by Pippa Grant
“Highly doubt that’ll be an issue.”
“That’s just because you haven’t seen it yet.”
“I don’t let anything touch my pussy without inspection first. Stick it out.”
Because she’s amusing me, I lower my head, open my mouth and stick my tongue out. I waggle it to give her a good feel for just how dexterous that particular muscle is when I’m in control.
And I gleek.
I fucking gleek. Right in her face. A big ol’ shot of my mouth juice, arcing through the air to sprinkle all over her nose and cheeks. This woman makes me blow body fluids every single fucking time I see her.
I don’t get embarrassed. It’s genetically and biologically impossible, because I don’t give two fucks what anyone thinks of me.
Except for the second time tonight, I’m getting hot in the cheeks, and I’m frozen in mortification.
Swear to god, she has some nukes loaded up in her eyeballs and she’s taking aim with them at me right now. She lifts her shirt sleeve and wipes her cheek. Pretty sure I got saliva in her fucking eyeball. She blinks twice.
And then she leans in and peers at my tongue like I didn’t just spit in her face.
I get a whiff of bacon, beef, and cheese along with a peek down her blouse. She’s not touching me, but she’s wearing my spit and studying my tongue and I think I just sprouted three trees at once. My dick fucking split in three and all three Jupiters are trying to get at her.
“Does it do tricks?” she asks.
I can’t fucking breathe for all the straining in my pants, and it takes me a minute to remember she’s talking about my tongue. “It does all the fucking tricks.”
“Demonstrate.”
“Here?”
“If you can’t at least curl it, there’s no point in continuing this conversation.”
Over her head, Ares demonstrates that damn curling-sideways tongue trick he used to do all the time to freak Ambrosia out. I’m more likely to fucking gleek at her again than I am to get my tongue to curl on demand.
But fuck if I’ll let my body beat me again.
So instead, I touch my tongue to my nose.
That’s right.
I’m licking my own nose with my tongue.
My golf game better be fucking spectacular tomorrow, because I need something more to brag about than being able to lick my own nose. I’m Zeus Fucking Berger. I’ve never in my life needed to brag about licking my own fucking nose.
“Mm,” she says.
“Yeah, bet you can’t do that.”
“I don’t use my finger to pick my nose, much less my tongue.”
She’s quick, I’ll give her that. But her gaze is still fixated on my mouth.
Like she’s considering my offer and she wants to see more.
I slide my room key out of my back pocket and slip it in hers. “Madison Towers Hotel. Room 842. Your move, princess. Offer expires at midnight.”
Am I an idiot?
Perhaps.
But she’s interested. Better to leave her wanting more than to stick around and ruin it again.
This Fireball chick—she’s got game. Got a feeling she likes game.
Let’s see if she wants to play.
8
Joey
My baby sister is probably being compromised right now by a royal ass who won’t remember her name in the morning. Zeus Berger just gleeked all over my face. Peach is going to go jilted bridezilla or something on me when she finds out I’ve flubbed multiple opportunities to be a badass businesswoman around some of these nincompoops who can invest what banks won’t in Weightless.
I should be getting to bed, because it’s late and while I’m not flying tomorrow and don’t have to worry about busting crew rest, I do have to put on a good show on the golf course.
Yet all I can concentrate on is the weight of that key card in my back pocket.
Who tracks a woman down and offers no-strings oral sex to compensate for a premature ejaculation problem?
No one. That’s who. No. Fucking. One.
Except Zeus Berger, apparently.
And who’s stupid enough to accept that offer?
Me, apparently.
My bill at the bar has been settled up already “by a secret admirer,” whom I assume is Zeus, which means there’s nothing stopping me from walking the two blocks to the Madison Towers Hotel. I’m free to see if Zeus is fucking with me, or if he can actually satisfy this ache in my clit.
I leave the bar and call Peach as I walk back to my hotel with fancy yellow street lamps lighting the way. If I don’t talk to someone, I’m going to do something incredibly moronic and I’d rather be yelled at.
“How many of ‘em did you outburp?” Peach asks by way of greeting.
Neither the crowd at the mixer nor the bar would have appreciated a burp-off. Sadly. Probably a good thing none of the kids sponsored by the foundation were there tonight. “All of them. How’s Meemaw?”
“You mean am I getting my ass up to Virginia to give poor Gracie a break from babysitting you? She says to tell you she’s having unprotected sex with both the prince and his two bodyguards, by the way.”
My eye twitches so hard I permanently relocate a few eyebrow hairs.
Yes, I want Peach here to do what she does best. I fly. She runs the business.
I’m good with numbers. I know why Weightless is a good risk. I cobbled together my share of our initial investment by being good with numbers. And pool. And reading suckers. But I’m more comfortable betting the company over a game of darts than I am pretending I fit in with the country club crowd.
Hence Zeus Berger looking so appealing.
He doesn’t fit in here any more than I do. He’s unpredictable. Not afraid to say what’s on his mind or take a risk. Hilarious.
And if you tell him I said any of that, I’ll rip your nuts off too.
But my point is, I’m calling Peach because I’m worried about her grandmother.
I don’t like worrying.
I much prefer pretending like everything will be fine because sheer willpower alone can change the fate of the world. Even though even I’m not that delusional.
But I’m worried about Meemaw. There. I can admit it.
She’s always sending these care packages full of cookies and vintage Playgirl magazines featuring Tom Selleck look-alikes and hand-painted cards that say shit like Reach for the stars and don’t let any fucking man stand in your way.
That woman is a gem, and she’s the closest thing Gracie and I have to a grandma of our own. “I mean, how’s Meemaw?” I repeat.
“Broken hip. They got her on the good drugs. She’s seeing butterflies having food fights and asking for Mariposa.”
“Who’s Mariposa?”
“Hell if I know. I told her Mariposa ran away with Ferdinand.”
“Ah, good?”
“Yep. Hell if I know who Ferdinand is either, but you know Meemaw loves a good love story. Speaking of, any hotties besides the prince there tonight?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you wouldn’t know a hottie if he walked up to you and licked your nipples, but me and Gracie are going to keep trying to find you a special friend anyway.”
“I have a special friend. Six of them. Thanks.”
“Just want you to be prepared if there’s ever a battery shortage.”
I let myself smile while I lift my hair up off my neck, looking for a breeze. The golf course will be hot tomorrow. And I’m supposed to show up in a skirt.
A fucking skirt.
Maybe I should go see if Zeus is going in a skirt too.
My nipples perk up, my clit pulses, and my better sense wobbles on the edge of the sanity cliff.
“Be nice to those kids on the course tomorrow,” Peach tells me. “Talk about flying. Try not to outscore all those poor unsuspecting celebrities. We want them taking rides and posting to social media. I’ll follow up with all the moneybags once Meemaw’s back on her feet. You find
one who can tolerate you, though, you let me know.”
I resist rolling my eyes as I push into the black-and-silver lobby of the Madison Towers Hotel. An icicle-crystal chandelier big enough to take out both Berger brothers dangles in the entryway. “We built this company from the ground up. I’m not handing control to some dickhead who thinks an investment in us means he gets to tell us how to run the show.”
“No? I kinda like the idea of being bossed around.”
Even though I know she’s yanking my chain, my blood pressure heads into whistling teakettle territory. “Yeah, that’s why you’re still single.”
“Wait, what? Hold on, Joey. I need to go talk to one of Meemaw’s nurses. Call me tomorrow. Be good on the golf course. Let Gracie have a little fun.”
“Tell Meemaw I’ll kick her ass if she doesn’t get better.”
I hang up with Peach. Don’t let her name fool you. She’s smarter than half my hometown combined, and Gomer Smith and his pet duck excepted—every town has one, right?—there are some pretty fucking brilliant minds lurking in the backwoods.
A text message lands from Gracie.
Cute shop – A la Mode – down the street. Stopping for cherry pie. Want anything?
Yes. I want her to come back and not share her cherry pie with Prince What’s-His-Name. Sugar will kill you, I text back.
So will pizza comes back immediately. Along with—And sausage. Which I thought you didn’t eat?
Hardy-har-har.
I get in the elevator and force myself to punch the button for my own floor. Satisfying myself is always an option.
So is hitting the gym.
Which is what I opt for, because I’m not tired and if I so much as think about putting a finger to my clit, I’ll think about Zeus Berger’s massive tongue. It’s bigger than some of the dicks I’ve seen. At least as big as my favorite dildo. And the way he reached it all the way to his nose—I shiver.
Nope.
Not going there. I’m here for business. I’m not going to fall into the trap of trying to bang an over-muscled, over-ego-ed hockey twit. Again.
It takes less than ten minutes to change into workout clothes and get to the gym on the second floor. And less than ten seconds after that for my lady brain to melt down and malfunction while my nipples do their marble impersonation and my mouth goes drier than the air at sixty thousand feet.
Zeus Berger is deadlifting an entire fucking treadmill.
He’s got it folded in half and on its side, squatting down while he grips the base with his bare hands.
The overmacho show of deadlifting that much weight, I could ignore.
But dog almighty. The grip he has to have on that thing to be able to hold the flat edge while he lifts the machine off the ground, the sheer strength he must have in his fingers, is causing a disturbance in my electro-hormonal system.
I don’t even realize I should be pissed he’s not sitting in his room waiting in case I drop by.
An eerie sensation of being watched makes me aware that we’re not alone. Ares is there behind Zeus, spotting him. I don’t care that they’re identical, there’s no mistaking the two. It’s an aura thing. A different presence.
Plus, Zeus has one more bump in his nose.
He’s not watching me. Nor is Ares. No, that’s Chase Jett, who’s lounging in the corner, studying me over his phone.
This is what Peach would call an opportunity.
Zeus sets the treadmill back on its side and shifts that penetrating gaze to me. “You want a turn, Fireball?”
Yeah, I want a fucking turn. But not with the treadmill. I want to know what the man’s fingers can do to my pussy. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass you when I put the water cooler on top too.”
His smile makes my underwear wet, and the way his eyes are going dark makes me wonder if he knows it.
“Ares,” he says. “Bring the water cooler over.”
“Afraid you’ll break a nail if you do it yourself?” I say before Ares can move.
Zeus’s grin gets bigger, like he’s getting off on having me sass him.
Like he knows I’m all talk and that for every millimeter his smile grows, that incessant ache in my clit goes deeper.
Most guys are running for the door by now. Not Zeus.
Nope, he’s looking me up and down like I’m a platter of bacon cheeseburgers that he’s going to devour one lick at a time. He steps out from behind the treadmill and stalks toward me.
Fuck, even my nipples are shivering in anticipation.
For a man whose dick sprinted to the finish line before the starting gates were fully opened.
“How much do you bench?” Zeus asks.
“You need to know you bench more than a girl?”
“Hoping I can watch.”
I can’t walk straight for all the throbbing and pulsing in my girl briefs, much less lift a cotton ball with a steady hand. “Not sure tonight’s your lucky night.”
Ares visibly swallows a grin. Chase outright snickers.
“Shut up and quit sexting my sister,” Zeus growls at him.
“That’s later. She’s getting a play-by-play right now.”
“You want to take a dude down, Fireball?” Zeus asks with a nod to the corner. “I’d watch that too.”
“Do your own dirty work, Berger.”
He’s close enough to smell. Man sweat. Beer. Fried cheese.
Two of my favorite things. The third is surprisingly intriguing. I usually go for rum. Yes, in a strawberry daiquiri. Shut up. It is not girly. And even if it was, I’m still a freaking girl.
Most of the time.
And I only like man sweat smell because I love getting the better of them. Master masturbator here, remember?
“You done?” Ares says to him. He doesn’t add dumbass, but I swear it’s lingering there in the air.
Zeus grins wider, just like he does every time I insult him, pretty much confirming my suspicion. “Yeah, go watch your cooking show.”
“No po-po,” Ares says to Zeus before turning his own steady blue gaze on me. “No knives.”
He easily lifts Jett out of the corner chair and carries him by the back of his shirt out the gym door.
Jett lets out a resigned sigh and doesn’t fight it.
Doesn’t offer me a couple hundred million for Weightless either, but then, I insulted his best friend.
Also, I didn’t ask him for any money.
“You do a handstand?” Zeus asks.
That mental image, me on my head, his beefy hands clenched around my thighs, spreading my legs for his mouth, nearly makes me explode on the spot.
“You need a shower,” I tell him.
I need a shower. A cold one. With Gracie and Peach standing there in the bathroom counting off my flaws and threatening to give me nieces and nephews with six different rock stars, hockey players, and gynecologists.
Instead, I hook my thumb to the second door leading out of the hotel’s gym.
The one labeled sauna. “Like in there.”
We trip over each other and a stationary bike racing to the door.
“Dick stays in your shorts,” I tell him.
“Your pussy’s coming out of yours,” he replies.
Damn fucking right.
I’m peeling my athletic shorts off before the door’s totally closed in the dark, steamy room. My underwear goes flying. I bang my knee on the bench, which is good, because I needed to know where I was going to get on my back.
“I’m gonna rock your fucking world,” he growls somewhere to my left.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Hot hands settle on my knees, already slick from the humidity in here. “Only thing you’re gonna see is stars.”
“I see stars every day.”
“Hit your head often?”
“I fly, dumbass. Right up to the—ooh.”
His hair brushes my inner thighs, his beard rubs my pussy, and his tongue teases my aching clit. He’s not trying to chew it off or
smother it to death. Just licking. Teasing. Tasting.
Holy fuck.
“Ooh?” he says, his breath hotter than the sauna and ticklish against my nether regions.
“I’ve had better,” I lie.
He flicks his tongue over my clit again, and my hips buck off the bench.
“Have you now?” he asks my pussy. Without waiting for an answer, he drags his tongue up my seam to tease my magic button once more. Heat coils deep inside me, twisting and winding and building.
I grip his hair and hold him right where I want him. “Every single night.”
His fingers scrape down the back of my thighs, slick with humidity, while his tongue swirls around my clit, and—Oh, yes.
This is—holy—yes—more—there—I’m almost—
BUZZZZ BUZZZZ BUZZZZ!!
“Shit!” I leap off the bench, bang my pelvis into his head, and crouch for my go-bag, but this isn’t a drill. I’m not in the military anymore. And I don’t have a go-bag.
“What the fuck?” he sputters.
“Fire alarm. Get out.” Where are my pants? How many civilians are in the building? Nearest exits and fire extinguishers?
I find fabric on the floor and shove a leg in. My foot connects with something hard, and Zeus howls.
“I told you to get out,” I snap.
“I can’t fucking get out if you break my kneecap.”
“Give me a break. You’ve taken harder hits on the ice. Where the fuck are my shoes?”
A light illuminates the humid room. I brush a bead of sweat and an errant lock of hair off my forehead, then dive at one sneaker near his feet.
“Holy fuck, Fireball.”
My entire body freezes.
Not because he’s getting a view of my back and ass.
But because the only thing on my body that causes that reaction is the scar.
“Never see a woman not lose her shit during a fire?” I say.
Because there’s nothing to talk about with my appendicitis scar. Yeah, it’s ugly, but that’s what happens when you’re deployed and pushing through the pain to get the mission done.
And no, I don’t want to talk about all the thoughts that flashed through my head when they put me on an emergency transport to Germany. Or the look on Gracie’s face when I came to and found her sitting at my side.
