That’s better.
Actually, it’s fucking not.
That little wearer of fuck me socks, cute gold-rimmed glasses, and my shirt—is mine.
Her secrets—the thigh-high socks she wears at night and the power-packed quotes on white cotton, stretched across one curvy little ass—also mine.
And I sure as fuck don’t share.
Otis is the exception.
He can keep being my little Harry Potter-inspired sexpot’s Hermione, as long as he recognizes I’m ass captain and his little, pink ass is riding bitch.
Now, I’m pulling rank on a fucking flamingo tattoo no bigger than a flash drive—I’m losing my fucking shit here.
It’s the boners. Has to be.
Two nights now in her room—a sneak attack case study in how many boners you can get before they kill you.
Every night, Otis mocks me from his front-row seat on her thigh like he called dibs. Best seat in the house to watch the show.
The show?
A goddamned sock.
Where does someone get socks like those anyway? And why? Because I’m convinced they’re not socks at all. They’re the next secret weapon for world domination.
Their superpower?
Striking men stupid and turning us into knuckle-dragging mouth breathers.
This is rock bottom, right? This is how I go out?
Two nights she’s asked to stay, and I do. No protest.
No survival instincts.
Like the mouthbreather in flannel over there right now—my shirt is better FYI—making him goddamned self at home next to her like I won’t stop his heart for doing so.
Yup, there he goes, the casual one-leg stretch, nice and relaxed, letting her know she’s invited. I’ve seen these moves hundreds of times. The leg is only part one.
It’s the happy hour straight out of hell—how about we get this sleigh ride on the road already, yeah?
Ho, fucking ho.
Guests laugh in clusters, their voices rising with every passing round of drinks. The only thing able to cut through them all? The maddening sound of Holly's laugh.
Perched on a bench, cross-legged, cute as fuck, and chatting up the bartender, Cleo, with the heavy pour. I plan to keep her busy this week and on Nick’s tab. The bastard.
String lights sway from above, casting little orbs of light on Holly’s waves. Specifically the ones curing at the ends framing her face. And what the bulbs miss, the firelight catches.
At the moment, it’s one of those tempting, soft sweaters peeking out from beneath her jacket.
Near as I can tell, she owns two varieties of those knit tools of sorcery: the kind that slip off her freckle-kissed shoulders… and the kind that invite a hand to get lost underneath.
If Everett even gets a gleam in his eye in the same zip code of getting lost underneath anything other than a fucking avalanche, I’ll break his arm clean off and shove it up his ass.
Fucking hell, definitely losing it.
