by K. Bromberg
The bass of the club’s music hits hard as I scan the nearly naked women surrounding us—every single one of them ripe for the picking. A bat of fake lashes. An accidental lean over the bar, tits on display, and painted lips offering up what is literally and figuratively on the table.
So why am I not finding some hot piece, offering to take her up to our room? Shit, I could use a little release after the stress of a long week.
It’s Wood’s fault. That’s my go-to answer. It’s always his fault. And hell if I’ll tell my best friend he was right when he said, “She’s got a hot friend.”
Hot friend, my ass. Haddie Montgomery’s more like molten fucking lava.
I sweep my eyes across the crowded dance floor and try to move past her, but it’s no goddamn use. Don’t kid yourself, Daniels. You’ve been looking at her all night. I toss back the rest of my drink, but my damn eyes remain fixed as she throws her arms up in the air and swivels her hips. Those long, shapely legs move to the beat, and hell if I can’t get the thought of them and those sexy-as-fuck heels wrapped around me somehow, someway, out of my damn head.
I avert my gaze, try to distract myself with one of the many easy targets in the club, but no one else calls to every part of me like Haddie does. And of course my eyes shift back to the floor just in time to see her dress sneak up some. Every toned inch of those thighs is on display as she grinds her hips to the beat. I groan. And I don’t even care that I do, because hell if a sane, red-blooded American male would look away from that perfection.
“Hey,” I hear to my right as Colton’s hand, which is holding my fresh drink, bumps against my arm.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing myself to pull my eyes from the sight of her and focus on the man who’s like a second brother to me. But when I meet his eyes, they’re studying me, amusement mixed with confusion. Here we go again. I hate when Colton gets this damn look. “What? What the fuck is that look for?”
“Seriously? You have the two-point-five look on your face, dude,” he says, taking a sip of his beer and shaking his head as if he’s ashamed.
“Two point five?” I sputter, completely shocked that he of all people would say that after the revelation he dropped on me earlier. The one where he admitted that he, the man who’s the king of condoms, is sliding skin on skin with his girlfriend, Rylee. Taking that giant leap of trust for the first time ever to bareback with a woman. The confession still staggers me even after more than a few cocktails.
And he’s accusing me of the two-point-five look? I don’t think he has any room to throw stones in the fucking glass house he built. “Two point five?” I repeat. “This coming from the barebacking cowboy himself? Whatever. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Have another.”
“Which one is she?” he asks, slinging an arm over my shoulder and pointing toward the dance floor.
“No one,” I say, trying to deflect him. “Just a whole lot of flesh on display, and fuck if it’s not something to look at while I get nice and drunk. I’ve got an asshole for a boss, so this buzz,” I say with a laugh when he tightens his arm around my neck in a headlock for my dig at him, “and that woman over there are—”
“Hot damn!” he says, catching my slip of the tongue. And hell if I wouldn’t want to be slipping my tongue into her, but shit if I didn’t just give ammunition to the king of antagonization to start making his own digs in retaliation. He slaps my back harder than necessary. “I knew just by the sappy-ass look on your face you were looking at some woman on the floor, imagining wedded bliss, and the two-point-five kids you’re going to have with her.”
“Shut up, dude. You are so far from—”
“So which one is she?” he goads, and I know he’s only just getting started. He’ll keep at it until I give him something to be smug about.
I look back out to the floor with him scrutinizing my every damn move—trying to figure out which woman has caught the eye of a picky son of a bitch like me. And when I look, a part of me is relieved that Haddie and her best friend, Colton’s date, Rylee, are no longer on the dance floor … and then another part of me is pissed because I sure as hell was enjoying the show.
“Hot blonde, red dress, two o’clock?” Colton asks, drawing my eyes to the woman on the floor, shaking her shit like she should be on a pole. She’s definitely hot, all the right curves in all the right places, but nah, not my thing. Owning your sexuality is one thing, but putting it on display? I’ll pass.
I look over at Colton and roll my eyes. “Seriously?”
“With those moves?” he says, eyes flicking back out to her. “Damn.”
“Dude, I’m all for moves like that in bed,” I say, causing him to snort out that laugh of his that makes me smile, regardless of the mood I’m in, “but if I want to screw a mannequin, I’ll go to Macy’s. Besides, isn’t eating out of plastic hazardous to your health? BPA or some shit like that?”
He throws his head back and laughs while I take a long drink of my Merit Rum and Coke. And of course I feel bad for talking shit about the unsuspecting woman.
“BPA sounds like an STD to me, but fuck, dude, live on the wild side.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “One taste won’t kill you.”
“This coming from Mr. Discriminating himself? I assure you, it most definitely is not all the same.”
“Yeah, you got me there.” He shivers in mock disgust, and I can’t help but laugh. He looks back out toward the dance area and nods his chin toward where Red Dress is still bumping and grinding. “Not even just for the night?”
“Nah, you know me. Not my thing.”
I hear their laughter float over the music before I see them, grateful for the interruption. I lean my elbow on the railing and turn to watch them walk up, pretending not to care. Colton turns too when he hears Rylee, so I’m able to watch their approach without him noticing. I take in Haddie’s more than handful-sized tits, which bounce a bit with that walk of hers. The combination of blond hair against her tanned skin begs me to run my eyes down the length of her svelte figure. When my gaze makes its way back up, her mouth is spread wide in a grin, and fuck if I don’t want something else spread wide on her with me in between them. I get lost in the thought, and when I refocus, she is staring right back at me, lips pursed, eyes curious.
“Yes?” Those chocolate-colored eyes of hers hold mine. Tempt me. Dare me. Question me.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, a sheepish smile in place. “I was just thinking.” Smooth, Becks. Brilliant response to why you were staring at her like you want to eat her for dinner. Shit, might as well be breakfast since I’m sure it’d be an all-night affair, with her body sure as hell being the main course.
“Thinking?” She asks as she reaches out and takes my drink from my hand and tips it up to me, silently asking if it’s okay. I nod my head, and she lifts it to her lips, taking a sip before handing it back to me. “Thanks. Don’t you know, Country, that you’re in a club, in Vegas of all places, so thinking’s not allowed?” She sidles up next to me, her body brushing against mine and snapping my every nerve to attention.
“Country?” Where the hell did that nickname come from?
“Yeah,” she says with a smirk before shaking her head to get her hair out of her face. “Laid-back. Polite. Good guy. Slow and steady wins the race.” She raises her eyebrows, challenging me to argue with her assessment.
And fuck if she’s not right, so why am I sensing that Country is a bad thing for her? And why the hell do I care? “Nothing’s wrong with slow and steady,” I tell her, enjoying how she angles her head to the side and just watches me. “A man shouldn’t be faulted for drawing things out just to make sure the endgame is that much sweeter.”
And I feel like I’ve scored a touchdown when I see her eyes widen, take note of the quick intake of breath. Interesting. Playing field seems to be wide-open. Good thing I’m a patient man because this woman most definitely does not sit on the sidelines.
“Sweet is good,” she leans in and says in my ear, her w
ords a whisper, “but some girls like a little spice added in.” She leans back and flashes me a smart-ass grin, tossing the ball back in my court. Goddamn if it’s not hot that her comebacks are as witty as her tits are perfect.
“City, I assure you I have talents that can’t be put on a résumé.” I take a drink and raise an eyebrow, failing miserably to hide my smirk. “Besides, it’s not the sugar or the spice that matters but rather the man who’s mixing it.”
We stare at each other for a moment in a silent standoff, as we try to figure out what the other is saying. Is there interest here? Would it be worth it? Damn, who cares? Because she most definitely would be one helluva wild ride.
A slow, knowing smirk curls up one corner of her mouth. The music changes and becomes more seductive as she shakes her head ever so subtly. “City?” she asks, and then runs her tongue over her top lip as her eyes taunt me.
My mind goes blank as I focus on her mouth. Shit, I need to play this safe. For all I know, this is just how she is with everyone, a little flirty and a whole lot of fun. After all, it can’t get more complicated than going after the best friend of my best friend’s girl.
I look out at the floor again, bodies grinding, connections being made even if only for the night, before I look back at Haddie, her eyebrows raised and her body so on fire that my dick begs to fly full staff. It’s probably just me. And the alcohol. And the influence of the club around me.
It’s probably nothing.
But then again, damn.
Just damn.
I can’t resist. If I can’t reach out and touch, I might as well leave a mark with my words. Let her think about how a laid back country boy might not be such a bad thing after all. “Yeah, City,” I repeat. “Classy, nonstop, and always wanting to be in the thick of it all.” I take a drink, my eyes locked on hers while she watches, contemplating what I’ve said.
“The thick of it, huh?” She takes my drink from my hand again and smirks as she sucks ever so slowly from the straw.
And once again, my eyes are drawn to those lip-glossed lips of hers and notice how they are drawing on my straw. So that’s why they put straws in men’s drinks. I have a whole new appreciation for those annoying little fuckers now. I watch her tongue play with it momentarily and realize that part of the reason she’s so damn sexy is because she’s not purposely trying to be.
Something catches her eye, and I follow her head as she turns to watch Colton lead Rylee up the stairs toward the mezzanine. At least I don’t have to worry about him sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong now. When I look back toward Haddie, she’s moved toward me, her face closer to mine. I can smell the scent of the alcohol from my drink on her breath, and hell if I can understand why that makes me want her that much more.
“Yep. Always wanting to be in the middle of the action,” I say, lifting the straw out of my drink and taking a sip.
Haddie twists her lips until the smirk breaks its way through. “Action’s always good. Being in the middle of it’s even better.” She arches an eyebrow at me as I try to figure out what her next words are going to be but remain silent. It’s time to let her wonder what I’m thinking for a change. I hold her gaze, the swirling lights overhead changing color and reflecting in her blond hair. “And I think I’m wanting some right now.”
I force a swallow, those taunting yet innocent words of hers causing a visceral reaction that I try to ignore. “What kind of action are you looking for?” There. Let her figure out if I’m flirting or if that’s just how I am, because I can’t tell shit with her. And fuck, I can always figure everyone out. So what’s so different about her?
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns and looks over her shoulder. “You coming?”
And fuck … there are so many ways my mind answers that question that I groan. I swallow over the ache that our flirting and her damn, fine ass in perfect view creates. “You know what they say?”
“What?” she asks, stopping momentarily, “Every good man’s place is behind a woman?”
I chuckle. That most definitely was not where I was going with this conversation, but there she goes again, wanting me to take the bait. “The only reason for a man to be behind a woman is because he’s checking out her very fine ass.” And hell if that’s not the truth right now.
She licks her lips and I have a hard time looking away from her tongue as it darts out and then back in. “Haven’t had any complaints so far, Country,” she says with a shake of her head, her hair swaying all the way down her back. “And … uh … there are many more places I’d prefer a man to be,” she says with a wink before turning and walking into the crowd, without even checking to see if I’m following.
Yeah, on top of you. Or under. Or … Shit, my mind reels with the possibilities.
She may think I’m slow and steady but hell if I’m stupid.
Time to dance.
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SWEET ACHE
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I sigh as I pull open the door, wanting to melt into the cool air-conditioning of the Fine Arts offices. The southern California heat mixed with the second week of school has really done a number on me. I’m tired from a late night hanging out with Layla—my fault but still aggravating nonetheless—and having to deal with some dipshit undergrads in my teaching assistant session I just came from isn’t helping matters.
I don’t mind if a student doesn’t get something. I have no problem helping them so that they do. But when the students are too busy chasing skirts and worrying about who the Trojans take on this weekend to listen, it’s not my problem they received bad marks on their first pop quiz.
And it’s not helping my mood that I need to get laid something fierce. There’s nothing worse than a woman in need of a good orgasm.
Or two.
Or three.
I drop my backpack on the counter with a shake of my head and a mental note to rectify the situation with the first willing candidate who meets my discriminating standards. Then again I’m on the verge of being desperate enough, I might throw them out the window for the right mistake.
I start rifling through the bazillion pieces of paper stuffed in my mailbox—such is the life of a graduate student in the Cinematic Arts. Shit, save a tree people. Use e-mail. I start filtering through them, tossing almost all of them into the recycle bin. I automatically toss the ones about elective seminars without even reading them because at the beginning of a semester the last thing I have time for is something that does nothing to further help me write my thesis.
“Quinlan! Just the person I wanted to see!”
As I turn around to face my graduate adviser, the smile comes naturally to my face since I’m one of the select few fortunate enough to be under her tutelage. “Hi, Dr. Stevens.” She gives me a stern look, which causes me to laugh at the formality of my greeting, so I cave to her oft-repeated request and correct myself. “Hi, Carla.”
“Better.” She laughs the word out. “Now I’m not looking for my husband when you say that,” she says, referring to her spouse, who is a cardiologist.
I nod my head in agreement. “Why do I have the feeling that I’m not going to like the fact that you wanted to see me?”
Please, God, don’t let her ask me to add something else to my already overflowing plate of obligations, deadlines, and drafts I need to write.
“I’m kind of in a jam and I need your help.” She scrunches up her nose like she knows I’m not going to be too happy with what she’s going to say next. “Like, ‘I’ll give you a three-week extension on your first draft due date’ kind of help.”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and know that no matter what she asks, I’ll say yes. She’s my mentor, for God’s sake. Anything not to disappoint her. “Okay?” I draw the word out into a question, fearful and curious all at the same time.
“Well, Dr. Elliot has a seminar under
his department that is starting …” She looks down at her watch and winces. “Well, it started about five minutes ago, actually. Anyway, he’s asked if I can help him. His TA, Cali, was supposed to do it, but she had a last-minute schedule change to accommodate one of her professors … and all of his other teaching assistants have classes right now….”
I bite back the urge to make a smart-ass comment about how Cali’s conflict is the need to flirt ridiculously with the professor she has the hots for, university protocol be damned. Instead I look at Carla and blow out an audible breath, sure that my expression reflects my displeasure.
I’m usually on top of all of the department’s goings-on, but my last-minute trip to the Sonoma race to watch Colton mixed with playing bestie to Layla’s unexpected breakup and the usual first-month-of-school discord has left me in the dark about course specifics. It had better be a damn good class if I’m going to have to be stuck sitting through it.
“You know I’m agreeing to this because I’m already behind on my draft and need those weeks, right?”
“Exactly!” She smirks. “I don’t have that PhD behind my name because I’m unintelligent.”
“That’s low.” I just shake my head and smirk as I reach over to grab my bag. “So give me the details.”
“You’re a lifesaver!” She reaches out and pats my shoulder before handing me a folder full of papers. “So the seminar is on sex, drugs, and rock and roll, in a manner of speaking.” She quirks her eyebrows up, eyes asking if I’m okay with that.
Like I have a choice. I can just imagine some stiff professor giving a seminar about something so completely foreign to him. Now I’m going to have to waste my time mollycoddling someone when I have so many other things that would be a better use of my time. Sounds like a real barn burner.
“Who’s teaching it?” I ask, my tone reflecting the cynicism I feel over the contradiction between teacher and subject.
“A guest lecturer. I forget his name, but he’s a big deal in rock and roll.” She rolls her eyes. Her musical taste includes only classical music and jazz. “Oh and he’s cute,” she says with a smile, and then she cuts me off before I can ask her any more details. “Now, shoo. He’s probably mangling the sound system as we speak. Microphone on upside down or something. Class is in the GFA building, room sixty-nine.”
