Page 94 of Desperate Games

They paw at the air the second they see me.

And I couldn’t be more disgusted.

Or more fucking angry.

“Are you sure you won’t partake?” Stavros asks, swirling a crystal glass of amber liquid like some kind of smug Greek god come to life.

His accent is smooth, his tone playful—but his eyes are sharp.

Testing. Always testing.

Just another fucking game I’m forced to play.

I stand there, hands in my pockets, jaw tight.

“Sir, I’m a married man. And there is no one in this world who could tempt me away from my wife.”

My voice is flat. Absolute. Because it’s the truth.

Andy is it.

Her laugh. Her eyes. Her curves.

The way she looks at Callie like she’s already hers.

That’s my world.

That’s my home.

These women are all knockouts to someone I imagine—just not to me.

Their silicone assets, spray-tanned skin, fake lashes, and extensions don’t mean a goddamn thing.

It’s plastic. Artificial. Hollow.

I like my curves real.

I like my women with fire in their eyes and thorns under their silk.

Confident. Intelligent. Feisty.

Fuck me, I like Andy. Period.

No one else will ever do.

They giggle when I brush past them, whispering to each other like I’m the freak here—like they’re not used to rejection.

One of them shoves a lollipop in her mouth, sucking it slow and obscene, the invitation clear as neon.

I don’t give her a second glance.

Because the truth is? I’m hanging on to my temper by a thread.

This island Stavros dragged me to is remote, cut off from everything except the static-choked sat phone, and Andy hasn’t answered my last three calls.

It’s been almost a week of this bullshit parade of yachts, cocktails, and half-naked distractions.

Six days since I heard her voice.