nothing to what it represents—our first time in public.

That’s more important than bending her over the counter and sliding into the sweetest cunt I’ve ever known.

I’ll do that later.

Twice.

Once the whole world knows that Gracie Bukowski is mine.