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Sebastian and Ren are teammates—both are star forwards for the LA Kings hockey team—but beyond that, what makes them so close is a mystery to me. Ren says there’s good in Sebastian, that he just struggles to demonstrate it in observable ways. Now that I’m experiencing firsthand what a jerk Sebastian can be, I’m wondering if Ren sees in Sebastian what he wants to more than what’s actually there.
“Sebastian Gauthier,” I say sternly, “give me my panties.”
His cold gray eyes turn arctic as he peers up at me. He raises an eyebrow. “What panties? I don’t see any panties, do you?”
I glare at him harder, my anger ratcheting up. “I don’t see them, but I know you have them. I watched you do…something with them.”
His smirk is wolfish and infuriating. “Better come find them, then.”
Again, on any other day, I would probably throw up my hands and walk off, enjoy bursting Ren’s idyllic bubble by telling him that I’d appreciate it if he asked his best friend to cough up my panties the next time he sees him. But today is not that day. Today I am past my limit, and my rare temper is a wild colt free of its reins.
Without preamble, I step between the bracket of Sebastian’s legs, wrap a hand around his wrist, and tug up his arm, slipping my other hand inside the sleeve of his suit coat. I fully expect the panties to be there, since that’s the hand that was holding them.
He laughs, and the sound is so self-satisfied, so arrogant, I barely resist the urge to scream in frustration. “Try again.”
Angry, I drop his wrist. “Where are they?”
If they’re not up his sleeve, I have no idea where else my underwear could be. At this point, the only way I could possibly find out is frisking him.
When I glance up again and find that sardonic grin lifting his mouth, I have one of my little delayed autistic epiphanies: that’s exactly what he wants me to do.
As if he’s watched the lightbulb ping to life over my head, Sebastian stretches out his impressive wingspan, grin widening. “I suppose you’ll just have to pat me down.”
I roll my eyes. But before I can come up with some witty retort, my brother Viggo’s voice carries from somewhere inside: “Ziggy! Get in here! The chocolate fountain’s running!”
Sebastian jerks in his seat like he’s been electrocuted and bolts upright, suddenly standing beside me.
Very close beside me.
He takes me by the shoulder and spins me a quarter turn, until light from inside spills across my face. His eyes widen. “Fucking hell. Ziggy?”
2
SEBASTIAN
Playlist: “Broken Boy,” Cage The Elephant
I have a long history of truly terrible sins, but mentally debauching my best friend’s baby sister while watching her strip off her panties just might take the cake.
To my credit, I didn’t recognize Ziggy at first. My vision’s fuzzy, thanks to my drunkenness, and she was backlit when she walked out onto the terrace, nothing but a stunning silhouette whose defining features were hidden. Then, when she stepped closer, and I had a chance of seeing her, her hair was down—it’s never been down before—and in the dying light of sunset it was a sheet of molten bronze curtaining her face, nothing like the fiery red that Ren and his little sister share.
I didn’t realize it was Ziggy I was mentally undressing until I heard someone inside yell her name and watched her answer to it. Now I stand, clutching her arm, drinking her in as she glows in the harsh brightness of the venue’s lights. My stomach sours. The liquor I’ve been drinking since before the ceremony began crawls up my throat.
She only looks a little like Ren—the same long, straight nose and sharp, high cheekbones, and (now that we’re in proper lighting) the same rich red hair—but mostly she looks nothing like him. Unlike his ice-blue irises, hers are wide, deep-set emeralds. And while I’ve noticed a few on Ren, her skin is scattered with freckles, a shower of cinnamon sparks splashed across her nose and cheeks, across her arm that I’m still holding. That I can’t seem to stop holding.
I think I just might be in shock.
I watched quiet, shy Ziggy Bergman viciously strip off her panties.
And I thoroughly enjoyed it.
More than enjoyed it. Got very, very aroused, watching her hike up her dress, looking like some ocean goddess—long, wild hair whipping in the breeze, seafoam-green fabric dancing over pale, freckled thighs that kept going and going, leading to wide hips and two full curves of her ass—
Shit. Shit.
I’m mentally debauching her again.
“Sebastian.” There’s my full name again, scolding and authoritarian. Ziggy sounds like a chiding schoolteacher faced with a naughty little boy, a fantasy I’d enjoy much more if a) it didn’t involve my best friend’s little sister, and b) she hadn’t used my full name. I hate when people use my full name.
