“What’s a putt-putt?”
She’s making that up, right? It’s got to be the most nonsensical word, ever. “Putt-putt,” I say, sounding it out again. It sounds like something a toddler would say on repeat while playing with a truck . . . putt-putt-putt-putt.
“It’s like golf, but miniature, which makes it more fun.” She nods as if her statement actually makes it so or makes any sense whatsoever.
“Small does not equal fun,” I challenge.
Brazenly, she drops her gaze to my crotch where my dick stands up and tries to wave around like he’s calling out, Large and In Charge, Ma’am!
“Noted. That’s definitely true in some cases, but not all. Think like doll houses are fun, tiny foods are cute, and mini golf is going to change your life. Trust me, Colton.”
Oddly, I do.
Which is how I find myself holding a cheap metal club and playing what I suspect is largely a child’s game an hour later.
Neither of us is particularly good, and given the odd looks we’re getting, we are majorly overdressed for this activity, but it is fun. We figure out how hard, or rather how gently, to hit the balls by the second hole, but my ball gets trapped in a whale’s belly on the fourth. We have to answer a riddle to gain exit, but that only takes a couple of tries. The fifth, sixth, and seventh hole, I stand behind Elle under the guise of helping her line up her shot. I can say that my aim isn’t much better than hers, but my cock enjoys nestling against her ass.
It should feel wrong. It feels right.
It should feel fast. It feels impossibly slow.
“On the ninth and last hole, Colton Wolfe has the point advantage. This could be make-it or break-it for the English upstart.”
Elle’s voice is thrown low and dramatic, mimicking a sportscaster as I prepare for my winning shot. I spread my feet wide, adjusting my grip on the tiny club and looking left to aim before settling my eyes on the neon yellow ball in front of me.
My competitive nature is taking over, and I want to win, especially with the score this close. But there’s something else I want to win even more than bragging rights.
I relax and instead lean casually on the club. “So, what do I get if I win?”
Elle’s lips purse as though she’s fighting a smile. “Ooh, you’re learning. Are we wagering here?”
“I dare you . . . if I win, you come home with me. If you win, I go home with you.”
It’s a bold move, but I didn’t get to the position I’m in by making small steps. I think Elle, of all people, will appreciate the go-big or go-home American-style gamble.
She sucks in a breath, her breasts rising deliciously as they beg for my kisses, nibbles, and tongue.
“That’s against the rules. Seriously, there are rules.”
My brows drop down. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this? There are rules to this dare game you enjoy?” I make it apparent that I think she’s making things up on the fly, but she shakes her head.
“Tiffany and I have been doing this for a long time, and we’ve learned a few things, some the hard way. Rule one, nothing that’ll hurt someone, ourselves included. Rule two, no sex. Rule three, nothing illegal.” She pauses so that her words sink in. “Your dare violates rule two.”
I hold up a finger. “Counter. The rules you have for your game with Tiffany do not have to be the rules for our game. They can be different, as long as we agree to them.”
To neither of our surprise, she opens her mouth to argue. It’s like it’s a habit with her. But I hold up a staying hand.
“Also, I find it interesting that I merely dared for you to come home with me, or vice versa. You’re the one who mentioned sex. What if I’d wanted you to organize my closet?”
It’s a deadpan joke again, and I wonder if she’ll respond favorably because it feels like another bold move to make in the midst of her setting boundaries.
“Do you want me to organize your closet?” she retorts, crossing her arms. I think she’s aiming for a stern look, but it only serves to press her tits up.
I chuckle. “Of course not. I have people for that.” She throws her hands in the air, frustrated, but she’s smiling, enjoying our banter. I am too. More seriously, I say, “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, Elle. I’m daring you to listen to your heart, listen to your body, and okay, maybe your mind a little bit, because I don’t want you to regret anything. I dare you . . . to do what you want with me.”
Fuck, that gleam in her eye is sexy as sin and I know I’m in trouble. I may have met my match with this woman, and I couldn’t be more pleased about it.
“Dare accepted. Though how do you know I don’t want you to come home and scrub my toilet?”
I press a hand to my heart and screw up my face in disgust. “If that’s what you want with me, I guess I’ll have to do it. But we both know you’ll be staring at my ass the whole time.”
She growls but laughs. “Shoot your shot, Wolfe.”
I line up my aim again, double checking my form. Under my breath, I whisper, “Oh, I intend to.”
I swing, and the ball sails toward the windmill. It looks like I have a real shot at a hole in one, and I’m already half-celebrating my win when the fan speeds up with the bit of non-mechanical wind in the air. My ball hits the blade at the last possible moment and bounces off.
“Ooh, he almost had it in but was re-jec-ted. Harsh, that one’s gotta hurt.” Elle’s back to her sportscaster voice, but she lines up her own shot. She’s also unsuccessful.
We both try again, and then again. Finally, my fourth shot goes in. Unless she makes hers and ties us, I’ve won.
She steps her feet as wide as her dress will allow her, gripping her club loosely in her hands. She looks to the windmill, judging her distance and aim, and adjusts one more time. From the angle where I stand, I can tell she’s off, but it almost seems like she did that . . . on purpose?
She knocks the ball, and it rolls wide, nowhere near the windmill.
I’m on her in an instant, holding my club behind her back to cage her to me. “Did you let me win, Elle? Was that for pity or because what you really want, deep down, is to come home with me?”
Her teeth dent her bottom lip, and I kiss her gently to soothe the slight nervous tell. “No pressure. We’re playing at playing here, but I would like to take you home with me.”
“To organize your closet or clean your toilet?” she whispers with the corners of her mouth starting to tilt up.
I duck down, my lips oh, so close to that ear I want to suck and bite. I settle for nuzzling it. “No, to spread you out on my bed and trace every inch of your body with my tongue. To slip my fingers inside you and find what drives you wild. To slam into you hard and fierce as your tits bounce with every thrust of my cock into your sweet heaven. To hear my name on your lips as you come apart for me, shattering into pieces beneath me.”
Her breath is a rapid staccato against my ear, and I revel in the tiny whimper I hear deep in her throat.
“You’re still my boss. And there’s this whole HQ2 thing with my dad.” Her protests are weak, excuses running through her fingers like sand in the face of the desire enveloping us.
I can understand the argument. Hell, I could make it myself because I have just as much to lose here. She could report me to HR. She might still be a spy. I don’t care in the slightest. I just care about getting inside her—body and mind.