by Crespo, Nina
Conviction built as she raised her wineglass. “This is about leaving a total dick for more satisfying cock and less worries. It’s about getting rid of jackasses who aren’t worth a damn and most important of all…freedom!”
The women around them whooped and applauded.
Alexa tugged Natalie’s arm down. “Will you stop?”
“No. You stop. It’s perfectly okay to ride a man into a better future. Preferably in the midst of an orgasm. That’s what this celebration is all about, and you need to get on board.” Natalie took a condom with “Do Me” printed in glittery letters on the red packaging from the floral centerpiece. “That’s why it’s called the Breakup Bash.” She tossed the condom to Alexa.
Alexa caught it, but her smile dimmed as she put it back on the table. “It’s not that easy.”
But it was. She understood that Alexa was hurt, but Alexa couldn’t let what happened with Brad dictate her future any more than Natalie could let what occurred with Dorian define hers.
Only the desolation in Alexa’s eyes made Natalie hold back in saying just that. Alexa had already received a ton of lectures from her mother about leaving. She needed fun with her friends tonight instead.
Pushing aside frustration, Natalie chair danced and playfully tossed more condom packages at Alexa. “You can’t have too many of these. Grab some. Hell, we paid for them with the cost of the ticket.”
“Fine.” Alexa stuffed a package into the small purse attached to a gold chain circling her waist. “I took one. Now will you leave me alone?”
“I’ll think about it.” Natalie grinned as she tucked a string of packages into her own burgundy clutch laying on the table. The extra party favors would come in handy when Alexa or Cori needed additional reminders to embrace singlehood. In fact, that should be their next toast—to singlehood. But where was Cori with their drinks?
Natalie glanced over her shoulder, looking for her. “Everyone’s raving about the cake on the buffet. Maybe that’s what’s holding up Cori. It shouldn’t take this long to find champagne. I’m going after her. You coming?”
A popular group dance song blasted through the speakers.
Alexa’s face lit up. “Nope, but bring me something back.” She joined the crowd forming lines on the dance floor.
Just as Natalie was about to rise from the chair, she spotted Cori hurrying to their table…empty-handed. “Where are our drinks?”
“They started handing out free champagne, and now the lines at the bars are unreal. I had to get out of there before I got crushed.” Cori dropped into the seat next to Natalie. “Put ‘free’ in front of anything and people lose their minds. Where’s Alexa? I think I spotted that Hot Body Hunk she was climbing all over when we were here for her bachelorette party.”
Seeing him again probably would have perked Alexa up, but Cori was mistaken. He wasn’t in the group photo of the guys posted at the room’s entrance. “Alexa’s dancing. There can’t be that much of a fuss over free champagne.”
“Well, it’s not just the champagne. There’s this guy working at one of the bars who, unlike the other bartenders, isn’t viewing a room full of women as the ultimate strike zone. He’s turned down everyone who’s propositioned him, but women are doing everything but dropping their panties on the bar to gain his attention. It’s pitiful. Read the signs, people. He’s not interested.”
More women were standing in front of the bar on the left than the right. Was that where he was? What the hell did this guy look like?
“Damn it.” Cori fidgeted in her seat. “I need to pee, but I heard the lines in front of the ladies’ room are just as long. Maybe I can wait until after the dancers perform.”
“With all the cocktails you’ve had, I doubt it.”
Cori shot her an “oh please” look. “I’ve only had two, but I probably won’t make it. The ladies’ room on the other side of the club has more stalls, and maybe there isn’t a line. Hopefully I’ll get back before the show starts.” She tapped Natalie’s arm and stood. “Tag. You’re it for champagne duty. Good luck avoiding flying elbows and stomping stilettoes while you stand in line.” She sauntered off.
Cori was exaggerating. It couldn’t be that hard to get a drink. Natalie’s phone buzzed with a reminder to check her pet cam. She opened the app on her phone, and a wide view of the pet playroom in the home she’d just moved into last month appeared. Using the zoom feature, Natalie narrowed in on Betsy, asleep in her pink, bone-shaped doggie bed.
Playing with her favorite toys, along with chasing the images of other pooches on DOGTV streaming from the flat screen on the wall, had undoubtedly tired Betsy out.
Natalie stroked her finger over the image on the screen. Two more weeks. That’s how long she had with Betsy before she had to honor the terms of the joint pet ownership agreement and hand her over to Dorian for his turn. She held back the sadness threatening to sweep in. Tonight, you’re not supposed to think about that. Remember what you just told Alexa about moving on?
“All right, ladies,” the DJ said over the music, “I’ve got prizes. The first drawing is for a spa day package.”
Several of the women waiting in front of the bars hurried to their tables to check their tickets.
Natalie tucked her clutch under her arm and stood. Did she want to win five-star pampering or check out the bartender? The struggle was real. Lucky for her, the spa’s ad campaign was a successful one she and her creative team had developed. In appreciation, the owner had given them all standing discounts.
As she got in the now shorter left line, Natalie peered around the people in front of her, but all she could see was the bartender’s close-cut dark hair.
Her phone buzzed in her hand with an incoming text from Alexa about the drawing. Natalie responded with Busy as she inched forward. Finally, she could see him.
As he poured drinks, his pecs naturally formed underneath his black T-shirt, and his biceps bulged. His drink-mixing skills were impressive, but that sexy shadow of stubble on his jawline elevated him from simple bartender to drink-serving god. In her opinion, there was no bigger turn on than the light stubble on a man’s face grazing over her skin. A guy with the right skills could get her off with breast play alone… Only, that hadn’t happened since before she’d gotten married.
Images of the bartender sweeping his lips down her neck as he slid down her shoulder straps bloomed in Natalie’s mind. Suddenly, it was as if she could feel the light rasp of his hair-roughened cheeks along her throat as he moved lower.
Tingles radiated over her skin with the vision of arching up as the bartender kissed his way to her breasts. She’d hold on to his tanned muscular arms, hovering on the brink of even greater ecstasy as he sucked and lapped over one nipple while tweaking the other with his fingers. Ruled by decadent sensation, she’d grip his head and beg him to suck harder. And when he did, the exquisite pressure, along with his tongue pressing and rolling the peak along the roof of his mouth, would make her sex pulse. Every teasing brush of his velvety jawline on her skin would make her hotter, needier. Finally, his tongue fluttering over her sensitive nipple would drive her to come.
Flirtatious feminine laughter burst through the erotic haze in Natalie’s mind, and the heat of desire dissipated from her skin.
Two women up ahead of her flipped their hair as they delivered world-class performances, trying to capture the bartender’s attention.
He delivered their drinks, along with a sexy grin, but then turned to the next customer.
He came off as uninterested, but his lingering glances toward a few of the women’s asses gave him away. Was Cori right about him not being interested in anyone at the party, or was the problem in the other women’s approach?
If she was going after him, she’d let natural attraction lead the way, prompting him to make the first move while she remained slightly elusive. Staying just out of an interested man’s grasp was always the perfect way to reel him in. She knew from experience. Before marrying Dorian, she’d f
lown without a wingwoman like a boss, easily landing most of the men she’d wanted.
The remembered thrill of flirting back and forth with a man along with the chase raised excitement in Natalie. It was time to dust off her flirting skills…starting with the bartender.
Chapter Three
Rome Collier worked in tandem with his fellow bartender, Logan, in Escapade West, the party room hosting the Breakup Bash. Requests for free champagne rolled in, along with orders from the Naughty Nine menu, featuring cocktails with sexually provocative names.
Logan gathered the empty glasses on the bar and put them in the washer underneath the counter. “We’re busier than a dog with two dicks, but the bosses don’t look happy about it.”
Rome followed the light-haired bartender’s gaze to Shannon Lane and Rafe Dumond, the owners of the club, standing farther down near the wall.
Shannon shook her head in disagreement so hard, her dark ponytail swayed like a pendulum. Moments later, she and a grim-faced Rafe walked out of the room.
Rome poured more champagne. “Wonder what’s up?”
“Not sure.” Logan shrugged as he passed out the full flutes. “But it’s odd that the DJ said the entertainment is starting soon.” He lowered his voice. “One of the servers told me the Hot Body Hunks are stuck in traffic on I-95. I sure as hell don’t envy the one who has to make that announcement. These ladies mean serious business when it comes to celebrating breakups. Did you see the centerpiece on the buffet table?”
“Yep.” It was hard to miss the multi-tiered broken-heart-shaped cake with a topper featuring a woman booting a dude in the ass.
A redhead flagged them down from the other end of the bar.
Logan grinned. “Stay put. I got this one.”
“She’s all yours.”
So far, Logan had collected phone numbers from every pretty auburn-haired woman who’d come up for a drink. Hopefully, he was keeping track of them. Otherwise, if the women knew one another, Logan would be the one getting kicked in the ass…or he’d be in for a great night with all of them once the party ended.
Like you never did the same thing. A chuckle blew past Rome’s lips. Yeah, ten years ago, when he’d been in his early twenties, he’d slept with his share of willing women and been bold enough to risk double- or even triple-booking dates, too. But three tours in the Middle East as an army soldier, plus two years working private security for corporate executives, followed by an extended tour in a hospital bed after surviving an explosion in Costa Rica close to a year and a half ago, had mellowed him out. Not that he was living like a monk. He was just a hell of a lot more selective about who he spent his time with. And he had better things to do than serve as the rebound guy for one of the women attending the party.
Three brunettes came up to the bar. The woman in the middle pointed to the colorful, laminated Naughty Nine menu on the counter. “We’ll have three Wet Fantasies, please.”
“Coming up.” Rome rimmed shot glasses with purple sugar.
The one who’d ordered the drinks leaned further over the bar, giving him a closer view of her breasts framed by a lowcut black dress. “You know, all three of us are really into fulfilling our wildest dreams. Together.”
Sure they were.
The woman on the right kept fidgeting with the straps of her gold dress and tugging down her skirt. She obviously wasn’t comfortable showing that much skin. The woman on the left had a tan line from a wedding ring she’d probably just recently removed and most likely still carried in her purse. The one in the middle—someone had done a number on her. Forced bravado couldn’t conceal the self-doubt and unhappiness lingering deep in her eyes.
Like many of the women who’d flirted with him that night, the cracks in their confidence revealed what they tried so hard to hide—fear, pain, regret. Mixed together, those three created a dangerous cocktail called desperation.
He’d faced that trio of bullshit while he was laid up in the hospital. Luckily, by the end of his recovery, he’d learned to embrace his new reality of being the guy who no longer took point on a mission, worked out a protection strategy, or had the responsibility of other people’s lives in his hands.
He brushed stray crystals of purple sugar from the back of his right wrist and the tail end of the scar that zigzagged up to his elbow. If the women standing in front of him were smart, they’d accept their own truths, no matter how difficult they were to face.
As Rome leaned down to open the mini fridge underneath the counter, a twinge ran down from his right hip to his knee. He ignored it, grabbed some lime soda from the fridge, and added it to the mixture of liqueurs, grape vodka, and schnapps.
“Just for you, ladies.” He presented the drinks with a smile that always earned him a blush or, in this case, three.
The woman in the middle paid for the drinks. When he returned the change, she stuffed dollars in the glass carafe serving as a tip jar. Her brow arched in a silent invitation for him to serve her more than just a cocktail.
“Thanks. Enjoy those fantasies.” He winked at her, then joined Logan, working triple time to fill orders.
The DJ gave a fifteen-minute countdown until the Hunks came onstage, and the rush died to a trickle.
Rome slipped his phone from the back pocket of his black jeans for a moment and glanced at the time. In a half hour, he could go home, take a hot shower, and crash. He turned from the front counter to put a bottle of vodka on a back shelf, and the muscles and tendons in his leg, overworked by a double shift, screamed their resistance. His heartrate spiked, and he gripped the back counter.
As he shifted his weight from his right leg to his left, the jean fabric rubbing over his scarred knee and thigh were like needles dragging over his skin. He dug two pain pills from his pocket, popped them into his mouth, then washed them down with a small bottled water he’d tucked away on a shelf just below where he stood.
Logan clapped him on the back and grinned. “Don’t let Shannon catch you slacking off. She’ll rip you a new one.”
Rome forced a chuckle. “Yep.” He straightened bottles of liquor on the back shelf, buying time while he pulled his shit together.
Breathe, Collier, just breathe… He forced himself to take in a steady stream of air through his nose, then slowly released it from his mouth. If he focused hard enough on his breathing, his mind would absorb the pain. A few breaths later, sweat formed on his spine, and once again he was white-knuckling the back counter. Fuck. The damn pills weren’t kicking in fast enough. He needed a distraction.
“Excuse me, bartender.” The woman’s sultry voice coming from behind Rome teased him from the brink of hell. “I’ll take an orgasm.”
He’d filled countless orders for Sex on the Beaches, Blow Jobs, and Wet Pussies, but overly coy deliveries or too much effort had ruined the effect. From her naturally sensual tone, this woman had confidence lying on its back begging to please her.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Auburn highlights shone in the woman’s shoulder-length black hair. Long lashes accented her brown eyes, and her full berry-colored lips were beyond tempting. A thin-strapped, red tank top complemented flawless brown skin.
Fuck confidence lying on its back. He’d gladly lay under one of her sexy stilettos for a closer look at her long shapely legs and equally enticing curves. At least, that’s what he envisioned the counter hid from his view.
Logan glanced over as if he was planning to take her order, prompting Rome to ignore the pain and walk to her at the counter. “Sure you don’t want champagne instead? It’s on the house.”
“No.” She tapped one of her red manicured nails against the Naughty Nine menu. “I’m definitely interested in a number five.” Her gaze met his. “I haven’t had a really good Orgasm in years.”
Too bad she was only talking about the drink. Or was she? “So, it’s been hard to find someone to deliver what’s on the menu?”
“Yes. My ex-husband definitely failed that test.” For a moment, a flash
of sadness intermingled with the spark of mischief in her eyes.
Her ex was clearly a dumb bastard or a fool. A woman as sexy as this one deserved at least one orgasm every damn day of the week. As he envisioned slipping the straps from her shoulders, revealing her voluptuous breasts and more of her silky-smooth skin, his groin tightened. If she was in his arms, he’d explore every inch of her on the way to delivering what she’d been unfairly denied.
Rome rested his hands on the bar and leaned in. Her perfume, feminine and sensual, lured him closer. “Are you sure you’re only in the mood for one?”
“I’d love more than one, but I don’t want to come off as…” Her long lashes raised as she looked up and gave him a ghost of a smile. “Greedy.”
As the last word purred from her lips, goose bumps raised on his arms. He welcomed the challenge of satisfying this beautiful woman. Rome reached for a cocktail shaker and paused. Pouring liqueurs over ice and shaking it up was the half-ass way of doing it. She’d asked for a really good Orgasm, and he’d give her one.
Rome retrieved a tall shooter glass and set it on the counter. He took a bottle of coffee liqueur from the shelf behind him and partially filled the glass. Like her, it had an element of sweetness but also an irresistible bite. Next, he layered in some amaretto, the perfect setup for what all orgasms had—a satisfying finish. Next, he held a spoon against the inside of the glass as he poured in the Irish Cream. It sank, infusing the drink with slow curls of chaos, but, like magic, the lighter liqueur rose to the top, forming three distinct layers of golden amaretto, rich cream, and dark liqueur.
Her gasp of delight caused pride to swell in his chest. He slowly slid the shooter across to her. “One Screaming Orgasm.”
“This looks delicious.” Smiling, she picked up the glass.
Rome couldn’t tear his gaze away from her lips or the curve of her throat as she drank the Orgasm down. When she finished, her low moan of contentment went straight to his cock.
She set the glass on the counter. “It’s even better than I remember. Whoever came up with the idea of serving these tonight is a genius.”