A woman wearing pink wasn't considered particularly abnormal, and, naturally, Tank wouldn't find it suspicious. Other than Roan being whipped—except he had it wrong about which woman he was whipped for.
Tank was reeling from the sudden reversal of fortune as Clarissa clapped her hands. “In honor of my leukemia patient’s recommendation, we’re going to watch Sword Sorceress.”
Also not in the plan. When Roan had put this party together, he’d thought it would be food, presents, and then chit-chat until they got bored or he got too horny and kicked everyone else out.
Yet he found himself sitting on his couch, with Clarissa on one side, Willow on the other, and Tank sitting next to her. The Molla’s had claimed the loveseat, and Drew had set up three more chairs for himself and the other couple—all as far away from Tank as possible.
Roan’s poor body wasn’t having a good time. It knew the lights were turned down and that Clarissa, sans panties, was sitting next to it. Putting his arm around her was his natural instinct, only slightly above his other natural instinct of exploring under her skirt.
Except he couldn’t. He had to hold Willow’s hand.
Worse, as the opening titles played, Clarissa rested her hand on his thigh—out of sight from Tank but visible to the rest of the group.
Even that simple touch was dangerous, making his dick harden. He wanted to lick her neck, kiss her?—
Then Willow paused the movie. “What do you think about the societal implications for women in this feudal authoritarian warlord government?”
Roan forced his brain to take in whatever was occurring onscreen. A tall, dark-haired, buxom woman in a leather skirt and corset, brandishing a sword, was frozen on his TV. A horde of barbarians in black were advancing on her.
Rather than call out the ridiculousness of the bonkers question, the other two couples gave serious answers to the bonkers question. Roan was vaguely aware that Drew got up during that and brought over a bowl of salted Skinny Pop popcorn, an actual non-GMO, vegan, gluten-free, kosher food.
His concentration wasn’t the best since he could feel Clarissa laughing beside him, leaving her hand right where it was. He couldn't be pissed at her when his cock was dying for her to reach out and give him a good squeeze.
Actually, when his fake girlfriend passed him the bowl of popcorn, his actual girlfriend did exactly that.
He almost choked on the popcorn he hadn't swallowed. What ring of hell was he in? Fake girlfriend tormenting his bestie on one side, and Clarissa doing the same to him in a very different way.
Worse, she was teasing him in full view of everyone except Tank.
Tank interrupted what must have been a scintillating debate on the government of this fantasy society, “Can we skip the political commentary and just watch the movie?”
“I suppose so.” Willow made a show of reluctantly restarting the movie. “
As the movie resumed, he gave Clarissa a quick side eye and caught her grinning at his discomfort—and she fucking winked at him and squeezed him harder.
She had his number, all right. This scenario pressed every single button he had. She was playing her good girl persona to extreme levels in front of her brother while daring to tempt him. A total plea to be punished the next time he got her alone.
Which he’d have to do if this damn birthday party ever ended.
Willow paused the movie again mid-cavalry battle. “Do you think they're using real horses or CGI ones? Would this be a pro or con for the movie industry to replace all horse occupations with fake horses?”
Roan decided he’d better try to pay attention this time because if he didn’t join in, Tank would notice something was very wrong.
Or more wrong than the responses to Willow’s question.
“The horses are unlikely to be motivated by the economics of the movie industry,” Lillian said.
“They might care if they get sent to the glue factory or... eaten.” Sean got choked up. “So cruel.”
“Oh, baby boy, don't cry. You're so tenderhearted,” Lillian patted him on the cheek. “Do we need to stop the movie?”
“I think I'll be okay. Those poor horses,” Sean buried his face in her shoulder—probably dying of laughter.
“What does he do exactly for a job? Work for PETA?” Tank must have felt his balls shrinking at the display.
“He's a Cleveland Narcotics detective.” Lillian rubbed her poor, suffering fiancé's back in sympathy.
“Right,” Tank couldn't quite process what he was hearing. “Do we have beer?”
