“That’s because you never asked. I’m a little pissed Bity has refused to mention even that much.”
It’s Masters. I know it, but I don’t want him to know I know.
“Masters. Now, what else do you need to know before I can make you give in?”
I fight back a giggle, and then I twirl free from his clutches as I head over to the closet where my stuff has already been neatly unpacked for me.
“You forget; I just helped you carry your dates out. You’re hot, but not hot enough to overcome that.” Surprisingly, I manage to sound convincing. Very slowly, I start unzipping my dress. “You can go now.”
I look over my shoulder to see him licking his lips with anticipation, making my budding excitement unfurl deep within my core. But I'll never tell him that. That's like striking a match in the middle of a room full of leaking propane.
“Not undressing until you’re gone, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” I poke, my eyes seducing him while fucking with his and my head.
He swallows hard as his jaw tenses, but then he grumbles something about this being ridiculous, and never having been so hard - I don't know.
“I’ll see you out there. We’ll start working on getting to know each other," he says in a clearer voice.
***
Tag
A bit of a smile and a spark of excitement flares in her eyes, but she turns away to dismiss me and hide the truth she can't wipe from her face.
This girl is getting under my skin, and I really don’t like it. I’ve never been turned down during that sort of situation. I know she wants me, but apparently I’m going to have to work even harder.
I smirk, feigning confidence, as I head out the door. Once it shuts, I lean against it and try to catch my breath. This is insane, and I’m feeling like a fool chasing her instead of being chased.
I’m not used to someone fucking with my head. It’s always the other way around. What’s this girl trying to do to me?
Chapter Two
Playing With Fire
Tag
It’s been forever since I was between her legs - almost there. Now I’m standing out here under the moonlight, while they take their night-shots.
“Any chance we’ll be done taking pictures before the wedding is over?” I gripe while loosening my tie, frustrated for so many reasons.
Wren laughs as the photographer lowers the camera without directing us to our next pose.
“That’s it,” she bitterly snarks before putting her camera away.
“Finally,” I say, exasperated, while leaning against the pole of the canopy set up behind me.
Wren turns to me as his fiancée, Erica, walks off to start talking privately with the annoying photographer. His eyes glance over to Bity, who is grinning ear-to-ear as he joins Rene.
“So why is my brother rushing over to Rene Ballinger when he’s supposed to be here with Ashiara? And how the hell did he ever land a chick like her to begin with?”
I knew he was Ashed.
“Remember - you’re getting married,” I playfully quip.
“Ha,” he dully releases while bringing a drink to his lips. “I was just trying to figure out when my brother got game like that.”
Both of our eyes fall on the girl we’re whispering about when she walks out arm-in-arm with Melanie. I haven’t seen her since earlier, and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t look even better.
Her small, tight, white skirt rises high, but not too high. The flowing fabric of her cleavage-showing red shirt whips in the oceanfront wind as she tosses her long, bronze hair away from her face.
Her sleek legs are still driving me crazy, leading up to that perfect ass which is displayed even better in that skirt. I grin when I see her shoes - dressy, half-boot style heels that cover up her new bandaging.
“You’re drooling,” Wren snickers, and my jaw claps shut as I roll my eyes.
“She’s just… I don’t know. Has Bity ever told you about her before?”
He shrugs as his eyes return to the beauty now laughing, her head tossing back as someone in Melanie's crowd of old crows makes a joke.
“Yeah, but I sure as hell didn’t expect her to look like that. With the way he was still fawning over Rene, I thought this girl must be hideous. Damn, was I ever wrong.”
“I’ll say,” I grumble under my breath when I’m unable to break my eyes away from her. “I need a stronger drink,” I add with a disgruntled tone, placing the empty beer bottle on the table next to me and heading toward the bar.
This place looks like something from Gatsby’s era. Everything is dressed in cascading folds of white and gold, and there are enough tables and chairs to accommodate hundreds, when we’ve only got a gathering of fifty or more.