“Yes, he is,” Sophie replies for me.
The woman purses her lips, nods, and walks away.
As we move inside and grab a shopping cart, Sophie asks, “How many of your side chicks shall we be running into today?”
I slowly shrug, though inside I’m cringing. After getting fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and a bunch of other healthy food for Sophie, me, and the club, we pay and then go to the liquor store next door.
We walk through the aisles, and Sophie places a couple of bottles of vodka in the cart.
“Thirsty?” I tease.
“It’s for the shots,” she answers. “And there’s a lot of people that live at the clubhouse.”
“What ones are you making?”
“Wet pussy…” she replies, and I laugh.
“We all loved that one.”
“I bet. I’m getting ingredients for a few. I thought the jam donut and red-headed slut would be good too.”
My brows lift high at the last name, though I guess she would know what tastes the best, as she owns a club. I can tell it’s going to be a good night.
We end up running into only two women who I’ve slept with, which I think is pretty good. After we get home, I help Rage put the liquor away behind the bar and then grab a drink and take a seat on the stool at the bar. Most of the women have gotten ready and are in the kitchen, helping Ava cook. Sophie still isn’t down yet.
My insides are vibrating. I need to tie her ass down to my bed so that she can’t leave and has to stay with me forever. I’m pretty sure I have handcuffs in there somewhere. I chuckle at the thought.
The men quieten, and Rage’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open. Axle peers over my shoulder and then quickly looks away. I turn to see Sophie walking toward me in what has to be the world’s shortest purple dress.
It’s fitted and tight, hugs her curves, and shows off her flat stomach. She twirls with a flirty smile. A burning sensation sears through me, and I jolt to my feet. I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. She squeals. I smack her firm ass as she wallops my back. “Viper!” she yells, though she doesn’t sound serious whatsoever. I smack her again as I walk up the stairs.
I throw her on my bed when we get into the room, and she bounces from the impact. “Temptress, you look sexy as fuck, but you’re not leaving this room until you have a longer dress on.”
Her eyes narrow and she stands, squaring her shoulders. “Get over yourself. I’ll wear what I want. No man tells me what to do.”
“I’m not your average man. If you move an inch, everyone will see your sweet little pussy, and no one gets to see that but me.”
She searches my eyes as if to see how serious I am, so I turn and step back over to the door, close it behind me, and lean against it. “Don’t believe me?” I ask, raising a brow. “Try me. We can stay in here all night… though as the celebration is about us, everyone is going to be disappointed if we don’t attend.”
Her jaw clenches. I cross my arms over my chest and yawn. If she thinks this is a negotiation, she has another thing coming.
She lets out a heavy breath and goes to her suitcase. My chest loosens. But the blue dress she picks out seems to be the same size, though with longer sleeves. “Are you kidding me?” I ask her. “It needs to be longer, covering more of your legs.”
“I don’t think I have any longer dresses here!”
“Hmm… shame you’re going to miss the party then.”
Her lethal stare is aimed at me. “What am I supposed to wear then?”
“Jeans it is.”
“Jeans for a party?” Her nose crinkles. From the disturbed look on her face, anyone would think I was making her wear a knitted sweater.
“Correct.” I look at my phone. “Time’s tickin’.” She pulls the dress over her head and throws it on the ground with more force than necessary. As she bends over, I see her sexy round ass in a white thong, and my dick wants out of my pants. I hold myself back from going to her. The only other thing that would seem more appealing on her ass is my handprint.
She effortlessly wriggles into a pair of white jeans and slips on a tight top that exposes her belly. “See, temptress… you look just as sexy.” And… I can finally breathe.
She gives me a smile that says, ‘fuck you’. A phone rings. It’s not mine, and when I glance back to the bed, it’s not hers either. It’s coming from her suitcase. “Whose phone is that?” I ask her.
