She offers the envelopes to the rest of our table, but before she moves on, she whispers to Wyatt, “That sucky old couple refused to take an envelope and told your boss they didn’t appreciate the ‘immorality.’ It was gross.”
A villainous smile slides across Wyatt’s face. “Excellent.”
“You’ve never been sexier,” I breathe, and that evil smile melts into a sexy delighted one.
“To think,” he says, “all it took was an elaborate, months-in-the-making plan to destroy our mutual enemy involving drag queens, death peppers, live birds, baby ballerinas, multiple live bands, fraudulent invitations, and the help of all of our friends and some of our family.”
“Easy peasy.” I smack both my hands against his cheeks and kiss him. Yes, again.
The dancing queens hit their grand finale in a flourish of tappa-tappa and more than one dramatic death drop that has most of the crowd whooping in appreciation, although a few pinch-mouthed, sour-faced assholes make their way to the exits, coats in hand.
“Good riddance,” Birdy calls after them. The performers then scatter through the room to spread holiday wishes and collect their hard-earned tips before blowing kisses and exiting on a sustained wave of applause.
When the servers start circulating with more envelopes of cash, I do some quick “Twelve Days of Christmas” math.
“Wait,” I say, “After the ladies come…”
“The lords a-leaping!” Liv shimmies in excitement, immediately clueing me in about who those lords will be.
Wyatt snags Becks as she hands us more cash. “You and your sister are too underage for what’s about to happen.”
“But—”
“Grab all the teenage servers and any ballerinas you see, and go to the kitchen.”
She looks at me and Liv for help, but we can only shake our heads in sympathy.
“Sorry, love,” I say. “This is adult lady stuff.”
Darby adds, “Trust me, you two are going to want to sit this one out.”
Becks pouts but obeys. I, however, am a horny adult and gasp as a thought occurs to me.
“Waaaiiiiit,” I say to Liv. “Does that mean Diesel’s in this building right now?”
“Be patient!” she singsongs, and I mock-swoon in my seat at the thought of seeing Jonesy’s biggest—and I do mean biggest—former coworker at the Crimson Lounge.
“This is fast becoming my favorite holiday party ever.” I grin up at Wyatt like a little kid on Christmas morning. “But before I make it rain, where’s all the cash coming from? Will I be stuffing your hard-earned cash into Deke’s G-string?”
“It’s from Howard’s party budget.” Instead of sounding inordinately pleased with himself for that little twist of the corporate knife, Wyatt’s sulky. “What’s the deal with you and Diesel?”
I pat his cheek. “Don’t worry, baby. Deke and I only go back a year. That’s nothing in CJ/Wyatt time. Plus, it was just one or two VIP dances—three tops.”
That unleashes a growl, and for the first time in seven years, his grumpy face fills me with tenderness instead of triumph. Leaning close enough that I can get a lungful of Wyatt, I press my lips to his ear. “Dances only,” I whisper. “You’re the man who fucks me so good I still feel you inside of me.”
His growl means something entirely different this time as his hand finds my thigh under the table and he squeezes like his grip on my leg is the only thing keeping him in check.
“Siren,” he murmurs against my neck. “Succubus. Sexy demon sent to ruin my life.”
“You love it,” I tell him.
“I really fucking do.” His fingers find the slit in my skirt and travel upward, and oh no, I want him again, right now. I want him out of his tux and naked on top of me, whispering filth into my ears while he makes me lose my mind with that incredible dick.
“CJ.” His voice is a warning as I squirm in my seat. “You can’t look at me like that or?—”
German oompah fills the room before he can finish whatever delicious threat he’s about to issue, and nine insanely attractive men stride into the room. The band’s final notes fade as Queen Patty cues up the dancers’ song. Unlike the up-tempo number the drag queens tapped to, the music that comes thundering over the speakers is a dirty, sultry grind, and the men of the Crimson Lounge start to move.
Wyatt counts to himself, then calls over to Jonesy, “Aren’t there supposed to be ten lords?”
