Filthy Foreign Exchange by Angela Graham & S.E. Hall

Author:Angela Graham & S.E. Hall [Graham, Angela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HalloGraham
Published: 2016-04-23T04:00:00+00:00

~~~~~

Kingston leans back, rubbing his abs and moaning. “Was that the arse-kicking you meant—filling my stomach to the point of severe pain?”

“I told you not to have that third slice,” I scold.

“I thought that was the contest! You had two, so I had to beat you. Evil, Echo.” He shakes his head. “Evil.”

“Nuh-uh. You psyched yourself out on that one. I said nothing of the sort. Your ass-kicking starts now.”

I grin and scoot out of the booth, extending my hand to help him out of his side.

He brushes it away and glares at me playfully. “I’m still capable of standing by myself.”

And he does. But then, once beside me, he finds my hand he’d just refused and squeezes it. “I’m ready. What’s next?”

“Follow me,” I taunt, leading him to the room in the back of the pizza parlor that’s concealed by black drapes.

“And the beautiful temptress led him blindly into a private room in the back, cloaked in curtains, yet he gladly followed.”

His hand flexes around mine, and I look over my shoulder to find that his sultry expression indeed matches the suggestive tone in his voice.

“Settle down, sex fiend. The only action you’ll be getting back here is…” I drop his hand to throw open the curtains with flair. “The wrath of Echo, Queen of the Arcade!”

We walk farther into the room and I focus on his face, delighted by the wonderment in his eyes and emerging smile as he takes it all in. Every old game you can imagine is before us: Galaga, Pac-Man, Centipede, Joust, and Q*bert (my personal favorite), as well as various pinball machines, air hockey, Skee-Ball, and—wait for it—Whac-A-Mole!

“Pick your poison, Mr. Hawthorne,” I challenge. “I can, and will, conquer you in any choice you make.”

I throw in an evil “Ah, ah, ah!” laugh, which admittedly falls short since it sounds more like The Count on Sesame Street tallying peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches than anything remotely resembling evil.

He takes both my hands and pulls me toward him, his hard chest pressed against the sudden fluttering in my own. He bends his head so our foreheads touch, licking his lips slowly, then murmurs, “What’s the prize?”

I swallow—an action that should be soundless, but isn’t—as I attempt to control the breathiness in my reply.

“Th-there’s a counter,” I reply softly, motioning with my head, even though I know his meaning is a different one. “Lots of stuff you can buy with your tickets…”

He laughs wickedly. “I haven’t any need for rubber snakes or plastic spider rings. Surely, between the two of us, we can come up with a more interesting victory reward?” His eyebrows arch, eyes begging me to play along.

Don’t play along, Echo.

“What do you want?” I choke out on reflex, my own internal warning forgotten faster than it’d been issued.

“I want you to dance, just for me. At your spot—your tree.”

“And if I win?”

“Anything you want, Love.”

What do I want? I need to think simple, because “Quit being a man whore, and also never leave” is probably a little much for the scope of this competition.

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