Game Saver - BJ Harvey

They say it takes a village to raise a child.

It also takes one to write and publish a book.

So this book is for my village, you know who you are.

It’s one of those cliché moments. Our eyes meet across the bar, a lightning spark buzzing between us and—speaking for myself—one that shoots straight through me. I watch him lean over to say something in his friend’s ear then make his way through the crowd toward me.

The first thing he says isn’t what you’d expect from a man like him; he’s good looking, well dressed, and definitely not hurting for money or choices when it comes to women. He doesn’t say “Hey” or “Can I buy you a drink?”—which all women know is code for “I’m trying to get in there.” No, the first words he says to me are “Nice shoes . . .” as he methodically undresses me with his eyes, a slow-growing cocky grin making his already pretty face downright gorgeous.

It’s a bold move, but a very effective one.

“What will it take to get the rest of the pickup line?” I ask, twirling the tip of my drinking straw around my mouth with my tongue. His gaze drops to my lips, his eyes darkening before lifting to meet mine.

“A taxi ride to your place.”

Just. Like. That. My heart pounds, my panties melt, and those six words send a thrill through me. He’s a guy who knows what he wants and how to play the perfect game to get it from me.

“You don’t think we should do the mature thing and get to know each other first? Maybe share our deepest, darkest secrets or something?” I tease.

With one elbow to the bar, the other resting on the back of my bar stool, he leans into me—total personal space invasion—and brings his lips to my ear. “Right now, I’m interested in what’s underneath that fucking dress and how fast I can make you come the first time. The second will be a test of your stamina, and if you can still talk after number three, then we can talk about anything you want.”

Goddamn. This man’s like my dream guy, but dirtier and overly confident in a way that presses all my buttons.

Standing up straight, I find myself fascinated by his mouth, wondering what his lips would feel like if I kissed him. What will they taste like, and how will he use them to follow through on the wicked promises he just made?

I want it. I want him. I’m not a girl with hang-ups but I don’t just go home with random guys willy-nilly. I’m a “take it or leave it” girl. If I’m in the mood and have a connection with a guy, I’ll go home with him but always to their place. That way I can slam, bam, and ‘get my ass out of there’ ma’am. Then, unless I want to see them again, they have no idea how to find me.

Safety first, condoms, and no strings unless you tie them yourself—they’re the three things my hippie mom has drilled into me. “Free love makes the world go ‘round, Abi-Jane, and everyone needs to feel loved at least once in their lives.”

Right now, I’ve decided to roll the dice and take a chance on this good looking, well dressed, obviously well off guy who’s making dirty promises I can only hope he’ll keep.

I finish the last of my cocktail and turn around to find him towering over me. Tall, maybe six foot two, wearing a fitted black button-down that clings to his chest and arms in such a way that you know it’s tailored just for him. His eyes are gentle, sapphire blue, his hair a dirty brown with a flash of auburn. He’s gorgeous and is mine for the taking. So, I decide to indulge.

“Your place or mine?” I ask, shocking myself at the invitation.

“Yours,” he says gruffly, taking a step forward and wedging himself between my thighs, my dress riding up as he moves in.

“I know this is a sex club, but remember the saying ‘lady in public, whore in the bedroom’ . . . ?” I ask with a quirked brow.

“And what would you do if I slid my hand under your dress and slowly inched my fingers between your legs . . .” I’m startled at the touch of his warm skin against mine, exactly where he described. I’m panting now and my heart is trying its best to beat its way out of my