"Can't fucking believe you dragged me out here." "Look up." Blue eyes lift, then widen. "I'll be damned..." "Yeah." The stars – a million of them, it seems – glow with fiery brilliance. For a few long minutes, they both feel small. "Still sore at me?" It's hardly more than a murmur. "In what sense?" Teeth flash white above a scraggly beard. "Either one, I guess." "Nah." Lips brush against lips, soft, heated. "But you fuck like a girl." Hazel-green eyes flash with amusement, perfectly timed with the half-hearted shove (but not with the passing arm) in retaliation. "The hell I do." "Think all that running around on the field made you tired is all." "You aiming to get thrown down on this bike and taken like a bitch?" Slow, rolling shrug. It fools neither. "Dunno. You aiming to take me?" "Mine all night, right?" "That was the bet." Two shuffled steps closer, and the kiss is furious, hard, heats the frigid air around them. "Lucky for you I brought something, then." "Oh yeah." Soft, husky rasp. "Lucky me." Onto Winning (And Losing) A Bet
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