Almost all games can be won if you know how to correct for the con. And it just so happens that the game Vivienne is staring at, the high striker, is one of the easiest to win . . . unless it’s rigged so that no one wins. “Think you’re strong enough to get your girl a prize?” The carnie standing beside a tower brandishes a heavy mallet.
I pull a bill out of my pocket. “If you prove to me it can be done.” If the carnie can’t ring the bell, the game is rigged so that no one can. But if he does, I know I can.
The mechanism itself is simple. Hit the metal pad at the bottom of the tower with enough force to send a puck up the track of the tower and ring a bell. But the trick is that the pad must be hit dead center with the flattest side of the mallet. Hit at an angle or only make contact with a corner of the pad, and the puck won’t get high enough to ring the bell.
He pockets my money and grins, exposing a handful of nicotine-stained teeth standing like crooked tombstones inside his mouth. “Sure thing.”
I move to the side of the game’s base, keeping my eyes on the metal pad. The carnie swings and makes contact, sending the puck up the tower. After the bell rings, he hands the mallet to me. “There you go, win the lady a prize.”
I examine the metal head, adjust my grip, and swing like I’m splitting wood. Vivienne’s shout of happiness is almost louder than the bell, and the look on her face when she’s handed a unicorn nearly as big as she is is fucking priceless.
“Thank you!” she yells, bouncing on her tiptoes to kiss me. It’s meant to be one of those quick pecks, but I grab both her and the unicorn in my arms, extending our kiss until the carnie shouts, “Who wants a kiss like that from their lady? Step right up, five bucks a try!”
I reluctantly let her down, sending a scowl toward the man and leading a laughing Vivienne away. “What’s next?” I look around at the line of stalls. “Maybe a tiger to go with your unicorn?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m good with just the one. How about funnel cake? Or cotton candy?”
“That’s it?” I joke, feeling a wave of indigestion coming on. “No fried Oreos or blooming onions?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m a simple girl.”
Despite the blaring music and ringing bells and squealing children, Vivienne’s statement resounds inside my ears. She’s right. There is a refreshing pureness to Vivienne that I haven’t quite appreciated until now. She isn’t swayed by the glamorous parties I’ve brought her to, or the expensive clothes I bought for her. The only indication that she cares about money at all was when she was nervous to drive my car or concerned that I was spending too much on furniture for a house I didn’t own.
Rather than shop at expensive art galleries in Southampton, Vivienne seeks out unknown artists just starting out in their careers, buying from them directly and highlighting their work on her social media accounts. When she buys food, it’s always from a local farmer’s market or family-owned storefront rather than a corporate grocery chain.
And tonight, at this crappy carnival, she’s the happiest and most relaxed I’ve ever seen her.
After I buy our snacks, we look for a place to sit, but the few picnic tables are filthy. “We’re done with rides and games, right?”
At her nod, I begin waking toward the nearly empty parking lot. Handing Vivienne her enormous swath of pink and blue cotton candy, I squeeze the stuffed animal into the back seat before sliding onto the hood and pulling her along with me, her ass nestled between my thighs, her back to my chest.
“Comfy?” I murmur into her hair, which is a windblown riot of red that feels like silk against my neck.
“Yes.” She pulls off a corner of the funnel cake and brings it up to my mouth, confectioners’ sugar blowing off the top in a white mist.
I take the bite with my teeth, holding on to her slim wrist to lick the sugar off her fingertips. “So damn sweet,” I murmur.
Vivienne’s only reply is a sharp intake of breath, followed by an almost inaudible moan.
Together, we eat the funnel cake. Her feeding me, me feeding her. The taste of her fingers is better than the fried dough. And the feel of her tongue licking my fingers is . . . well, downright exquisite.
By the time we’ve moved on to the cotton candy, I only want one thing in my mouth: Vivienne.
But I’m sticking to my metaphorical guns. I won’t have her looking at me with tears of accusation swimming in her eyes. Tonight has been fucking amazing, and if all I get to do is suck on Vivienne’s fingers, I’m good with that.
And my dick will just have to get over himself.
Waving what’s left of the cotton candy, Vivienne says, “I can’t eat another bite.”
“Me neither.”
She looks over her shoulder at me, questioning. “No?”
I nip playfully at the side of her neck, licking at her skin. “Not food, anyway.”
Her eyes heat, those lips of hers coated in sugar like a candied apple, and slightly parted. I move closer, and she doesn’t back away. But I meant what I said about her having to kiss me. I merely glide my tongue along her lips, tracing the curves, tasting her amplified sweetness.
And then I pull back, grinning. “Delicious.”
Chapter 40
Vivienne
True to his word, Lance didn’t kiss me.
No. He licked me.
Jesus take the wheel.
And then drive us to the beach house, so Lance and I can make out in the back like teenagers.
I’m not sure how I manage not to lunge at him, but somehow I hold myself in check, at least while Lance takes the unfinished cotton candy from my hand and tosses it, along with the funnel cake plate, into a nearby trash bin. “Ready to go?”
I offer a shaky nod and some semblance of a smile, despite not feeling ready at all. Every time I look at the pool, I remember what we’ve done in it. Every glance at the trees edging his property and I see the hammock that’s no longer there. Passing the door to the master bedroom, especially knowing Lance still sleeps there every night, has me drowning in an avalanche of lust.
If all I felt for Lance was lust, I could handle it. But lust is just a fraction of what is surging through my veins. The snippets I’ve seen of Lance when his guard is down and he’s being open and vulnerable—over margaritas and tequila shots, eating lobster rolls and walking along the beach, and now tonight at this carnival—makes it impossible not to want more from Lance than just sex.
But I don’t just want more.
I want everything.
The fairy tale. The happily ever after ending. The love story worthy of a romance novel.
Want. It’s a shiny, ephemeral thing that surges through my bloodstream, weaving through my red and white blood cells like ribbons of gold. It lightens the blue veins visible on the inside of my wrists, brightens the tan I’ve earned during my weeks of summer sun.
I’m swollen with it. It shimmers inside my lungs with every breath, buzzes inside my brain like a drug, slides down my throat with every swallow.
The problem with want is that there’s no logic to it. No elegant solution or explicit plan.
Because want isn’t just a shiny gold ribbon. It’s also the toddler chasing after that ribbon. Will she catch it? Will she trip over it? Will she throw a tantrum because it evades her grasp?