“Hey, if his watch counts, my necklace counts,” I said.
“If I knew we were doing this,” Ronan muttered, “I would’ve worn more clothes.”
Then we took a pause so I could enjoy the shirtless view while I made us margaritas and slowed down the alcohol consumption a bit, lest the tequila shots had us all throwing up by midnight. Luckily, Ronan owned a blender and his freezer was stocked with frozen berries he used for smoothies, so I improvised and we had blackberry-raspberry-blueberry margaritas.
Not bad.
I served them up and we got back down to business while Ria Mae sang “Clothes Off.”
“Do you have a ready-made playlist for stripping opportunities?” Ronan asked me, slurring just a little.
“Absolutely.”
He took a swig of his margarita.
That round, he lost his belt. And Andre lost his shoes, which I was pretty sure he’d snuck on after we’d started playing, like a big fat Cheaty Cheaterson. I wasn’t wearing shoes, and when I peeked under the table, Ronan wasn’t either.
Next round went the ring Ronan belatedly remembered he was wearing.
I slipped off my earrings.
Next, Ronan lost his jeans. He really was fucking terrible at this game.
“You’re terrible at this game,” Andre noted drunkenly.
I’d gotten a blackball, too. I was usually better at this game, but hey, it had been a while since I’d played. And besides, all the tequila.
I stripped off my blouse. Luckily, I had on my date night bra with all the sexy straps and the extreme push-up action. Both men stared at my boobs, and I wasn’t gonna fault them. They were drunk, and I had great boobs.
I raised my margarita. “To getting naked.”
We all took a generous swig of our drinks.
Next round, Andre lost his belt. “I’m really trying to cheat,” he informed us. “But this game is impossible to cheat at.”
Next round, I got another blackball. But I was prepared for this.
I reached under my flouncy skirt and after a lot of digging around—which Ronan watched with rapt, drunken fascination and Andre tried not to watch—I produced my garter belt, which I’d unclipped from my stockings.
Ronan’s mouth fell open.
Both men watched as I held it high in the air, then dropped it on the floor.
Andre swiped a hand over his face. “Think I need another drink,” he muttered, and I refilled our margaritas from the blender.
Next round went one of Ronan’s socks. He insisted they were singular items. We let him have that one, even though he was wrong.
“Socks are a pair, bro,” Andre informed him.
“Are you even trying to win any tricks?” I asked him.
“I’m trying,” Ronan protested. He was naked down to his black boxer briefs and one sock. “This game is fucking hard.”
“It’s not hard,” Andre said. “You’re just that drunk.”
Andre had been betting zero every round and trying to lose every trick, and the tactic was working for him. Every round he won, he was gaining a solid ten points. I’d made the mistake of telling him my grandpa used to use that tactic.
“Fuck you,” Ronan said jovially. “Here, I’ll give you a freebie.” He peeled off his other sock.
“Very bad idea, brother,” Andre said.
We were down to one last hand, one card for each of us, and no trump suit. One trick left to win. Andre was shirtless. I was down to my bra and panties, stockings and skirt.
Ronan was almost naked, and he was up first. He laid down an eight of hearts.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said. “Who bets on an eight?”
Andre howled. “Dude, you have the worst luck of anyone I’ve ever met.” Then he laid down his five.
I laid down my jack. Andre had won the zero tricks he’d bet, I’d won the one trick I’d bet… and Ronan had another blackball.
Andre and I both looked at him. All he had left to take off were his boxer briefs.
He met my eyes, and damn, he looked drunk.
“Okay, wait a sec,” I said, taking pity on him. I reached under my skirt again and slipped off my panties. I held them up, then dropped them on the floor.
Ronan’s eyes glazed over as he watched me do it. Booze and lust.
I shrugged when they both stared at me. “Call it a pity freebie.”
Andre grabbed the tequila bottle and poured us shots. Ronan picked up his shot and downed it without even waiting for us. Then he stood up, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear.
And oh… my.
He. Was. Hard.
Andre choked on the shot he’d just put back. “Oh. No. Brother, don’t—”
Ronan took a breath—and whipped his underwear down.
“NO!”
I gasped in pure joy and applauded as Ronan’s underwear dropped to his ankles.
“Brooooo! NOOOO!” Andre moaned, covering his eyes with his hand. “I DIDN’T THINK YOU WERE ACTUALLY GONNA DO IT!”
“Oh, he did it,” I said, and tossed my shot back.
Ronan rested a hand on one hip and took a big, drunken breath. Then he dug the other hand into the popcorn bowl. He stood there snacking with his naked, glorious hard-on out, as Andre fell out of his chair, one hand still over his eyes, and groped around on the floor for his shirt.
“What?” Ronan said through popcorn. “I lost the game.”
Andre pulled on his shirt and grabbed his shoes, staggered to the door, muttered something about calling a cab, and left. The door slammed unceremoniously behind him and I burst out laughing.
Ronan sighed raggedly. “I thought he’d never leave.”
“That… was… amazing,” I said, gazing up at him with unadulterated adoration.
Was this what it felt like to fall head-over-heels in love with one’s bodyguard?
Yeah. I was pretty fucking sure.
He put a hand on the table to steady himself. “Fuck. I’m hammered.”
I just laughed.
“You are so sexy,” he croaked. He sounded parched. His head was kinda hanging as he peered up at me. He looked like it was taking all his effort to stand, actually.
His dick was still pretty hard, though.
“Oh, baby.” I got up and went to get him a glass of water from the kitchen. “Drink some water.”
He chugged some back, then passed it to me. I took a swig as he watched, then set the glass aside.
“Are you fully cognizant of the fact that you just showed Andre your dick? While it was obscenely hard?”
“Maybe one of us will forget about that by tomorrow?”
“I kinda think that mental image is gonna be burned into his brain, forever and always.”
“It’s your fault,” he said, his voice gruff. “You stripped off all your… stuff. I’ve been hard for the last twenty minutes.”
My gaze drifted down to his stiff dick, and I definitely filed that away.
Can get it up, even when wasted.
“That’s impressive,” I told him, sitting down in my chair again. “Given how drunk you are.”
He leaned over me, braced against the table, and his eyes dragged over my body. “Do that thing again…”
“What thing?”
“You know, where you peel your panties off while you’re still wearing your skirt.”
“I can’t. My panties are already off. I can do this, though.” I put a leg up on the edge of the table so my skirt fluttered back, hooked my thumbs under the lace at the top of my stocking, and started sliding it down my thigh.
Ronan groaned and his dick flexed.
Then he hauled me out of my chair and manhandled me over to the couch.
Not so worried about hurting me when he’s horny…
We tumbled onto the couch in a groping, drunken heap. He rammed into me while I was still in my bra and flouncy skirt and one stocking. He fucked me while we kissed like we were drunk—on each other.
We scre
wed each other until we were sweating, and I told him, “Don’t stop. Don’t pull out…”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I could feel the intensity of his arousal as he drove into me, the anticipation of coming inside me for the first time. And after he pulled my hair and bit my neck and growled out I’m gonna come so deep in that pussy you’re gonna taste it, I came so hard I was afraid the neighbors might call the cops because they thought he was murdering someone.
He wasn’t exactly quiet about his orgasm, either.
Apparently, the only thing that made Ronan come harder than my mouth or hands on his dick was being buried deep in my pussy.
We lay in a sweaty, panting, entangled heap for long minutes afterwards. My head was spinning and I was pretty sure birdies were tweeting all around it like in an old cartoon.
And maybe hearts were throbbing in my eyes.
I couldn’t even look at him, just in case.
“You okay?” he asked, as I buried my face in his neck.
Gets all mushy-voiced after he comes.
Loves me?
I cleared my throat and decided to avoid the romantic after-sex talk that might possibly follow that fuck, if he was drunk enough—and make my heart explode as hard as my ovaries just had.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked him.
“Uh…” He seemed lost, or maybe the blood just hadn’t returned to his brain. He pulled out, still panting, and collapsed next to me. There wasn’t enough room for that on the couch, so he was still half on top of me. “D’you want to stay over?”
“If you want me to.” I met his eyes.
He put a hand on the side of my face, stroked his thumb over my lips, and kissed me softly. “I want you to.” His voice was all husky, and it sent a shiver down my spine.
Relax, I tried to tell my ovaries. We already did it.
“Then let’s have morning sex,” I said casually, “and go pick up groceries or something. Like a normal boring couple.”
“Sounds exotic.” He sighed, sounding sated and tired. And still drunk.
“It’s key to our domestic bliss that I learn more about you,” I informed him, playing with his hair. “Like, are you a shopping list guy or an impulse guy?”
“Neither,” he said. “I’ve got the list in my head.”
“Me too! See? We finally found something in common.”
“We already found something in common,” he said, in that unholy sex tone of his that made my toenails swoon. “But I get to push the shopping cart.”
“No, you have to push the cart. Because I’m not pushing it.”
“And I get to drive.”
“Like hell you do.”
He grabbed my hip and held me against him, grinding his hips into me for emphasis. “You let me drive in here…” he murmured against my lips.
“Yes,” I said, a little more breathlessly than I meant to. “Yes, I do.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ronan
Five days later, I was finally over the tequila hangover.
I stood in Summer’s bedroom with a scarf tied over my eyes. It was Wednesday night, it was Halloween, and I was waiting to escort her to the party she was playing at the Ruby.
“Right here,” her friend, Carissa the yoga instructor, directed me, turning me a bit by my shoulders. As far as I could tell, I was facing the bed. I couldn’t see shit through the scarf.
They’d made me put it on outside the room and walk in wearing it.
“Are we ready?” I heard Carissa ask.
“Almost!”
That was Summer. I heard her moving around, and the sound of something spraying. I smelled chemically-flowery smell.
Hair spray. They’d been gassing out the whole house with it for the last hour.
“Done!” she said triumphantly. “Take off the scarf.”
I heard them arranging themselves in front of me, and I reached to untie the scarf.
When I pulled it off, they stood in front of me, side by side. Summer and Carissa. They were striking sexy poses and flexing their arms—like they were in a photo shoot for a bad eighties workout video.
They were dressed in their coordinated Halloween costumes.
They’d already explained to me that they were dressing up as the cast from the TV series GLOW (Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling). Which was good, because otherwise I’d have no idea what the fuck they were doing.
“Meet Debbie,” Summer said, sweeping her hands up and down in front of Carissa’s body like she was a prize on a game show.
“And Ruth,” Carissa said, as she swept her hands up and down in front of Summer.
I looked them both over. They looked ridiculous.
And fucking hot.
Summer/Ruth, they’d already informed me, was the main character from the show. She played some kind of Russian villain, in the faux-wrestling-character-shtick sense. Which meant she had on a skintight, ruby-red, shiny-as-hell leotard thing. She spun around, giving me the full view and wiggling her ass gratuitously. It was high-cut on her ass cheeks and low-cut on her tits, so I wasn’t complaining. She had what looked like a full bottle of hair spray making her hair stand up and out, and some scary, glittery wrestling villainess makeup.
Carissa/Debbie was her arch nemesis, the all-American girl and hero of the wrestling storyline. Which meant she had on an ensemble similar to Summer’s, but with an American flag themed stars-and-stripes pattern. It was stuffed with huge fake tits that I’d watched them make out of rice and tied-off pantyhose while they drank blender margaritas this afternoon. She also had a bottle of hair spray unloaded into her blonde hair, and the brightest blue eyeshadow I’d ever seen this side of nineteen-eighty-five.
Summer planted her hands on her hips as I stared.
“Well?” she demanded.
“You look great.” They did. They even had lace-up wrestling booties on. Summer’s were black and Carissa’s were white.
“Good. Now will you please be our Sam Sylvia,” Summer said, annoyed. It was far from the first time she’d asked me this. She wasn’t even asking this time, more like insisting, because she knew I was about to say no, yet again.
They wanted me, badly, to dress up as another character from the show—the director of the ladies’ wrestling show. They’d insisted that the fact that his character was “a grumpy asshole” had nothing to do with it.
“No,” I told Summer, just like I had all week. “I will not under any circumstances be your bitch.”
“I don’t think you understand the plot of the show,” she said in a soothing voice, still trying to get her way. “Sam Sylvia is no one’s bitch.”
She was right; I hadn’t seen the show.
“He’s the main male character,” Carissa explained, for the millionth time. “That’s all. We need you to complete the lineup.”
“Come on,” Summer pressed. “It’s Halloween. It’s the biggest party night of the year for me.”
“Uh-huh. Tied with New Year’s… Christmas… every other night of the year…”
“Irrelevant,” she said, since she couldn’t exactly argue the point.
“Still no.”
I wasn’t much of a fan of group costumes, personally. I wasn’t much of a fan of dressing up in costume at all. And I definitely wasn’t a fan of dressing up while I was on duty. I’d already instructed Andre not to dress up tonight. Last Halloween, when I found out he’d showed up to work an event dressed as the Hulk—painted completely green—I was not impressed.
Summer stared me down. She could probably live with the fact that I didn’t share her passion for Halloween, but she was pissed that I wouldn’t dress up as her minion.
“All you have to do,” she purred, “is wear the damn giant mustache, the bad eighties glasses and the dorky shirt, and we’re good.” She pointed at the items laid out on her bed.
“You’ll be the boss,” Carissa insisted.
“If I wear that shit because you tol
d me to,” I informed Summer, “you’ll be bored with me the second you get what you want.”
“That is not true,” she said. But she was full of it. She eyed me, possibly realizing I was right.
Because I was right.
She might think she wanted a man who’d play her way, get onboard with her matchy-matchy costume idea, but she’d never respect that man in the morning.
“You want a guy to dress up in matching costumes with you,” I said, “why don’t you call Jewel over? I’m sure he’d be game.”
Summer’s eyes narrowed.
Yeah, so I was kinda jealous that she’d told me she slept with her friend Jewel in the past… the skinny jeans wearing and latte sipping massage therapist with the belly button piercing who was always giving her free massages.
Carissa seemed to be edging toward the door, in case this was about to get ugly.
“Carissa, don’t leave,” Summer ordered. Carissa stopped in her tracks, and Summer rolled her eyes at me. “Fine,” she said. “But you do not have to bring Jewel into this.”
I grinned. Fuck, I loved winning fights with her.
“But you leave me no choice,” she said. “You get the consolation costume.”
“Huh?”
“If you won’t be Sam—”
“I won’t.”
“Then you get the bunny.”
“Please tell me that’s code,” I said. “For some kinda kinky sex thing.”
“Nope,” Carissa said, digging something out of a bag on the floor. It was fluffy and white. Looked a hell of a lot like… bunny parts.
Ears. I definitely saw bunny ears.
Summer took the ears from Carissa, leaving her holding what looked like a puffy tail.
“It’s the only costume I have left,” Summer lied, giving me a fake-innocent look. She held the ears up in front of me.
They were white and fuzzy, with pink satin insides, on a glittery gold headband, and looked like they were meant for a little girl. They appeared to be adult sized, though.
When I made no move to take them, she thrust them at me. “Put them on.”
I studied her for a moment, considering my options here.
“Do not be a party pooper, Ronan,” she warned me. “I hate party poopers.”
Sweet Temptation: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 3) Page 40