Page 10 of Badd Ass
So yeah, I should tell him to get lost.
For my own good.
But I didn’twantto. I liked how he blocked out the whole rest of the bar when he sat next to me, how I felt small and safe and secure in his presence. And he really did smell amazing.
But then again…I wondered what he’d do if I did tell him to leave.
“I mean, I haven’t seen Claire in six months, and we’re kind of having a girl’s night. She’s only here for—what, Claire, two days?” I said, testing the refusal on both myself and Zane.
The waitress came by with Zane’s bourbon; he passed her a twenty and waved off the change.
His eyes flicked from me to Claire and back to me, searching. A smile spread across his lips. “A girl’s night, huh?”
“And no, before you ask,” I said, “we’re not both going home with you.”
“We’re not?” Claire asked, and I was like ninety-nine percent sure she was just playing along, but with Claire, you never knew—the girl had a secret freaky side.
“We’re not,” I insisted.
Zane tossed back a slug of his whiskey, and then stood up. “Meh, I haven’t done that shit since SEAL graduation. Two girls at once sounds like a lot more fun than it really ends up being.” He bent over and brushed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then put his lips to my ear, whispering. “Besides, all I really want is another shot at putting my perfect penis inside your perfect vagina.”
Gah. Now he smelled like whiskey, and if I kissed him, he’d taste like whiskey, and there are few things more intoxicating for me than the taste of whiskey on a man’s breath.
Wait. Perfect vagina? He thought my vagina was perfect?
He was already swaggering away, though, his tight ass molded to artistic perfection in a pair of dark jeans. Those long, strong legs, though. Damn. And that ass? Did I mention his ass? How it was roughly the same size, shape, and hardness as a pair of bowling balls cupped in a pair of jeans?
He sidled up to the bar, finishing his whiskey on the way. The bartender was a woman, tall and lanky and beautiful, tight black tank top showing off a vibrant display of tats. She took one look at Zane and pretty much ran over to serve him, bending over the bar at the waist to give him a nice open look down her blouse at her tits, which were big and fake and amazing. She giggled at him, leaning close as he said something to her. He shot her a bright, flirty grin, nudging his glass at her. She responded with another smarmy giggle, took his glass, and filled it with an absolutely absurd amount of Bulleit. And then, instead of just telling him how much he owed, she went through the trouble of printing out the ticket…so she could very obviously write her number on it.
The bastard wasn’t even trying and she was falling all over herself to pick him up.
Zane paid the bill, once again not bothering with change. He took the ticket she’d written her number on, kept it hidden in his hand as he eased away from the bar and ambled to a corner where he could still see me but wasn’t obviously watching. I could see him over Claire’s shoulder. God, that bastard. Just standing there looking sexy, sipping his whiskey and toying with the receipt from the hot bartender.
I asked a question to get Claire talking, and she was off like a runaway train, chattering happily about her new job, how laid back and fun it was, how they had what she called the rescue cat library, where you could check out a cat to hang out with at your desk all day, and how each cat came with its own box for if-it-fits-I-sits. Which sounded awesome, but I wasn’t really listening; Claire and I had an understanding, where she would just let her mouth sort of run away, and I would half-listen while people watching. She didn’t really need me to answer, she just needed someone who would let her talk, and I needed someone who understood that I liked to be around a person I trusted without having to talk all the damn time. Thus, our arrangement worked for both of us.
And in this particular instance, our arrangement let me nod at the right time and give Claire half an ear while I focused the rest of my attention on Zane. On the way his arms filled the sleeves of his leather jacket, and on the way his plain white T-shirt clung to his waist and hinted at the superhero abs I knew he had underneath. And on the way all he had to do was stand there and women flocked to him in droves, one after another, and sometimes in pairs—and once even an entire bachelorette party clustered around him, touching his chest and tittering at him and giving him their phone numbers on torn slips of paper. He never touched any of them back, I noticed, and he never gave any of them the slow, sultry, heavy-lidded grin he gave me the first time we met. These girls got a version of Zane I didn’t really like, honestly. He gave them a grin that was all white teeth and no warmth in his eyes, and he leaned there in his corner sipping his whiskey as if he had all night and no plans, and he’d listen and nod and was obviously not paying any attention to them whatsoever.
Because his attention was on me.
He’d glance at me with a hint of secret amusement every time he got another phone number, and he’d tuck that paper in the back pocket of his jeans, and eventually the girl or girls would wander off with a ridiculous amount of longing backward glances.
And I couldn’t help thinking that if those girls only knew exactly how amazing he was in bed and how big his cock really was and how delectable his abs actually were, they’d be trying a lot harder to get that smile I’d gotten, the one that promised a long night of hard and dirty fucking.
A promise he’d certainly followed through on.
And there went my imagination, running amok with fantasies of what we’d do together if I were stupid enough to let him bring me back with him.
Eventually, Claire ran out of steam, and let the flow of chatter trickle to a stop. Which I didn’t notice right away, as Zane was sipping his Bulleit and staring at me over the rim with sex in his eyes.
“Girlfriend, you’ve got it bad,” Claire said.
That got my attention. “What do you mean?”
She waved at me in disgust. “You. I haven’t missed the way you and Zane have been eye-fucking this whole time.”
“We’re not eye-fucking,” I protested.
Claire snorted. “Bitch, please. If you could get pregnant from eye-fucking, you’d be nine kinds of knocked up.”