Chapter Eighteen

Addison

What’s better than a combo ladies’ night-graduation party at your bestie’s suburban home on a warm late-summer evening? Knowing that at the end of the night, I get to meet up with my smokin’ hot stripper-lawyer of a boyfriend and have scorching sex until we pass out in each other’s arms from orgasm exhaustion.

Just thinking about it has me smiling as I take a drink of my mojito, made fresh by Janey’s cousin Elizabeth. Months ago, at the twenty-first birthday party of Elizabeth’s younger sister, Julia, Lizzie promised Jane a blowout graduation party. Not that this is for quiet Jane’s benefit so much as for the rest of us obnoxious asshats, but whatever. Originally it was going to be at Aunt Martha’s, but Chance insisted we have it here because he doesn’t trust the cousins not to order strippers like they’d hired the guys from Playboys 4 Hire for Julia’s shindig. He’s a wee bit protective—and by that, I mean the man goes ape-shit crazy if he even thinks another man looks sideways at his ladylove. It makes me horribly sappy to think about it. Which means I need to shake off the warm-and-fuzzies and get this party started.

“Okay, ladies, raise your glasses,” I say as I stand and hold my glass high above my head. The two dozen or so women—Jane’s family, friends, classmates, and coworkers—dutifully follow in kind, some with less balance than others. I think Aunt Martha had a couple of starter drinks before arriving with her daughters tonight. That woman is as wild in her fifties as she probably was in her twenties. I totally want to be her when I grow up. “Here’s to our lady of the hour, Janey Wendall, social worker extraordinaire. We’re so proud of you for finally getting that paper turned in—”

“Master’s thesis,” Jane corrects me ruefully.

“Right,” I say, then continue like I still don’t get it because it drives her crazy, which duh, is why I do it. “For getting that short essay finally turned in…” She rolls her eyes as everyone laughs. Once I’ve gotten in the obligatory dig, I let the sappy best friend through for the rest of the speech. “You worked hard, stayed the course, and now you have an amazing job that you love and that allows you to truly help women in need. We couldn’t be more proud of you. Congratulations, Janey!”

A round of congratulatory shouts ring out, and then everyone scrambles to hug the graduate. I stand back, waiting for things to die down and the women to reclaim their seats on the various patio furniture and folding chairs set out in Chance and Jane’s backyard. It’s a gorgeous home, completely remodeled by Chance, who owns his own construction company.

As I stare up at the strings of lanterns that light up the patio and small yard, I wonder if someday I’ll have a house somewhere outside of the city. A place big enough to host parties for our friends, with a yard for a dog to run around in while we grill out, or where we can cozy up by the fire pit as we heat ourselves up in other ways.

And then I realize I used the words “our” and “we” in that little daydream, and I almost choke on my mojito. When did I stop thinking of this thing between Roman and I as a mutual enjoy-it-till-the-batteries-die-out thing and start thinking in terms of a mutually owned backyard complete with a puppy? For shit’s sake, I’m getting sappier by the minute. I glare at the drink in my hand as though Elizabeth has added some kind of mood enhancer to the alcohol. Not likely, but I shouldn’t take the risk. Turning around, I pour the contents—sparing the sugar cane stick, because let’s not be ridiculous—into a potted plant.

“You’d better hope mojitos work like Miracle Grow, or you owe me a plant,” Jane says as she comes up next to me.

“You haven’t heard? It’s all the rage in the agriculture industry now. Farmers are literally crop-dusting their fields with rum and lime juice.”

“Uh-huh,” she says sarcastically. “So what gives? I looked over at you, and you went from doe-eyes and a dopey grin to shock and horror.”

“Oh nothing.” I give a flippant wave. “Just your typical ‘holy shit I think I might be falling in love with my not-sure-for-how-long boyfriend’ thing. You know how that goes.”

And she does. Jane had a moment just like it not very long ago. But Chance Danvers—whose friends nicknamed him Romeo for his romantic personality—is very different from Roman “Ruthless” Reeves.

“Holy shit, are you kidding me?” She adjusts her glasses like she’s trying to detect the truth on my face. I shrug. “You told me you guys were just messing around, like colleagues with benefits or whatever.”

“That’s what it was supposed to be, but then we started meeting up for morning workouts, which led to a joint trip to the GNC, and then we discovered we both play chess, which led to inviting him over for a game night, and then I quoted Mallrats but he didn’t get it, which led to a movie enlightenment mission and several movie-at-home nights…” I trail off, leaving the “etcetera etcetera” unspoken. Huffing out an exasperated sigh, I explain, “The more we hung out together, the more couple-y we got, and before I knew it we were buying extra toothbrushes to keep at our apartments and doing silly shit like giving each other keys. Add in the most amazing porn star sex ever, and it’s apparently enough for me to want to have his puppy.”

“You mean baby.”

“God, no. You know better than that. I’m not the nurturing type.”

“Yeah, well, you also used to say you weren’t the falling in love type, either.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “No one likes a wise-ass, Janey.”

“Maybe not, but sometimes a hard-ass like you needs a wise-ass like me.” Jane threads her arm through mine and leans her head on my shoulder. An overly affectionate Janey is a significantly buzzed, and consequently über-adorable, Janey. I tilt my head to rest on hers and can’t help the small smile that lifts the corners of my mouth, despite this troubling topic. I love my best friend. “So what’s Roman’s position on all of this?” she asks.

If I only knew. We’ve had the conversation about Roman’s views on happily-ever-afters, namely that they don’t exist, and I’d been so focused on my career that until I met Roman I’d always assumed I wouldn’t get serious with a man for years yet, much less fall in love with one. Damn it. My heart’s going rogue, off book, off script, off goddamn whatever, and I have no idea how to stop it.

The worst part? I don’t want to stop it. I’ve never felt about anyone the way I do about Roman. He challenges me, pushes me, supports me. Instead of getting pissed off and complaining that I only argue for the sake of arguing, he revels in our debates, which are always settled eventually with a rousing session in the sack. Or on the couch. Or against a wall. The point is he’s my perfect match in almost every way, so it’s not hard to see why my heart is all wonky over him.

But, just like my cousin Sam is fond of saying when I bitch about something, my logic is telling me, “That sounds like a you problem.” And it is. It’s absolutely a “me problem” because I know for a fact that Roman doesn’t suffer from this same affliction. So I’m going to do what any normal girl does with her unrequited almost-love. I’m going to stuff it down deep, do my best to forget about it, and cherish every minute I have until those damn batteries die out and the fun comes to an end. And because I’m a mature, grown-ass woman, I’m not going to let it affect my job or the professional relationship I have with Roman. Though, I can’t guarantee his Audi won’t suffer a couple of slashed tires around the time an unruly teen suddenly has fifty bucks for no apparent reason. Hashtag broken-hearted honey badger.

“Career-wise, I think he has a twenty-year plan in place, probably laid out in a spreadsheet or PowerPoint somewhere. But I get the feeling Roman is a very in-the-moment kind of man when it comes to…well, everything else.”

“That’s pretty typical of most men, though, isn’t it? Not many are prone to pick out china patterns in the beginning. Even Chance played all ‘disconnected tough guy’ when what he really wanted was to find someone to share his life with.”

I almost tell her that the odds of Roman following in his best friend’s footsteps are pretty much nil, but then I realize how much of a downer convo this is becoming, and the last thing I want to be is a parade rain-er on-er at Jane’s party. So I lift my head and smile wide at her, saying, “Anything’s possible, right? At the very least, I’ll have a story for your future grandkids about that time Great Auntie Addie got in touch with her kinky side thanks to a stripper named Ruthless.”

She laughs hysterically, whatever drink she’s sucking on through a straw making her actions nice and loose. I’m suddenly jealous of her blood alcohol level and decide I need to catch up, pronto.

But just as I’m about to drag her over to the outdoor bar, the Pandora station we’ve been listening to through the killer stereo system Chance has throughout the house and backyard cuts off. Some women start booing and laughing while some of them are looking around as though they can find the problem and fix it in their inebriated state.

“Don’t worry, everyone,” Jane says, holding up a hand. “I’ll go fix it.”

That’s when a deep voice comes through the speakers. “Sit your cute ass down, Jane.”

“Chance?” Now we’re all turning in circles, confused as hell, whether sober or drunk.

“That’s right, sweetness,” he says from wherever he is. “I’ve got a surprise for you and your guests, but you all have to find a seat first. Oh, and I brought a few friends.”

Instantly, female screams rend the air as we all find a place to put our rears because we know if Chance’s friends are involved, we’re in for one hell of a show. God bless his ex-stripper soul.

A new song comes on, sending the women into a tizzy all over again. I recognize it within the first few notes as Wet the Bed. Not the sexiest title, but it makes up for it with the incredibly arousing lyrics about the state of his lover as he goes down on her. Definitely explicit, and perfect for simulating fucking a bunch of fun-loving drunk women.

Since the party is being held outside, the interior of the house is dark, which means we can’t see the men until the sliding door opens and they spill onto the patio like half-naked presents from heaven.

Chance goes directly to Jane and starts doing his grinding thing on her as other men from Playboys 4 Hire spread out through the crowd and pick a group of women to dance for. But I couldn’t tell you what any of them look like or what they’re wearing. My eyes are locked on the man who eclipses all others in his presence.

During the day, he commands a room simply with his confident-bordering-on-arrogant demeanor and GQ model appearance. But times like now, when he embraces his Ruthless persona so completely, other men practically bow in deference to him as he walks by, and women are overcome with debilitating desire and longing. And maybe it’s not forever, or even for very much longer, but for right now, he’s all mine.

Holy fuck, he couldn’t look any more edible if he covered himself in vanilla frosting. He’s got all of his Ruthless touches, minus the eyeliner tonight. Everything else is there—the messy hair, piercings, leather wristbands, wallet chain, and unlaced black motorcycle boots—with his favorite pair (is it dorky that I love knowing that?) of ripped up jeans. But instead of his typical wife-beater, he totally changed it up by wearing an untucked white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to expose his strong, tatted forearms.

“Dayyyyuuuum,” Jane’s cousin Julia says on my left as Roman stops in front of me, forcing us to tilt our heads back to see him properly.

I can’t help the smug smile as I say, “That about sums it up.”

He answers with a cocky smirk, but he doesn’t pay any attention to poor Julia. His eyes are trained steadily on mine as he straddles my legs, leans forward to grab the back of my chair, and starts rolling his hips like he’s fucking to the beat of the music. He straightens and slowly runs his hands up from crotch to chest, then as an electric guitar strikes a particularly powerful chord, he rips his shirt open, sending buttons flying everywhere and stealing the breath from any woman watching.

I haven’t torn my eyes away from him from the moment he stepped from the house, and I know I’m not the only one because that little move garnered him a collective, audible gasp followed by moaning exhales. He smiles that fuck yeah I know I’m sexy smile as he removes the ruined shirt and tosses it behind him.

He spreads my legs wide open then jumps up onto the chair, perching on the balls of his feet in the small space created between my thighs, bends his knees outward to put his cock eye-level, then pulls my head in to grind millimeters from my face. And because his thighs are blocking everyone’s view but his as he stares down at me, I stick my tongue out and lick his jean-clad cock.

Ice-blue irises are swallowed by the black of his pupils, and though I can’t hear it over the music and girlish squeals of laughter, I know he gives me a lusty growl in response to my brazen move. He jumps down and hoists me up his body with his arms wrapped tightly under my ass. I hold on to his bare shoulders and bow my head so my hair falls like curtains to hide our faces.

He nips my lower lip, making me suck in a sharp breath. “Trying to make me lose my shit in front of all these nice people, babe?”

“Not at all, my Roman sex god,” I say with a saucy grin, proud of myself for using his name in that one. “I’m trying to make it so you take me somewhere you can lose your shit in front of me.”

“All in due time.”

Before I can complain about him giving me his usual cryptic BS, he spins me in his arms and catches me around my hips again. I’m facing away from him now, and I barely brush the hair out of my eyes when I hear him say, “Grab onto the chair.”

I look down at the chair, which from this height might as well be a mile. I feel one of his hands between my shoulder blades. “What? I can’t—ahh!” I let out a short bark of surprise as he pushes me forward so I’m draped over his other forearm and the chair is now well within reaching distance. I grab the sides of the chair to help support my weight while Roman positions me into straddling him in mid-air and grabs hold of my hips.

My nervous laugh is cut off at the first roll of his cock against my pussy, the double layer of our jeans a cruel tease of what we could be enjoying if we weren’t in a crowd of people. I hook my ankles behind his back, drop my head forward, and breathe through the sensation of tingles radiating in my sex.

I lose all track of time and the rest of the world fades away as Roman continues to mimic things he does to me in private, manipulating my body into position after position until I’m a total mess, sober as a judge except for being drunk on dry-humping like I’m fifteen again in the back of my prom date’s pickup.

Finally, he puts me back in my chair, leaving me with all the exhaustion of sex and none of the release, but I can’t even care because I’d endure this torture and so much more as long as I can keep watching him dance. The man is magnificent, and he uses his body in ways I didn’t know were possible, and ways that should definitely be illegal in public.

As the song ends and rolls into another sexy number, Roman takes pity on Julia who’s been slack-jawed and nearly drooling this entire time, giving her some much needed stripper love. This should probably bother me on some primal level, but it doesn’t. That doesn’t mean I’ve joined his school of thought on sharing—a bitch would have to pry his dick out of my cold dead hands, and even then I’d probably terrorize her from beyond the grave—but the attention of the other women on him doesn’t give me a twinge of jealousy. Not even when Julia runs her hands over his chest and abs, or when she grabs his ass.

I find myself actually smiling because I know he’s not interested in them for anything more than what this is. He stressed from the beginning that he’s a one-woman man. His sharing only extends to me with other men.

Speak of the devil, Austin sidles up in front of me and starts doing his stripper thing. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the infamous phone call, and I’ve been nervous about how things were going to be between us, but it was all for nothing. True to form, he gives me a wink and a charming smile—not lustful or sexual in the least—and uses moves on me that are more playful, like a friend having fun with you at a school dance so you don’t feel awkward being the only girl without a date. Not that I’m dateless, but mine is a little busy at the moment.

I laugh and stand up, adding some exaggerated moves of my own until we’re having a ridiculous stripper dance-off with each other. Roman and Julia join in so we have a guys versus girls thing going. When I can barely stand from laughing so hard, we all find seats—Roman sits in mine and pulls me into his lap (cue lovesick sigh)—and enjoy the party that’s shifted from makeshift strip club back to graduation party, with the addition of gorgeous men.

After another hour or so, Roman leans in so his lips brush my ear when he talks. “Feel like continuing the party in a more private setting?” A rush of heat flows through me and settles between my legs. I nod almost imperceptibly, but he reads me loud and clear. “There’s a guest bedroom in the basement, off of the game room. Do you know where that is?” Another nod. “Go there then close and lock the door. Strip completely naked. Get the blindfold on the bed and make sure it’s good and tight, then wait. I’ll follow you soon.”

“But the door?” I ask.

“Chance gave me the key.” I feel myself blush as I glance over where Chance and Jane are talking to their moms. “Don’t get shy on me now, babe. It’s not like Chance plans on announcing it to the party.”

He’s right. Who cares if Chance knows Roman has a sexual interlude planned for us in his house? I know for a fact Chance has screwed my best friend while I was in their house before, and my only thought was, “Get it, girl!”

I turn my head, frame his stubbly jaw with my hands, and kiss him wholly and deeply before pulling back and whispering. “Don’t make me wait too long, or I’ll be naked, blindfolded, and ornery.”

“Fucking you happy again has appeal. You should know better than to issue me a challenge.”

I give him my best sassy grin and say, “Oh, I do.” Then I rise and sashay my ass across the patio and into the house.