Page 43 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

T he thing about Turner and I is… we never back down from a challenge. Apparently, we’re both addicted to making our lives more difficult.

Not in a dangerous way; but in a “ let’s see how long you can sit across from me at a rooftop bar, lit by string lights and my freshly glossed lips, without touching me once ” kind of way.

Because that’s the game we’re playing tonight.

No touching.

No casual knee brushing.

No protective hand on the small of my back. No stray fingers wrapping around the stem of my wine glass under the guise of helping me steady it if I get a baby bit tipsy.

Just looks. Just words.

Restraint is the name of the game…

Basically the same way we’d played the “no making noise” game the last time we’d had sex. I sigh. There’s something so wickedly satisfying about watching him squirm when all he wants to do is drag you into his lap and ruin your lipstick.

Turner looks good enough to lick.

Black button-down shirt, open at the throat. Forearms braced on the high-top table like a damn GQ ad. His gaze? Lethal. Laser-focused like he's already making a list of ways to destroy me once the game is over…

My skin is hot, and my body is on fire but I’m thriving.

“I can do this,” he says casually, sipping his drink, fingers wrapped around a crystal cocktail glass, amber liquid swirling. “I have self-control.”

I lift my glass, tilt my head, and take a slow sip of wine. Let the rim graze my lips.

“You sure ‘bout that?” I ask, voice syrupy and innocent. “Because your jaw’s been clenched since I crossed my legs.”

He sets his drink down with precision and rests his chin on his hand.

“I’m fine.”

I uncross my legs again and when I do, his eyes track the movements.

Of course my dress doesn’t help. I wore this shit on purpose to remind him what he’s been missing since I moved out (not that he needed it).

It’s black. Short. The hem hits mid-thigh and threatens to climb higher every time I shift in my seat.

The fabric hugs like a second skin—satin, maybe, or some kind of sin-spun velvet.

Whatever it is, it catches the light every time I move, drawing his gaze to places I know he’s already imagined his hands.

Spaghetti straps. Bare shoulders. A neckline that dips low enough to make him reconsider the entire concept of this foolish game.

And the back? Practically nonexistent. Just one thin strap across the shoulder blades, leaving the rest of my skin on full display, glowing warm under the rooftop lights.

He swallows hard. Adjusts his collar again.

I pretend not to notice. But I notice everything.

“What if I told you I wasn’t wearing underwear?”

He blinks.

Like his brain has officially short-circuited.

Then he exhales through his nose and mutters, “Ah. So we’re playing dirty tonight? Nice.”

I smile behind my glass and shrug, taking another sip. “What? I’m just making conversation about my clothing.”

Or lack of it.

Turner shifts in his chair like it’s personally betrayed him. “Right. So, uh… hockey.”

I arch a brow, amused. “Are we talking about it or trying to use it as a distraction?”

He clears his throat. “Talking about it. I'm a professional athlete. I can talk about work.”

I bite back a grin. “Oh yeah? What position do you play again?”

His jaw tightens. “You know what position I play.”

I tap my chin. “Do I?”

He is so sexy when he’s irritated, leaning back on the stool as if he’s trying to put space between us. It’s not working . His legs are spread, one knee is bouncing, and I’m practicing all my self-control not to let my eyes stray to the center of his thighs.

“I hit hard,” he says, voice low and rough. “I like control.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re a teddy bear.”

Always so gentle with me. And sweet.

It’s been part of his charm and what I find so irresistible. On the other hand, he fucks hard. Goes down on me like it’s his job, and briefly I let my eyes close as I remember the last time his head was between my legs and his mouth?—

“Teddy bear?”

I clear my throat. “I mean… with your words. You say nice things. Compliment my brain. Offer me bites of your dessert.”

He smirks, slow and lethal. “But?”

“But,” I sigh, setting down my wine glass carefully. “Maybe you’re right. You’re not exactly soft when you’ve got my legs over your shoulders and your face buried between them.” Licking. Sucking.

Ugh!

“So work is good?” I shift again, like that’ll help. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

“Yup. How ‘bout you? How’s the new job treating you?”

My dress slides higher on my thighs. His eyes flick down. Snap back up.

Focus, Poppy.

“The new job is great. ” I’m unable to remember a single task I’ve done in the last week that didn’t involve fantasizing about this man in very specific and sexual ways. “I have a corner office. A coffee machine. Benefits. Bagels—it’s very adult-like.”

Turner nods, expression neutral. “That’s awesome.”

We stare at each other.

Neither one of us is thinking about work .

I swirl the ice in my glass. “Not to brag but I put wallpaper up in my office.”

I love office supplies, paper, and highlighter pens, even though I have no actual need for them most days. Who doesn’t?! Seriously. Give me a tape dispenser every day of the week and I’m in heaven.

“Yesterday I ordered a gold stapler and gold scissors,” I add, like it’s a personal triumph. “Very classy. Very executive.”

Turner’s lips twitch. “Have you always had a thing for tools?”

“Only shiny ones.” I meet his eyes over the rim of my glass.

It lands. He shifts in his seat again, one hand moving to adjust the collar of his shirt like it’s suddenly too tight. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers.

“What does the wallpaper look like?” he asks, but I can tell it’s half-hearted. He’s trying to keep us on track.

He’s failing.

“It’s black and cream floral toile and there are hidden messages in it that only I can see when I’m looking at it, like, not today Satan. It’s amazing.”

That earns a low laugh from his throat, but it dies fast—because now I’m dragging my finger around the rim of my glass and his eyes lock on it like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.

“Do you miss living with me?” I ask, too casually.

His smile disappears. “Of course.”

My stomach flips. I didn’t expect him to admit it so fast. So readily.

“Do you ?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, my voice quieter now. “More than I want to admit to myself.”

Turner exhales slowly, his gaze softening for a second, and I forget we’re playing a game…

Almost.

His eyes drop back to my mouth. Then lower. Then all the way back up like he’s trying to stay above water, but I’ve already dragged him under.

“I miss you,” he says. “In my space. In my bed. The way you smell. The way you hum when you’re looking through the kitchen cabinets.”

I hum when I’m looking through the kitchen cabinets?

I did not know that.

I press my lips together, because I am not about to cry in a rooftop bar while wearing no underwear and flirting like I’m trying to get arrested.

I lean forward and say, “I miss how you smell after you shower.”

Warm skin. Clean soap. That faint hint of spice clinging to his wet collarbone.

It always did me in. That scent used to cling to me, too, those nights we’d have sex and sleep together.

To his sheets. My pillow. My skin hours after he’d touched me.

Even now, just remembering it makes my thighs press together under the table.

His knee starts bouncing again, his body is begging for permission his brain won’t grant yet.

His fingers tighten around the glass.

I watch as his Adam’s apple bops up and down when he swallows.

“Do I really hum in the kitchen?” I set my hand on the tabletop, thrumming my fingers in a gentle rhythm.

“You hum when you’re focused,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “When you’re digging through the pantry looking for snacks. Or scrolling through takeout menus.” Turner smiles. “When you stand at the sink, waiting for the water to heat up.”

My heart aches. My body aches.

“I miss touching you,” he murmurs.

The air shifts as I suck in a sharp breath. “Oh? In what ways?”

I’m playing with fire and love how he responds.

“Take your pick.” His gaze flicks down to my legs.

Lingers. “I remember the sound you made when I pushed your legs apart and tasted your pussy for the first time.” His grin is lazy.

Positively evil. “I bet you’d still sigh when I kiss you.

I bet you’d still gasp when I slide my hand between your thighs and find you wet. ”

This conversation is so dangerous, especially since we agreed not to touch.

I swallow thickly. “Stop trying to butter me up so I’ll let you touch me.”

His smirk is slow and devastating. “Who said I needed to physically touch you to wreck you?”

Jesus.

My thighs clench.

His eyes flick down to the spot between my legs like he knows it’s wet. Like he knows his words are vibrating through my entire body.

The bastard.

“I could talk you through it,” he says, voice like warm honey and smoke. “Make you squirm in that chair. Right here. In public. In that sexy dress.”

I tilt my head. “You think you could make me come without touching me?”

Lord do I want him to try…

He nods. “I think… if I told you to cross your legs right now, you’d do it just to get some friction. Go ahead. Do it.”

My breath catches.

“Cross your legs,” he murmurs. “Tighter.”

I shift, slowly, deliberately—to prove I’m not doing it just because he told me to—but god, the pressure does feel so good . It makes me exhale through my nose and bite my lip.

“You’re soaked. Aren’t you?”

My lips part.

“I bet if I slipped my hand under that tiny little dress, I’d find you already dripping. Needy. Desperate to grind against my fingers.”

I squirm in my seat. “This isn’t fair.”

He chuckles. “Know what isn’t fair? The memory I have of you, standing in my kitchen, barely clothed. I had no idea who you were but all I thought about was sucking on your nipples, then dropping to my knees in front of you. Devouring you whole.”

Like he wants to do right now…

Suddenly, I’m compelled to give him a taste of his own medicine; he’s not the only one who has a way with words.

I lean in slowly, lips barely parted, voice sweet and sinful.

“I remember you too,” I whisper. “That day Cash was at the table, and you came out of the bedroom, fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on your hips, water dripping down your chest. You were the filthiest fantasy I’ve ever had and if my thoughts had any power, that towel would have been on the floor. ”

His smirk falters.

I smile.

“I remember thinking I wanted to drop to my knees,” I murmur. “Run my tongue along those deep V lines on your hips. Take your cock in my mouth and make you groan.”

My mouth waters as I lean in even closer—close enough for my breath to brush his skin. “I thought about it later that night, too. Closed my eyes and used my pink vibrator until I was biting my lip to stop myself from moaning.”

“Poppy,” he growls.

“Yes?”

“Get up.”

I blink. “ Now ?”

“Now.”

I lift my napkin, dab the corners of my mouth like I’m not seconds from combusting, and stand. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes track every movement like they’re starving.

As I turn and walk away, hips swaying with intention, I don’t have to look back to know he’s following.

I can feel him.

And as I hit the elevator button with one manicured finger, I hear him come up behind me, close enough that his breath grazes my shoulder.

“Touch me in the elevator and you lose the game.”

He leans in, voice ragged. “Baby, if I make it through the next thirty seconds without touching you, I deserve a fucking trophy.”