“They won’t see much of the city from their knees.” He grinned at the brunette. “Come here, honey. He won’t miss ya.”
That wasn’t how this worked.
I was the leader. I was in charge.
And, like any alpha in a pride, I ate first. The others could have their scraps after I took my fill.
I didn’t let Brunette slip from my lap.
The last time the guys and I went out for a night, Bryon came to dinner with rainbow stripes around his dick—three different colors of lipstick ringing his cock. He bragged about it for a week, thinking he was hot shit.
I wasn’t a man who got out-classed or out-done, especially with women.
The blonde giggled and teased her fingers around my shoulders. Her nails poked when they should have stroked, but she’d have a good grip on my cock later.
“Yeah, go on, Honey,” Blondie said. “I’ll take good care of Mr. Carson.”
The brunette arched an eyebrow that might have screamed a dozen obscenities if it weren’t plucked to death, drawn in, and botox’ed stiff. She licked her lip and turned her attention to me.
“I can entertain him all by myself.” She breathed in my ear. “Right, baby?”
She smelled like cigarettes and one too many martinis. Blondie scowled. The other blonde adjusted her halter-top and let her tits do the talking.
Three under-sexed, intentionally-starved, loose-moraled women vying for the opportunity to get fucked by the Rivets’ quarterback? Yeah, I’d take those odds.
I waved to another waitress, frantically mopping up a spill. She leapt at the chance to serve someone other than my offensive line as they chugged another pitcher of beer and gnawed on the bones of their third order of barbeque wings.
She was just some chubby little college girl, pushing up glasses and huffing as the pitcher spilled. Beer soaked into the carpet. She was cute, but too flustered. I liked a girl with confidence.
“Another round for these ladies.” I waved over my newest fan club. “Whatever they want.”
“I know what I want…” The blonde bit her lip, her eyes skipping the flirting and darting to my groin.
The waitress sighed and grabbed her pad and pencil, though halter-top blonde scoffed as she had to repeat her order over the noise. My offensive line roared in laughter and stole the remote, turning the television to a show replaying one of our critical games last season.
One of my best passes was highlighted in full glory for us to admire. The table bumbled, and glasses went flying. The girls laughed. Blondie ran a hand over my throwing arm.
She squeezed the muscle.
Giggled.
She’d learn soon enough that wasn’t the hardest part of me.
The waitress bolted to the kitchen and returned, red-faced and brushing the sweaty hair from her cheeks. She looped the room, depositing drinks and collecting dishes. This time she left the door open, and our private party was no longer separated from the restaurant. It wasn’t a great place, just some trendy little burger bar that seemed a good investment for when I got my contract renegotiated. The burgers were greasy, the women attractive, and it offered a night of endless fun.
Except Rivets’ management said we weren’t technically supposed to be partying in public anymore. They said we were likely to cause a scene and our behavior was hard to spin to the fans.
I didn’t understand that. We acted like any other red-blooded man who had a couple million to blow and the attention of short-skirted women. Apparently, that was a problem. The team and league were as big a pain in the ass as my publicist.
What was the point of being rich, famous, and sporting a nine-inch cock if you didn’t get to celebrate with it once in a while?
Or two or three times a week?
I only lived once. I owed it to myself to make the most of it.
The brunette freaked before anyone could enjoy their drinks. “Waitress, I ordered olives not onions.” She punctuated her displeasure by eating the onion anyway.
“Sorry!” The waitress gritted her teeth as the brunette tossed the martini glass at her tray. It splashed on her apron. “I’ll get you a new one.”
“With two olives. Or should we write it out for you?” She giggled at me. “Honestly, is it that hard?”
The waitress blushed and looked at me. “Anything else for you, M—Mr. Carson?”
“Call me Jack.”
“O—okay.” The waitress teetered between star-struck and terrified, like she stared down the entire defensive line of the Ashenville Hawks. “Anything for you, Jack?”
“Nah.” I watched Bryon grab another girl. He cornered her in the shadows, and that meant it was time to go. The guys were a little too rowdy, and my women were antsy. “Just whatever the girls want, honey.”