The Striker (Gods of the Game #1)

18. Scarlett

CHAPTER 18

SCARLETT

The world burst into a kaleidoscope of sensation.

I gasped, shocked by the sudden onslaught. Asher used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue inside and exploring my mouth with such lazy sensuality that any resistance I might’ve had simply floated away.

Some men were gentle; others were aggressive. Everyone had their own technique, and Asher kissed the way he played—skilled, dominant, and so thorough in his approach that it left me dizzy.

I pressed tighter against him, eager for more.

Every second of the kiss unraveled another inch of me. The glide of his tongue. The firm hold on my neck. The delicious escalation in pressure—soft at first, then harder, more demanding.

I was falling apart, and he was the only thing holding me together.

I slid my hands over his back and across his shoulders before I dug my fingers into his hair.

He groaned, and another wave of pleasure rippled down my spine.

Time lost all meaning. We could’ve been there for minutes, hours, or days, but as always, physics prevailed.

Oxygen grew scarce, and when it finally ran out, we broke apart gasping.

Our ragged breaths filled the enclosed space as we stared at each other, our chests heaving.

Gradually, the world seeped back into my consciousness—a flash of movement outside the curtain here, a lyric underlaid with bass there.

My mouth was still swollen from our kiss when the fog fully dissipated and left me with the cold, hard reality of what we did.

In a nightclub.

Surrounded by people who would be all too happy to snitch to the tabloids about Asher Donovan and his mystery girl, a.k.a me.

Anxiety flooded my bloodstream and chased away the dregs of lust.

Oh God. What had I been thinking ?

Asher must’ve picked up on the shift in mood because his face turned somber. He had a tiny cut on his bottom lip from where I’d nipped it, and embarrassment swirled at the evidence of what I’d done. “ Scarlett?—”

“I have to go.” I pushed past him and hurried toward the exit, head bent, heart in my throat.

He didn’t stop me, and I didn’t look back until I was free of Neon’s seductive darkness.

The queue outside still stretched around the corner. I ignored the stares from the waiting clubgoers and climbed into the first available cab, my mind spinning from how quickly the day had spun out of control.

It’d started with innocent drinks at the Angry Boar and ended with me running away after kissing Asher Donovan.

I came out tonight hoping for excitement. Well, I got it—a little too much of it.

I gave the driver my address and was about to text Carina when my phone rang.

Vincent .

My heart stalled. It was two in the morning in Paris. Why was he calling at this hour?

He couldn’t know about the kiss. It happened literally minutes ago.

The party had a no-cameras policy, but what if someone saw us go into the alcove and texted him?

I am so stupid. I hadn’t thought about the Vincent angle to our relationship in weeks. I should’ve, considering he was one of the reasons I’d stayed away from Asher for so long, but his physical absence made it easy to forget.

My earlier drinks climbed back up my throat as I answered his call. “Hello?”

“You’re up.” I heard the whistle of a kettle in the background. “I was expecting your voicemail.”

He didn’t know. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have expected my voicemail.

Relief loosened the knot in my lungs.

“Nope. No voicemail.” A nervous laugh leaked out. “Just me.”

“Where are you? It sounds like you’re in a car.”

“I went out with a friend, but I’m on my way home.” Technically not a lie. “What’s up? Is Dad okay?”

“He’s fine. Complaining about the government and state of modern cinema, per usual,” Vincent said. “But he’s recovering well, and Bernadette, our nurse, has a good handle on things. Enough that I can leave the house without him worrying that she’ll murder him with arsenic when his back is turned.”

I snorted. Our father was eccentric, but I suspected he went on his rants because he liked to complain, not because he believed what he was saying.

“Anyway, I’m going to be in London next weekend. I have a promo video to shoot for Nike. You free for dinner one of those nights?”

“Hmm. I do have a riveting date with my latest thriller, but I suppose I could make time for you.” I strove for a normal, sarcastic tone. If I was too quiet or accommodating, he’d know something was wrong.

“Your generosity knows no bounds,” Vincent said wryly. “It’ll be good to catch up. How are things going with Donovan? He’s not giving you a hard time, is he?” His tone darkened at the mention of his teammate.

My pulse sped up again.

“No,” I squeaked. Quite the opposite, actually. “He’s fine. Very, um, professional during training.” I let the during training part do the heavy lifting.

“Good. I hate that you have to spend a whole summer with him.” I could practically see Vincent gritting his teeth. “Be careful, Lettie.”

I mumbled some semblance of a response.

“If he so much as lays a hand on you or makes you uncomfortable, let me know immediately,” Vincent said. “I’ll kill him.”

“You’re so dramatic.” I forced another laugh. It sounded like I’d inhaled a tank of helium. “I can take care of myself. Hey, I just got home so I’m going to call it a night. Text me when you get in next weekend, okay?”

I could tell he wanted to say more, but he settled for a simple, “Yep. See you soon.”

I hung up and leaned my head against the headrest, too exhausted to fret over the taxi ride.

Asher and I had completely upended our relationship within the span of five minutes.

My brother was visiting next weekend.

And I was stuck in the backseat of a cab, wondering how, exactly, I’d fucked myself so thoroughly.