Page 43 of Twisted Control

Grace Whitmore is going to be the death of me.

Ray will actually murder me if he finds out I’ve been sleeping with his client’s daughter.

To be fair, most of the damage was done before he became a client.

Since then? Only once.

And some fingering.

Which probably still counts.

I knew how stupid it was. But Jesus, the girl is desperate. That text she sent? Begging me to touch her. How am I supposed to say no? She’s going through a rough a time. I was just trying to be a good guy and help her out.

But I need to start putting myself first for once.

This ends here. No more giving in every time she shows up looking needy. No more risking my life just because she’s horny.

I’m done.

Across the crappy public court downtown, Grace is wearing an all-white tennis outfit. The pleated skirt, the tight polo, the high ponytail—the whole tempting little uniform. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She wore this on purpose to fuck with my head.

It’s not working.

I’m not giving into her again, no matter how good she looks.

She tosses the ball, arches her back, and serves. The racket cracks viciously and the ball rockets down the line. I don’t even pretend to swing. I just stand there, racket limp at my side, watching it fly past.

Her mouth twitches with half amusement, half irritation.

“Seriously?” she calls across the net, her voice carrying that teasing edge. “You’re not even going to try?”

I roll my shoulders and lift the racket a little higher, as if that might actually help. “Warming up.”

“You’ve had three games to warm up,” she shoots back.

“I like to take my time.”

She huffs out a laugh, already bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. She’s competitive as hell. I like that about her—brings out that fire in her eyes.

I haven’t picked up a racket since I was a kid, and it shows in every clumsy swing. I’m crap, no question. But she likes beating me anyway.

She serves again.

This time I actually move, lunging forward and managing to get the racket on the ball. Barely. The return is sloppy, floating higher and weaker than it should. She’s already there, feet planted perfectly, body coiled like a spring. She smashes it past me, whip-fast.

Point.

She straightens up, breathing hard, cheeks flushed. Then she hits me with that bright, wicked, triumphant grin. It slams into my chest harder than a ball ever could.

Fuck—that smile is lethal. She knows it, too. She’s weaponizing it on purpose, trying to pull me right back in.

Not today, satan.

“Alright, Serena Williams, you win. I concede.”

“Are there any sports you’re actually good at?” she asks, flipping her tennis racket in her hand.

“We could try rugby. Full contact.” I grin. “Good luck taking me down.”