The more, the merrier. Let them watch and talk. I can’t wait to hear my grandmother chiding me and threatening me again.
The man in front of me only has eyes for me. Heavy with desire, unfocused eyes.
He must sense the stench of danger, too, and for him, it’s only a turn on.
A man to my taste.
Dancing has never been my greatest skill. I haven’t attended dancing classes, but moving my body to turn on a man comes naturally to me.
As I move, my dress becomes my greatest ally, opening sensually to reveal my legs, stretching over my chest to entice the man in front of me.
And then my satin high-waisted shorts that fit like a glove only make his dreams come true.
I bet his mind goes over the fine, shiny fabric, barely concealing the flesh he is hungry for, studying the smooth lines of my folds, the perfect seam, the little flesh pulsing with heat. If I know anything about men, he’d probably want to taste me just about now.
He wouldn’t mind if my warm juices would trickle down his chin and drip over his chest.
My hair slides over my back as I throw my head back and take him in, offering him everything he needs now.
We’re both possibly drunk, yet it works for us.
The door must’ve opened again in the background.
Honestly, I’m too busy to care or look in that direction.
Still angry and turned on, I snake my arms around the man in front of me and press my abdomen into his groin.
He tilts his face down to taste my lips, his hard, warm cock stirring against my belly.
“Damn, “ I murmur, ready for his lips, my hand sliding down, when out of nowhere a deep, smoky voice tears into the evening air.
“Maclean!”
Callum's voice hovers over me as the noise fills the background.
Someone invites everybody into the house, and it’s not Callum who is busy moving toward us like a heat-seeking missile.
“Get the fuck away from her,” he orders, grabbing the back of my neck at the same time and tearing me off Paxton without the slightest finesse.
“What the fuck?” I protest, swatting at his hand.
The air is charged with the barely contained rage of the man gripping the back of my neck, and the testosterone oozing from both men’s pores, which is about to turn into toxic fumes.
Paxton's reaction is swift, dictated by his instinct, and hardly tempered by normally healthy inhibitions.
Forgetting whom he is talking to, he straightens at once and lunges at Callum, clearly intending to free me from the iron-hard grip that leaves marks on my neck.
“Let her go,” Paxton barks back at Callum, who yanks me away from him.
His hand squeezes the back of my neck, merciless like a pair of pliers, while his fist crashes into the other man’s chest, defying the laws of physics.
“What is wrong with you?” I shout, fighting Callum with a rain of baby fists myself, the alcohol in my blood morphing into poison.
Ignoring me, he pushes Paxton back so hard that the man stumbles backward before catching himself.
“Stay out of this, Maclean,” Callum growls through clenched teeth, his eyes shooting dark flames. “I’m saving your fucking ass tonight. Never forget that. Now pick up your drink and go home before you embarrass yourself even more. You don’t need a woman like her to end up six feet under before the night ends.”
His words have a sobering effect on the man in front of us, who suddenly looks sharp and focused, quickly assessing the situation as if he’d just stepped out of a trance.
