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“You fucking want Juliet Reece.”
How long was he going to have to hear that in his head? Probably until he got out of this house and away from them.
Randy strode into the spacious kitchen of the Houdini estate, feet bare, shirt open—he’d been smart enough to bring along a button-down shirt and jeans so he could shed his damn costume as soon as possible—and braced his fists against the long curving expanse of granite countertop. He could’ve gone home, even though he and Tristan had come in Tris’s car and Tristan had elected to stay the night. As had most of Hammered and most of Warning Sign, along with some of Owen and Callie’s other friends.
Then there was Juliet, who’d cleaved to Tristan’s side all night.
Unsurprisingly, the reception had run late. The music and alcohol and general happy party vibe had been free-flowing into the wee hours, and even now, he could hear faint laughter and the sound of dueling guitars coming from down the hall. Doors opened and closed upstairs, and the occasional excited shout rang out before all was quiet again.
Things were definitely winding down, just not very quickly. Rockstars and their brethren knew how to party.
Randy moved to the giant Subzero refrigerator and rooted around inside until he found something that wasn’t alcoholic. On second thought, why not go for another beer? So what if he’d hit his limit of two already?
Live a fucking little, right?
He grabbed one and popped the top, turning at the soft pad of bare feet on tile. This was becoming a thing tonight, him being interrupted by people he didn’t particularly want to see.
Except this time the visitor was Juliet, and she was naked below mid-thigh.
Correction—she was practically naked, period, minus the long, white, clearly male undershirt that barely covered the tops of her legs.
She was dressed scantily, but no worse than some of the others he’d seen wandering through the place in tiny negligees. For that matter, she was positively overdressed compared to the woman he’d seen covering her bare breasts with her arm as she ran inside from the pool. At least she’d kept her bikini bottoms on.
As far as Juliet’s bottoms? He wasn’t certain she wore any.
Her long dark hair was tumbled and wild and she carried an empty ice bucket. Brick red lipstick was smeared slightly around her mouth, giving it a used look.
He could just guess by who.
Move, dumbass. Don’t just stand there staring at her like you’ve never seen a girl before.
Or a really fucking stupendous pair of tits, pressing against the cotton as if they were begging to be let free. She definitely wasn’t wearing a bra.
Fuck, he had to get out of there. Fast.
Randy forced himself to walk forward. He would’ve just sidestepped her and headed out of the kitchen without saying anything, but she snagged her fingers in the belt loops of his jeans and halted him in his tracks.
“Hey.” Her husky voice slayed him, just as it always did. She sounded like her bass guitar, all throaty and deep. So goddamn sexy he couldn’t breathe for fear he’d bust his damn zipper. “Looks like you forgot to button your shirt.”
She bent to place her ice bucket on the floor, causing the front of her shirt to dip precipitously enough that if he hadn’t closed his eyes at the last second, he would’ve seen more than he could’ve tolerated. As it was, he caught the briefest glimpse of soft pale flesh.
His eyes popped open as she started doing up the buttons of his shirt, from the bottom to the top. A hint of pink tongue peeked out between her teeth, and her nipples were—
He wasn’t going to look. He’d been raised a gentleman, so surely he could focus on her face while she touched him for the first and probably last time.
“What are you doing to me?” His voice sounded foreign to his ears. Rough, jagged, low. Her gaze flickered up to his and he figured she’d wised up to the changes in him too, because her patented confidence seemed to waver for an instant before she shored it up again.
“Why, Sparks, it looks like I’m buttoning up your shirt. Can’t have you parading around here, showing off these abs.” The backs of her fingers brushed his stomach, the slightest contact, and he hardened even further.
If she ever actually laid her hands on him, he’d go crazy.
“I didn’t even know you had any,” she continued as if their conversation was perfectly normal. As if they ever spoke so familiarly to each other.
They didn’t. Theirs was a mostly professional relationship, except for those few times she freaked out about something with the set. But even those moments were few and far between. For the most part, they both did their jobs and kept their distance.
Now she was buttoning his shirt, and talking about his abs, and taking little peeks up at him from beneath the thick fringe of her dark lashes. Questioning him without words.
Testing him.
