by Lauren Rowe
“No.” I snort. “Never. Like I said. It was completely meaningless.”
She chews the inside of her mouth.
“Do you plan to see Mr. Baseball again?” I ask, my heart pounding.
“No.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“He wants to see you again, though, right?”
She nods.
“You’re not gonna say yes when he asks?”
“He’s already asked twice. And I’ve already said no both times.” She presses her lips together. “I told him very clearly it wasn’t gonna work out. I was nice about it, but clear.”
I make a caveman sound.
“What does that grunt mean?”
“It means I’m plotting his murder in my head.”
“Why? He didn’t do anything wrong.”
I grunt again.
She smiles. “You’re jealous?”
“Of course, I’m jealous. Fuck yeah, I am.”
“But I just told you I’m not gonna see him again.”
“So what. I can’t get a certain visual out of my head and it’s making me crazy.”
Her smile broadens.
“You like that I’m jealous?”
She thinks for a minute. “Usually, I’d say no—that I hate jealous bullshit. But, yeah, I’m liking it.” She bites her lip. “So does Miss Blast from Your Past wanna see you again?”
I nod. “She seems to think we’ve got some sort of... soul connection.” I make a face. “But I’ve already told her it’s not gonna happen.”
“Hmmph.”
“What does that mean? Are you jealous of Miss Blast from My Past?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course. Isn’t that what we’re doing here—playing the honesty-game ’til we both wanna bang our heads against a wall?”
She laughs. “Um... I’m more like envious, I think, but, no, not jealous. I don’t get jealous when I’m not in a relationship.” She glares at me, clearly telling me my jealousy about Cameron Schulz is premature. “Now, if you were my boyfriend and I found out you’d fucked another woman, then, yes, I’d be so jealous I’d burn your fucking house down. And then I’d cut off your balls, roast them over the burning embers of your house, smash them between two graham crackers with a Hershey bar and make testicle-s’mores out of them, which I would then gobble up as I stood over your writhing, whimpering body on the ground.”
Holy shit. I’m so shocked, I can’t even laugh. But Kat does—in fact, she belly laughs and throws back her head, completely enthralled with herself.
“And do you wanna know why I’d burn your house down and make myself s’mores out of your balls, my dearest Josh?”
I shake my head. “I’m too scared of you to even venture a guess.”
“Because if you were my boyfriend, I would never, ever cheat on you, I can promise you that on a stack of bibles. Never. I’ve never cheated and I never will. And here’s why: because I never agree to be someone’s girlfriend unless I’m one hundred percent willing to give the guy my whole heart. And as the relationship progresses, if I’m feeling like cheating, then I don’t stay. It’s scorched earth maybe, but a man never, ever has to wonder where my feelings stand.” She picks up her drink. “It also means that, if you were my boyfriend and you cheated on me, then you’d undoubtedly be breaking my heart.”
I place my palm on my chest, steadying myself. I look down at the bar, collecting myself. This girl just knocked the wind out of me.
“But since you and I aren’t even dating, then, no, I’m not jealous.” She takes a long sip of her drink. “Because I can’t justify getting jealous when a man’s not mine to begin with.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Kat,” I manage to say.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ve never met anyone like you, either.”
“You’re like some bizarre, undiscovered species of fish that washes ashore after a nuclear disaster and freaks everyone the fuck out,” I say.
She laughs. “Wow. That’s your idea of a compliment?”
“I’m normally much smoother than this, I assure you. You bring out the Jonas in me.”
She laughs. “Jonas seems pretty damned smooth, actually.”
“Not usually. Just with Sarah all of a sudden. She brings out the Josh Faraday in him, I guess.”
She grins and I can’t help smiling back at her like a fucking dope.
There’s a very long beat, during which we’re smiling at each other, not saying a damned thing. Finally, Kat bites her lip and touches my hand, sending electricity throughout my entire body.
“For God’s sake, Playboy,” she purrs, “just tell me what’s in your application so we can get this show on the road. Please?” She squeezes my hand and licks her lips. “I’m suddenly feeling extremely... impatient.”
Oh man, she’s good. She’s very, very good. But she’s also shit out of luck. There’s no fucking way I’m giving this girl my application. Period. And certainly not in exchange for the honor of fucking her. Hell no, when she finally fucks me, it’s gonna be for no other reason than she’s dying for it, not because I gave her some stupid application.
I drain the rest of my drink. “Nope.” I clap my hands together. “Getting this show on the road is entirely up to you, Party Girl. All you have to do is kiss me, just once, and then I’ll know you’ve conceded your demands and have finally decided to find out the good old-fashioned way if I’m gonna chain you to a donkey or not.”
She smirks. “No, no, no, my dearest Playboy; you’ve got it backwards. What’s actually gonna happen is you’re gonna kiss me—thereby signaling to me you agree to my demands and will give me what I want.”
We stare each other down.
“I’m not gonna give you my application, Kat. It’s none of your fucking business.”
“Oh, I think you are.”
“Nope.”
She puckers. “I’m a really good kisser, Playboy.” She raises an eyebrow. “At least, that’s what Cameron Schulz said.”
I squint at her. “You’re evil.”
“I am.”
I motion to the bartender. “Check, please.” I glare at her for a long beat. She looks so fucking sure of herself—and so fucking hot, I doubt this girl’s experienced disappointment once in her entire life. “Okay, Party Girl,” I say. “The time for chitchat is over. I’m not gonna give you what you want—which means you’re not gonna fuck me.” I make a sad face and she matches it. “So I guess that means there’s only one thing left for us to do,” I continue.
“And what would that be?”
“Dance, of course.”
Her face lights up. “Oh, I love to dance.”
“Well, of course, you do. You’re the Party Girl With a Hyphen, for fuck’s sake.”
She grins.
“It’s time for you to earn that nickname of yours, babe.” I touch the cleft in her chin one more time and then put out my hand. “Let’s go, baby. Time to paint Sin City red.”
Fifteen
Kat
Josh slams the taxi door shut and we bound toward “the hottest dance club in Vegas,” hand in hand. A line of immaculately dressed people waiting to get into the club wraps around the side of the building and down the block, but, apparently, lines don’t apply to Josh Faraday—because he grabs my hand and pulls me past the throngs of people and straight to the front doors.
“Hey, Barry,” Josh says to a very, very large black man standing at the front door of the club.
The man beams a huge smile at Josh. “Joshua Faraday,” he says, bumping fists with Josh. “I didn’t know you were coming out tonight.”
“Yeah, it was super last minute. Is Reed in town, by any chance?”
“Yeah, he just flew in this afternoon. Have you texted him?”
“A few minutes ago, but he hasn’t responded yet. Will you let him know I’m here? We’ll hang out by the downstairs bar for a bit so he can find us.” Josh motions to me. “Oh, sorry. Barry, this is my lovely d
ate for the evening, Kat.”
“Hello there, Kat,” Barry says in his deep voice. He puts out his hand and I take it.
“Nice to meet you, Barry,” I say.
“Careful, Barry. Don’t look her in the eyes. She’ll hypnotize you with that fucking gorgeous face and try to trick you into telling her your darkest secrets.”
I look at Josh, flabbergasted, but Josh and Barry are laughing easily together.
“I dunno, Josh. Seems like there are much worse things that could happen to a guy than getting royally fucked over by this one here.”
“Amen, brother,” Josh says.
“Uh . . .” I say, at a loss for words. I think Barry just complimented me, but I’m not sure if “thank you” is an appropriate reply.
Before I can figure out what to say, Barry opens the velvet rope and motions for us to pass into the club. “Have fun, kids. Go easy on him, Kat. He’s a good guy.” He chuckles. “I’ll tell Reed you’re here.”
The minute Josh and I enter the club, I slip into some sort of hedonism-induced coma. I’ve been to my share of nightclubs, but I’ve never seen a temple to pure excess quite like this. Almost-nude women “bathe” throughout the club in clear Plexiglas bathtubs filled with flower petals; lithe, rippling acrobats in skin-tight bodysuits hang from the ceiling on trapeze swings, twisting and gyrating like the performers Josh and I saw earlier tonight with Jonas and Sarah at Cirque Du Soleil; seizure-inducing lights and lasers are bouncing around every square inch of the place; and screens scattered throughout the club flash shocking pornographic images in rapid-fire succession, so fast my brain isn’t sure what my eyes just witnessed. It’s sheer spectacle. Obscenity. Titillation to the extreme. And I love it.
Josh pulls me to a long, sparkling bar and flags down the bartender.
“Martini?” he shouts into my ear above the thumping music.
“Shots!” I yell. “So we can get onto the dance floor right away.”
“Good idea!” Josh shouts back and turns toward the bar.
Oh man, I’m ready to dance. Even standing here at the bar, my body’s already begun involuntarily herking and jerking to the bass-heavy beat.
A phenomenally good-looking guy in a suit sidles up to Josh and taps him on the shoulder. Josh turns toward the unidentified tap and, when he sees the guy, his entire face lights up. The two men hug with what looks like extreme affection and as they break apart the guy kisses Josh on his cheek with a giant, enthusiastic swak.
Josh motions to me, talking into the guy’s ear, and Mr. Handsome smiles and waves at me, though I can’t hear a thing above the thumping music.
Josh leans into my ear. “Reed’s part-owner of this club.”
“Nice to meet you Reed,” I say, but it’s clear he can’t hear me. He just smiles and waves again. Wow. He’s a really, really good-looking man. I lick my lips. I guess hotties travel in packs. The Brotherhood of the Traveling Hottie McHottie-pants, I think, making myself laugh.
The bartender places the shots in front of us on the bar, and Josh distributes them among the three of us.
Josh leans into Reed’s ear and says something and they both burst out laughing. Reed nods and slaps Josh’s back.
Damn, I wish I had superhuman hearing right now. But all I can hear is the blaring music. Appropriately, the song playing right now is “I Can’t Feel My Face” by The Weekend, a song about a guy who, of course, can’t feel his face, presumably because he’s drunk or high. On what, though, it’s not clear. Booze? Lust? Whichever it is (or both), I’m right there with him. Fo shizzle-pops.
Josh and Reed are still talking in each other’s ears and laughing, so I begin dancing in place to the music, marveling at just how little I can feel my face. Or toes. Or brain. I’m verging on drunk, actually. And it feels hella good.
“Thanks, bro,” I hear Josh say. “I owe you one.”
“You bet.”
Josh turns his gaze on me and smiles like a wolf. He leans into my ear and snakes his arm around my waist.
“You still going commando?” he asks, right in my ear. His hand migrates down to my ass.
“I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself,” I say. “Right after you kiss me and concede to my terrorist demands,” I say.
He laughs. “You mean after you kiss me and give up your fucking jihad.”
I shake my head and retract my lips completely into my mouth, signaling my lips are unkissable until he gives me what I want.
He laughs and grabs my hand. “Come on, Madame Terrorist. It’s time to dance.”
Sixteen
Kat
Holy hell.
If dancing is any indication whatsoever of a man’s sexual prowess, then Josh Faraday is a sex god. Oh my God, the way he swivels and rocks those hips makes me yearn for him to grind them just like that on top of me while wearing nothing but a cocky smile. Holy shitballs. This man can move.
The song playing is “Want To Want Me” by Jason Derulo and Josh knows every word. He’s singing the song to me, serenading me—and with so much charm and swagger, I can’t help but laugh with glee. I can’t remember having this much fun dancing with a guy—with my girlfriends, sure. But with a guy? A hot guy? No. Usually, when I’m dancing with a really hot guy, I’m so concerned about coming off as sexy and desirable to him, I forget to just let loose and have fun. But Josh makes it impossible to feel anything but totally uninhibited. Oh my God, I’m laughing too much to even try to be sexy. I throw my hands above my head and wiggle my hips and giggle uncontrollably, mirroring Josh’s confident movement, and he laughs his ass off at every little thing I do. And the crazy thing is, having fun like this is making me so wet, I’m worried I’m gonna drip down my bare thigh in this shorty-short dress.
As the song reaches its conclusion, Josh looks up toward the balcony and locks eyes with Reed. He gives Reed a thumbs up and Reed returns the gesture. When Josh’s eyes dart back to me, he levels me with a smile that makes me feel like he’s planning to put me in an oven with some onions and potatoes.
The song abruptly changes to a hip-hop song I don’t know. But, clearly, Josh does—because as the rapper begins spitting out lyrics, Josh mouths every single word along with him. Oh my God, Josh is freaking hilarious right now. He’s thugging out to the song, going all in, shaking his ass and owning it. Oh man, I’ve never seen a concoction of maleness quite like this before. He’s raw and smooth and funny and hot and goofy all at the same time. He’s redefining sexy for me, right here and now. He’s just... wow.
I listen intently to the lyrics of the song, trying to plumb the depths of my dance-club memories, but nope, I don’t recognize it. I pull out my phone, activate my Shazam app—and just when the song title displays on my phone—“Kiss Me” by Lil Wayne—Josh begins singing along to the chorus. “Kiss me,” Josh raps, grinding his hips like he’s auditioning for Magic Mike. “Kiss me.”
I laugh. What a sneaky little bastard. And a hilarious one.
He inches closer and closer to me, still rapping and grinding his hips ferociously, until, suddenly, and with great dramatic flair, he grabs me, pulls me into him, and grinds his body into mine with enthusiastic thrusts to the beat of the music. “Kiss me,” he says to me, his lips on my ear, his intoxicating cologne wafting into my nostrils. His strong hands encircle my waist and grip my back as he presses his undulating body into mine. His lips migrate to my cheek, where they trail the length of my jawbone. His tongue laps at my neck.
Oh muh guh. Playtime’s over. Shit just got real.
His hard-on presses into me, thrusting, grinding, making my knees weak—and, holy shitballs, there’s no mistaking the size of that hard bulge, even through the man’s pants. Good lord. Josh doesn’t need to chain me to a donkey—he’s got it covered on his own.
He parts my legs with his thigh and grinds his hard dick right into my clit, over and over, still rapping and groping me as he does.
I throw my head back.
Yes.
My clit ignites i
nside my panties. I’m beginning to warp and ache. My skin is beginning to prickle.
“Kiss me,” he says into my ear, gyrating his body against mine. Oh my God. He’s taking my breath away.
His mouth skims my ear and lands on my cheek and then my neck. I run my fingers into his hair, pressing my breasts into the hardness of his chest and my crotch into the bulge of his pelvis. Oh God. He nuzzles the tip of his nose against mine, teasing me. His lips are an inch away from mine, skimming, teasing, hovering as close as humanly possible without actually making contact, his erection continuing to grind into me as his mouth taunts me.
The song is thumping in my ears.
The lights on the dance floor are entrancing me.
My body is moving in time with his.
He smells so frickin’ good, I wanna ingest him.
I feel dizzy.
Weak.
Frenzied.
I lift my leg and encircle his hip with it, aching to take him inside me. He shifts position and presses himself even more feverishly against me, sending his hard-on right up against the exact spot that makes me burst into flames.
Yeeeeeeeeoooowwwwwwww. Yes. Right there. I press into him harder, moaning, and he rubs that hard bulge ferociously against me, still rapping the words to the song.
His hand navigates under the hem of my dress and brushes against my bare ass cheek, causing goose bumps to erupt all over my body.
Without the slightest hesitation, he fingers my ass crack, presumably trying to figure out if I’m wearing a G-string, and when he finds the string, he slides his fingers all the way down it, down, down, down, and then forward, straight to the crotch, where his fingers begin exuberantly stroking the soft, extremely wet fabric of my panties.
My knees buckle and he holds me up, his fingers continuing to stroke. He kisses my ear and then my neck, yet again, rapping into my ear. “Kiss me,” he purrs.
His lips migrate to mine and hover, yet again, just over my lips, inviting me to bridge the gap and slip my tongue into his mouth—inviting me to lay my weapon down.