Unbeautifully(16)

Ripper scanned his memories, thinking back to the birthdays over the past year and . . .

His shoulders slumped as he sighed in relief. She was eighteen. Legal. Thank you, God. She’d turned eighteen a few weeks before he’d turned thirty-two.

Shoving Nikki’s hand out of his face, he glanced back across the lawn.

And . . . she still wasn’t looking at him.

He’d spent an entire week thinking about nothing but her, wondering if she’d spilled the beans, wondering if she was going to show her face at the club, wondering why he gave a shit if she showed her face at the club or not, freaking the fuck out every time he saw Deuce, thinking at any second he was going to get his balls blown off.

He stubbed out his smoke on the picnic table, grabbed his pack, and shook out another.

Was it over with?

Could he just forget the whole fucking deal and move on?

He wished someone would tell him.

That someone being Danny, who, by the way, still wasn’t looking at him.

And fuck him, he was still looking at her.

He couldn’t stop.

Danny was the natural version of Nikki. Naturally blonde, naturally tan, didn’t have to wear a shitload of makeup.

Nine years ago, when he’d first met Nikki, he’d liked her enough to consider her his girl. She was hot as fuck, curvy as hell, and a freak in bed. Only problem was he never got to that point where he’d wanted to give up pussy on the side, and strangely enough, Nikki had been okay with it. Then when he’d come home, all fucked-up from Frankie, she hadn’t even blinked. She hadn’t given a fuck.

That’s when Ripper knew she was just like every other club whore, only in his bed for what the club could give her. But he hadn’t cared. She was just some bitch he threw a couple of bills at once in a while. She got the club and he got pussy whenever he wanted it. It worked.

He glanced over at Nikki and frowned. Her dyed blonde hair was dried out and frizzy, her makeup cakey, her eyes tired. And all those curves had expanded. The bitch looked beat-up, older than she was, and sadly still trying to rock those tiny leather skirts he used to love.

Yeah, it wasn’t working anymore.

He glanced back at Danny. At that killer body, the slinky pink sundress covering it, her long blonde hair hanging down her back in soft curls and . . .

He’d been inside that.

He’d been inside that.

Fuck him. It still wasn’t registering. He knew it had happened, had the memories, but couldn’t fathom it. He hadn’t been with a woman that beautiful since before Frankie.

Ripper couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been with someone like Danny. Clean and good and . . . virtually untouched. Because she hadn’t been a virgin, right? She hadn’t acted like a virgin. God, he hoped like hell she hadn’t been a virgin.

“Are you going to be like this all day?” Nikki asked.

He ignored her. Danny was on the move, walking toward the clubhouse, all that pink material clinging to her body, inching up her thighs. Thighs he remembered wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his shoulders, her screaming out his name while he pounded into her.

He stared and stared and . . . she shot a glance his way and yep, he got a reaction. Her eyes went wide, her face turned red, and she quickly looked away.

So . . . what the fuck did that mean?

Was she embarrassed that she’d fucked him? A girl like her, he wouldn’t blame her.

But . . . she’d begged for his cock. She’d whined and begged, grinding her pussy against his mouth, ripping his hair out of his head.

“Ripper,” she’d cried out, thrashing beneath him. “Now, please, please, now . . .”

What if it hadn’t been him who’d picked her up?

What if it had been Bucket or Dirty or ZZ?

Would she have fucked them instead?

Did he care?

No. Pussy was pussy. He didn’t give a fuck whose pussy was giving his dick a temporary home as long as it was wet, warm, and tight.

Neither did he give a fuck who else was dipping inside that shit.

But Danny . . . And suddenly he was giving a fuck about pussy?

No. No, he did not care.

But yeah, he sort of did.

What the motherfuck was wrong with him?

Nothing was wrong with him.

He didn’t give a fuck. Nikki, the club bitch standing across the lawn, the brunette in a bar bathroom a few weeks back, none of them mattered because pussy was pussy.

Ripper, make my prom night perfect.

He wasn’t sure how perfect he’d made her night, but she sure as fuck made his pretty fucking spectacular.

Spectacular. When was the last time he’d used a word like spectacular to describe sex?

The blonde slut he’d lost his virginity to? Tiffany something or other?

No. That had consisted of “holy fuck, this feels awesome” and a minute later it was over.