“Your turn.”
I guess I’m getting drunk tonight.
“You are not a bad dancer,” Pres whisper-shouts into my ear as we once again wait by the bar for the bartender.
“Did you expect me to be a bad dancer?”
She shrugs. Her face is flushed from all the dancing and tequila. She pulled her long blonde hair into a ponytail a while ago, and all I can think about is all the wicked things I could do with that wrapped around my wrist. “It’s just that most guys I’ve dated aren’t great at dancing.”
I try not to imagine Jace’s hands all over her like mine just were. A surge of jealousy rises up, nevertheless. “We aren’t dating, though.”
“No…” She pauses, looking at me intently. “We’re not.”
The bartender approaches, and I hold up two fingers. He nods. But this time, when he comes back around with our drinks, I ask for two lime wedges and salt. I’m probably going to regret this later, but the tequila is giving me all kinds of stupid ideas tonight.
Pres watches as the bartender sets down a small glass with several limes and a saltshaker. Her eyes slowly meet mine. “Who goes first?” I challenge.
She bites her bottom lip, and I nearly groan. “You can,” she answers, her cheeks flaming red.
“Okay.” I grin. “Where do you want it?”
“What?”
Chuckling, I clarify, “The salt, Pres. Where do you want the salt?”
“Oh, um…” She looks down at her dress and her arms before slowly pointing to her neck.
Excitement races through me. Exactly where I was hoping she’d pick. I pick up the lime and hand it to her. Despite her earlier fluster, she’s a bartender, so I know she knows what to do with it.
With one hand, I grab the salt. With the other, I grip her waist and pull her closer. I can feel the heat of her body and the warmth of her breath. She looks up at me, and I give in to my earlier desire and wrap my hand around her ponytail, using it to tilt her head to the side.
She lets out a tiny gasp.
The sound of it practically undoes me, and I imagine what other noises she’d make if I had the chance to coax them out of her.
I lean down and slowly drag my tongue over the soft skin of her neck. God, she smells good. Vanilla always reminds me of her. For the last twelve years, I’ve barely been able to walk into a bakery without getting semi-aroused.
She grabs hold of my shirt, gripping it hard between her fingers, but lets go the second I go to sprinkle the salt. She shivers when I lick the same spot, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
Pulling back, I go to grab the shot off the bar. But Presley swipes it away before I get the chance.
“Any good bartender knows that’s not how you do a body shot,” she tsks with a hell of a lot more confidence than she had a moment ago. “No hands allowed, Hollis.”
She grins like the Cheshire Cat as she takes that shot of tequila and wedges it between her fucking tits.
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter, staring brazenly at her low-cut dress and the ample cleavage I’d been trying to pretend didn’t exist all night.
Someone wolf whistles, and that knocks me out of my boob haze. I angle my large body, blocking most of hers. I know it’s stupid. We’re in public, doing drunken body shots, for god’s sake.
But it doesn’t mean I want some asshat staring at her.
Besides me, that is.
I lean forward, my hand firmly around her waist as I close my mouth around the shot glass. God, what I wouldn’t give to toss the glass aside and lick every inch of her.
But instead, I tilt my head back and down the liquor. When I place the shot glass on the bar, she’s ready for me with a lime wedge between her teeth.
I have a split second to decide how far I want to take this.
