Page 9

So here I sit, night after night, waiting for Griffin Nash to show back up and seek me out. Anxiety swirls through me, and I have to take deliberate breaths to keep myself from spiraling further.

Small, feminine hands rake up my back, but instead of turning me on, I’m annoyed as fuck. I look up from the swirling amber whiskey in my glass for a moment to be polite and give my guest a soft smile. I’m immediately taken aback. She’s gorgeous—long brown hair, soft skin, pouty pink lips.

“I’m Sarah.”

“Carter.”

“Are you watching or playing tonight?”

Fuck. Maybe this is what I need. Trying to let go of my piss-poor mood, I lean into her space, putting her breasts right in front of my face, and watch the moment her breathing hitches. I love this about sex. Watching my partner’s reactions to everything I’m doing. Learning their bodies, their tells, what lights them up. This. This is what I’m good at. This is the space where my head clears of all the noise, where everything shuts off.

“Depends,” I tell her honestly.

She steps further into my space, my legs opening and welcoming her between them. My hands move to her hips, the soft, bare skin of her waist warm under my palms. She’s a tiny wisp of a thing, with small breasts that are less than a handful, hip bones protruding from her thin frame, her waist tucked in tight. My eyes track down her nearly naked body, her long legsclose together, leaving a gap between them where her little pussy hides under a pink G-string. Her hands rub up my arms and over my shoulders, clasping at the back of my neck.

Fuck. Why isn’t my dick waking up? Work, asshole.

With a last-ditch effort to get this going, I meet her eyes and suck her nipple through the thin lace of her bra, enjoying the way chills scatter across her skin. Sarah moans softly, a sound that normally goes right to my dick. Her hand reaches down, palming what should be my hard cock, and I release her breast, sitting back and putting some space between us.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks sheepishly, probably not used to being turned down.

I sigh hard, disappointed with myself as shame washes over me. This has never happened to me before.

“Sarah, you are a gorgeous woman, and any other night, I would take my time to worship you like you deserve, but my head just isn’t in it tonight. It’s cliché and normally a bullshit excuse, but I promise you it’s the truth, it’s not you, it’s me.”

She releases a deep sigh, her shoulders sagging in what I hope is relief and not the disappointment currently weighing on me.

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed. Everyone has eyes on you.”

Not the one person I want to have eyes on me.

I shake off my intrusive thoughts and give her the best smile I can muster. “I’m sorry. Enjoy your evening, okay?”

She gives me a nod and reluctantly walks away, leaving me alone to my quiet brooding. A laugh rolls through me as I hold the glass of my drink to my lips.

“Something funny?” Mike, the bartender, asks me.

“Who the fuck comes to a sex club and sits at the bar all night like a lonely, sad asshole?” I say through another laugh, the absurdity of my situation finallyhitting me.

“Apparently you. Not too late to get that sexy little thing back over here to make you feel better.”

Mike’s not wrong, but I wasn’t either. My head’s not in it. I’m too occupied with Griffin Nash. Torn between wanting to see him again to see if everything I thought I felt was real, and ripping his fucking head off to find out what his goddamn issue is and what his plans are.

I toss the remainder of my drink to the back of my throat, nod at Mike to charge the card he has on file, and head outside before my panic starts to eat away at me here on the floor of the club. The last thing people need to find out is that the ‘always up for a good time’ guy is actually a head case who’s constantly worried about everything.

There weren’t a lot of rules growing up in my family that my parents followed through with. Finish school through high school, then go to college or pick a trade, be considerate of everyone around you, and attend family dinners on Sundays. That last one hasn’t gone away even though we’ve all grown up. If anything, it’s a more solid line that we five kids don’t want to cross. None of us want to upset our mom.

Showing up early, I walk into my parents’ house unannounced, my mom cutting up vegetables and putting them into tinfoil for the grill.

“Hey, Mom, how are you?” I ask as I drop a kiss on her head. She’s shorter than all of us by a long shot, with short brown hair that is highlighted with silver strands that have come in as she ages. She’s the sweetest, most welcoming woman you’ll ever meet and has the patience of a saint. But you’d haveto be, raising five heathens. She had us boys all back-to-back, then a few years between me and Kinsey. I’m surprised that after having Liam so soon after the twins, she didn’t end up in a psych ward, but then she had two more, so she clearly thrives in chaos.

“Hey, my boy. I’m wonderful. Ready for a full house. My favorite day of the week.”

“You’re a saint hosting all of us, especially since we’ve expanded so quickly.”

“I love it, and you know it.”

“I’m not complaining. Especially when Ivy brings dessert,” I say jokingly, even though my sister-in-law, Ivy, who’s a chef, does bring the most amazing desserts, and my mom knows it. “Anything you need help with?”