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He quirked one eyebrow toward me. “Yourbody, I presume you mean? Because I’m not doing body shots with Pepper.”
“Pepper?” I asked, utterly confused.Who the fuck is Pepper?
“The bartender who probably slit his own throat by now after finding out I was the one shaking my tits.”
“His name is Pepper?” I scrunched up my nose, and he shrugged.
“Hell, if I know, but that’s what I call him.”
I laughed. That was such a Thatch thing to do. Just give someone a fluffing nickname without even knowing their actual name.
“What’s so funny, honey?” he asked, and I just grinned.
“Just you,” I answered honestly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’mridiculous?” He chuckled at that. “I just did a wet T-shirt dance in the middle of an empty fucking bar becauseyoudemanded it.”
Oh boy. Let’s not go back to that awful tragedy…
More than ready to stay on the path of distraction from our—mostly my—wet T-shirt mistakes, I stood up and wrapped my fingers around one of my husband’s big, tattooed biceps. “To the bar, baby! It’s time for shots!”
Thankfully, he followed my lead without question, and once we convinced Pepper to come out from the back room by promising that Thatcher wouldnotget back on stage, I was ready to get my big, handsome, still shirtless, beast of a husbandturnt the fluff up.
Pepper slid another shot of tequila across the bar, and I grabbed it, lifted it up toward Thatch and shimmied my boobs a little as I slid it between my cleavage. A little salt shaken across my collarbone and a lime firmly placed between my teeth, I winked at him. “Bottoms up, baby!”
His mouth hitched up into a lazy grin, but he obliged, leaning forward to take one long lick across my collarbone before burying his face in my chest and downing the shot without using any hands.
The lime was next. Purposefully, he pulled it away from my lips, sucked the juice out, and chased down a little water to make sure all remnants of tequila were gone from his mouth.
Then he leaned forward and planted a big ole kiss on my lips.
I giggled.
He chuckled.
And I was pretty sure Pepper groaned.
“How many nummers, Craze?” Thatch asked and planted an elbow against the bar so he could rest his head in his hand.
Uh oh. Slurring and incoherent questions?
“What was that, baby?” I asked and reached out to touch his cheek with my hand, trying to gauge where he was on the drunk scale.
“This feels tits.” He chuckled, leaning his face into my touch. “And I says how’s shots?”
Shit. The tequila limit has been reached.
In an instant, it was like all those shots of tequila he’d downed without any trouble had caught up with him, and my big, handsome husband had gone from having a good time taking body shots off me to bordering on sloppy.
Honestly, I had no idea how many tequila shots he’d taken at this point, but it wasn’t a tiny amount. That much, I knew for sure.
“Hey, Pep, mind closing out our tab?” I asked toward our bartender, and his eyes lit up like it was the best thing he’d heard all day. The man didn’t even notice that I was using Thatch’s nickname for him.
With a little hitch in his step, he moved over to the register and started tallying up all Thatch’s shots.
“We’s leavin’, honeys? What the foof?” my husband asked, his eyes growing hazier by the minute.
I nodded, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and then whispered into his ear, “We’re going to head back to the hotel, order some room service, and then get naked and have lots of hot,hotsex.”
