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Lars looks stone-cold sober, but, then again, he’s probably the kind of guy who could down a quart of whiskey and still have an unreadable poker face.
“Nice party, huh, Larsy?” Shane asks, his words slurring just slightly.
“I guess,” Lars shrugs. “If you’re into parties.”
I take another sip of my drink to hide my smile. If we can’t get Lars to stop being a grump—and that really might be too much to ask—hopefully he can at least end up a sort of funny, lovable grump.
My eyes scan the living room. It’s turned into a dancefloor that could rival any trendy nightclub right now. My gaze falls on a tall brunette who’s moving her hips, and I start to feel my cock stirring in my pants.
“Maybe getting laid tonight is what I need to soften the sting of today’s loss,” I muse to the guys standing next to me.
But they’re not the only ones who hear it.
“Charmingly put, Hunter. Good to know you’re still a hopeless romantic.”
A smirk rises on my lips, hearing Phoebe’s voice.
But when I turn to look at her, the smirk is wiped from my face. In fact, my entire expression goes blank, and my mouth is open so wide I’m worried my jaw is scraping the floor.
Holyfuck.
The outfit Phoebe’s wearing … on one hand, there’s nothing that exceptional about it, because most of the other girls in this place are wearing something similar.
On the other hand … holyfuck.
She wears a tight short-sleeved crop top that hugs her torso. It looks like it might as well be painted over her full, perky tits. My palms buzz with the instant recognition that they’d be the perfect size to fit in my palms.
The thought of cupping her soft, firm tits with my big, rough hands, and tweaking her pebbled nipples between the calloused pads of my fingers sends a jolt of arousal through me and makes my cock twitch.
The top shows off her flat tummy, her skin so creamy and smooth, and maybe it’s weird, but her cute little belly button is somehow even more erotic than her round tits.
Her skirt hugs the curve of her hips, ending at her upper thigh to reveal her long, toned legs. These beers I’ve been drinking must have a higher alcoholic content than I thought, because suddenly the idea of running my tongue along the length of her inner thigh invades my imagination, and I don’t even try too hard to push it out.
Shit, how long have I been staring at her like this?
Too long.
I should say something. Make the kind of cutting, witty quip that lets her know I’m totally not checking her out, that checking her out is the last thing in the world I’d even consider doing.
“Uh. Hi, Phoebe.”
Nice one, brain. Very witty.
She just rolls her eyes. “Enjoy your jersey chasers tonight, I guess. Oh, hi, Shane.”
She actually flashes Shane a smile—a genuine, friendly smile, not a taunting one—before walking towards the kitchen. She meets up with Casey, who hands her a drink.
“Who was that?” Aaron asks. I didn’t even know he was here with us. He must have shown up and joined the group while my brain was scattered and mesmerized looking at Phoebe.
“Oh, her?” Shane begins to answer. “Just a girl who’s—and watch my fingers while I say this—notoff limits.” He makes exaggerated quotation gestures with his fingers while he draws out the wordnot.
Aaron’s brow furrows. “Huh? I don’t get it.”
Without missing a beat, Lars replies, “It means Hunter’s into her.”
“I’m not into her,” I say, fixing an unamused look on Lars.
“Oh, okay,” Lars says, his voice flat as always. “You must not care that some dude is totally feeling her up on the dancefloor right now, then.”
