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CHAPTER1
Addison
Persistent as fuck.
If an intelligence agency had a file on me, I’m pretty sure that would be stamped across the cover.
“Bitch doesn’t quit” might be on there instead. I know what I want. At least when it comes to men. I’m not subtle about it. And I pursue it with all the determination and ambition of a cat chasing a laser pointer.
Iwillcatch that red dot—even if I fall ass-over-tit and embarrass the shit out of myself in the process.
So when I spy the tall drink of man-bun-ed, delicious-assed bartender I met last month at the kink club we took our bestie to for shits and giggles, I lock onto him like he’s the motherfucking dot.
In case it’s unclear, I’m most definitely the cat right now. A really horny cat. And I’m ready to pounce and climb this man like the lickable tree he is.
It’s been too long since my Love Box got any action.
Tonight’sdefinitelythe night.
We had a moment when we met. He was working—making the most delicious virgin cocktails I’ve ever tasted in my entire life—and our gazes connected over the bar at Protocol, the local BDSM club.
It wasn’t some Disney fairytale shit. It wasn’t a “’til death do us part” loving gaze with rainbows and singing wildlife surrounding us in a haze of pastel colors. It was an “I wanna fuck you until you can’t sit comfortably for a week” kind of eye-fucking.
And it was Hot. As. Fuck.
So hot, that not even my arsenal of battery powered vagina weapons can cure this ache. Believe me, I’ve tried. Repeatedly. Daily, even. It’s just not going anywhere.
Lady V will not settle for anything less than Thor the Viking’s giant package delivering a screaming O. He has to be well hung, right? God wouldn’t do that to him. Or me. She couldn’t do that to me. Someone who looks likethatcan’t have an incy wincy teenie peenie. It would be a crime against humanity.
I don’t even know if Thor is his real name, but he’s every bit Thor of Asgard, Chris Hemsworth—the most delectable of the Hollywood Chris’s—and then some. Okay, so he’s more like Chris Hemsworth and Jason Momoa had a love child. Still delicious. Possibly moreso.
His dark-wash jeans hug his ass, and I wonder if the designer made them around his body. His bubble butt makes me want to bite into his tender skin and leave my calling card on his perky cheeks. He’s wearing a skin-tight, round-neck black t-shirt that shows the definition in his arms. And he probably smells like sex, tequila, and chocolate. Three of my favorite things.
Every time he lifts his glass, his muscles ripple. The very definition of arm porn. Dude works out. Probably multiple times daily, and if he wanted to pick me up and put me down for back to back sets of reps, I’d let him.
What can I say? I’m a giver.
Am I running a little hot because I got fired from my job today? Sure. Can’t say it was my favorite Friday ever. Fri-yay my ass.
Are my dreams of attending Paris Fashion Week circling the drain? Also yes.
Do I want to distract myself—from the fact I have no savings, no prospects, and I’ve been block-listed from most of the fashion houses in my industry—by mounting the metro-lumberjack sitting at the bar? So what if I do?
Clenching my thighs in a bid to calm the ache, I lick my lips. Because they’re dry, not because I want to lick him.
Obviously.
“You’re staring.” Paige, one of my two best friends, nudges me. “Scratch that, you’ve undressed him with your eyes, and you’re now screwing him on the bar in your brain.”
“He’s easy to stare at.” Shrugging, I pick up my drink and take a long, slow sip of the tangy margarita. The Tipsy Llama—one of our local haunts—does the best margaritas in Minnesota. Sure, they have pool tables and dart boards, they have chess boards and decks of cards. And sure, none of us play any of those things, but we like margaritas.
“Do you think I could screw him on the bar and get away with it? I’m not averse to trying. For science.” I lick the salt off my lips before dragging my finger round the rim of my glass to collect some more.
“You’d have to leave an epic tip for the cleaning crew.” Kenzie—our resident Texan and expert on margaritas—smacks her lips as she drains the rest of her glass. “I’m going to get another round.”
I bound to my feet. “It’s my turn.”
Paige and Kenzie both raise their brows. “It’s Mackenzie’s turn.”
