“What else do you need?” Mickey asks, proving that I’m not the only one capable of flirting.
“That’s a loaded question,” I toss back. “But you can start by transferring the leftover punch into a pitcher,” I say, pointing to the one on the counter of the little kitchenette tucked in the corner of Josie’s basement.
“On it,” he says. “And when I’m done with that, just tell me what’s next on the list.”
Based on the look he’s giving me, we both know exactly what’s next on the list, and that thought motivates me to finish bagging up the trash. I do a final sweep of the room, and this is probably where my moral compass or good sense should kick in and advise me that hooking up with Mickey is a terrible idea. Our best friends are madly in love and already procreating, so there’s no way we can avoid each other afterward if we decide to cross the line. And since I learned that hard way that I’m not built for relationships and the heartache they inevitably cause, there’s no way anything that happens between us could end up being permanent or real.
But that’s part of the fun. I’m not looking for a commitment, and I can’t imagine Mickey is, either. But if I’m presented with the opportunity to find out if Mickey lives up to his nickname, I’m sure as hell going to take it.
“Holy fuckballs!”
Mickey’s muttered curse is followed swiftly by the sound of water sloshing onto the countertop, and it’s punctuated by the crack of the plastic pitcher on the hard concrete floor.
At least it wasn’t glass.
I walk to the crime scene to survey the damage and the good news is that we won’t have to mop. A little clean-up is necessary since the counter is sticky, but the floor isn’t in bad shape.
I can’t say the same for Mickey’s jeans or his bare torso. It’s like he took a shower in my party punch.
“I got distracted and the pitcher started to over flow. I tried to get it all into the sink, but my hand slipped. I swear, I’m usually not this uncoordinated.” Mickey shrugs before reaching for a roll of paper towels.
Plucking the paper towels out of his hands, I shake my head and open drawers until I find a stack of fresh tea towels. “These will work much better,” I tell him as I turn the faucet on and wait a second for the water to warm up. Wringing out a damp towel, I turn to the hottest player on the Bainbridge Men’s hockey team and say one word. “Strip.”
The man doesn’t even blink. His eyes stay trained on me as he undoes the button on his jeans, pulls the zipper down, and tries to shimmy out of the wet denim. It’s not an easy task, and since he could obviously use some help, I drop to my knees and grip the unruly fabric in my hands, pulling as gently as possible. He gives his ass a shake and the material begins to fall a little more easily.
“Hol-y fuckballs,” I say, biting my lip as I utter his favorite phrase. “You really should warn a girl that you go commando.”
“Sorry,” he says, with no trace of contrition in his tone. “I’m not a big fan of underwear. Or clothing in general.”
“Bran Mikalski has nudist tendencies,” I say, pushing his jeans down all the way and holding them in place so he can step out of them. “That’s good to know. I’ll file that little tidbit awayfor later.” Resting my ass back on my heels, I admire the naked man in front of me, and I’m not shy about it, either. There’s no time to waste being coy since the night is half over, and we’re just getting started. Mickey’s body is sculpted and strong. I force my eyes to start at the top and leisurely work their way down, taking in his green eyes, the auburn scruff that lines his jaw, and his broad shoulders. There’s a smattering of hair on his chest and a happy trail that leads over washboard abs to the promised land. Instinctively, I lick my lips while I stare at his lengthening cock.
“Viv,” he says my name with an urgency, a need, that has me squeezing my thighs together. I watch with fascination as he fists the base of his cock in his right hand. He tightens his grip and closes his eyes while I resist the urge to grab onto the backs of his thighs and suck the tip of his dick into my mouth.
It’s so damn tempting, though.
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” he says. “Or else I’m gonna think you like getting on your knees for me.”
“You’d be right about that, Red,” I say, the nickname falling off my lips. His hair isn’t shockingly orange or vibrant, but it’s red all the same. The color is the perfect contrast to his fair skin and the smattering of freckles that covers the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks. Moss green eyes flare momentarily, making me think I’ve mis-stepped. Shit. What if he hates the name? What if he catapults him back in time to a schoolyard full of bullies? I don't want Mickey on some imaginary playground. I want him right here with me.
But then he threads his hands through my hair, and I know we’re both feeling the same thing
The air between us is charged and I know this is one of those make-it-or-break-it moments. I can either seize the uh…opportunity in front of me, or I can stand up, wink at the guy, and sashay my way out of here.
Naturally, I stay put.
What’s that thing they say about opportunities? You need to be ready when they come knocking’?
A night with Mickey Mikalski wasn’t on my agenda, but there’s no way I’m going to pass on the kind of chemistry we have. I’m not drunk, but I’ve had enough of the spiked version of my punch that my decision-making skills are definitely leaning toward impulse. To be honest, they always do, and right now, I’m glad that the logical part of my brain has probably passed out. This situation definitely has the potential to get messy, so it’s lucky that I don’t shy away from trouble.
Letting my hands wander up and down his thick, corded thighs, I close my eyes for just a second and hum my approval, but I don’t stop there. My palms find the globes of his ass and I’m not shy about my appreciation. I squeeze his ample backside and look up at him through my lashes.
“Holy fuckballs.”
That’s all he says before scooping his hands under my armpits and lifting me off the ground. As a cheerleader for most of my life, I’m used to getting picked up and tossed around, and I know exactly how to carry my own weight to make those moves look easy and flawless.
But this is not that. I’m not being hoisted up into position, I’m being carried by the gentlest giant I’ve ever met. His arm supports my back as my legs wrap around his waist. His head is scanning the room, looking for an empty space on the countertop, but the punch made enough of a mess that there are splashes of sticky juice everywhere.
I’m not just a pretty face, so I glance around, too. There are couches, which definitely have promise, especially if the seats recline or they pull out into a bed. But checking that would take time, and that’s a precious commodity right now. There’s a chair by the fireplace that looks big enough for two, but what looks even better is the pile of blankets in the far corner. They’redraped over a few beanbag chairs and that cozy little nook looks like the perfect place to get horizontal.
