Knot so Lucky (The holidates series Book 2)
Knot so Lucky: Chapter 11

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Having her here, in my fucking space, is exactly as hard as I thought it would be.

That’s part of the reason why I made the bet…I’m never going to be able to not shoot my shot with her. And it’s clear the same shit is on her mind too.

Because she stared at the seat cushion of my couch for ten fucking minutes with a grin on her face and her legs squeezed together. The same couch her knees sunk down into when I bent her over it last night.

I’ll never make it thirty days before I turn into one of those little Chihuahua dogs that see a leg and start humping the air.

Because everything she does and every room she’s in makes me think about sex. There’s no safe space…my house is unsafe for me.

When she walked by the kitchen island earlier, I thought I was going to pass out because all I saw was her parked on top, legs spread as TJ ate her out.

I’m losing brain cells by the second here.

There’s no blood circulating anywhere in my body other than in my dick. Because I’ve had a half chub for way too long to be medically healthy.

My hand runs over the marble countertop as I chug back a water, before heading to the couch, trying not to think about the fact that I never got to sample her last night after TJ was done.

The regret is real.

Ironically, just as real as my regret that I even met her. I chuckle to myself because this is why women think men are stupid and led by our dicks.

I’ve got agents and public relations people working overtime to clean up my mess, but I would one hundred percent sell Nate to the highest bidder to be in Eleanor’s pussy right now. I swear I can’t stop thinking about her body and doing dirty shit to it.

If I don’t win this bet, I might actually combust. Problem is, I would never pressure her—that’s nasty and fucking illegal. I’m not that guy. But I am the guy with a plan: I have to be so irresistible that she jumps me.

She’ll come to me.

It’s weak, but it’s all I got. I have to be irresistible to a girl who basically despises me. Therein lies the problem. If it works, I’m a gambling genius. But I have a sneaking suspicion I’m more of a world-class fucking moron, who’s about to be out thirty thousand dollars to boot.

Especially since I was dickish to her earlier…but, I mean. I was having feelings. Really pissed-off ones.

I was going to apologize, but that group text had me in a hard Ross PIV-AUGHT…her bullshit felt like a challenge. And history’s already proven that if she issues one, I’ll accept.

However, this challenge is proving more difficult than I thought. Considering I’ve already lost day one’s bet since the moment after she left the chat and the ice in her demeanor got even chillier, and when we got home, after staring at the couch, the only thing she said to me was “Go get my friend. She’s staying here until her flight leaves tomorrow.”

Then she walked right into my room and closed the door. A few minutes later, a pillow and blanket were launched out.

Eleanor: 1

Me: 0

So now here I am, staring up at the ceiling from the couch, surrounded by my bedding, not even trying to hide my grin. Because while she’s been in the shower, I’ve been strategizing. And I’m going to turn the next thirty days into relentless temptation. I’ll make it impossible for her to stand by what she said.

Is it immature? Yes.

Am I too old to act like this at twenty-eight? Yep.

Do I care?

Nope.

There’s something about the fact that I’ve never had to work this hard in my life. Usually, I just have to show up and girls are down. But now, I have to reignite the flame. How the fuck do I do that?

It’s like we’re real married people. I should have a dad bod and a penchant for fixing shit that doesn’t need fixing. Still, I’m in it to win it. Her pussy is my Super Bowl, and I want that ring. So fucking bad.

I just have to figure out how to drive her crazy. I can’t call the guys…they don’t know how to woo women any more than I do. But then a thought strikes, making me sit up and grab my phone to text the only person I know who will be brutally honest and answer me without asking for context. Because she won’t care.

Me: You’re single, right?

Claire: Not interested.

Me: Same…I need someone on the dating ground floor.

Claire: Are you drunk again?

Me: Claire. I need help. I’m trying to get this girl.

Claire: Agreed. You do need help. But don’t the girls you like usually tell you how much up front?

Me: Come on. I need to know what girls like. What do they find irresistible? Help me. You’re the only girl I know who owns stock in Bumble.

Claire: I hate you.

Me: I won’t complain all week. Not a peep. Especially when I wear the weighted vest during the sprints.

Claire: Two weeks.

Me: Done.

Claire: I’d say be yourself…but the objective is for her to like you, right?

Me: Forget I asked.

Claire: Omg. Stop being such a baby. Truth? We like guys who listen to us. Guys who are funny. Kindness. You know, the basics.

Me: I want her to like me enough to want to sleep with me, Claire. Not want to marry me.

Because we already did that.

Claire: Oh. Then—stay shirtless, add gray sweats. And stretch in front of her…specifically, the quad roll-out. We love that.

Me: Seriously?

Claire: Seriously. Godspeed, Matthews.

I toss my phone on the table and look at my bedroom door. Shirtless, gray sweatpants, and quad rolls. Check.

Damn. Women are no better than men.

But if objectifying me gets me in her pants, then I’ll let her slap my ass and call me pretty all day long. A win’s a win.

Get ready, Wild Card. I’m about to make you feral.

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