Page 4 of Force Play

Tequila. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t. That’s the problem. I was distracted, caught off guard. It can’t happen again. My body already wants to say fuck it and jump the cocky baseball player’s bones. Right now my brain—my past—are the only things keeping me from doing something monumentally stupid.

That’s not fair. I’m sure he’s not actually stupid. I chuckle to myself at my little joke.

Dom directs me to the back of the club, where there’s a roped-off section with a couch and table for the three of us; a tray of shots, limes, and salt shakers waiting.

Dean’s there too, his arm draped over the back of the couch, looking serious when I take the seat beside him. Dom sits on the opposite side, sandwiching me between these two gorgeous men. I don’t hate it. Not like I should. Terrible idea, I remind myself.

In need of a distraction, I reach for a shot glass, holding it out for a silent, solo cheer—to bad decisions—before tipping it back and swallowing.

“That’s one way to do it.” Dom’s sitting so close that his warm breath makes my neck break out in goosebumps when he snickers at my expense.

He’s always laughing, like life is just one big party. “What? Did I not take my shot right?” If this man has the audacity to tell me how to shoot tequila, I will knee him in the balls without an ounce of remorse.

“You can take it however you want. I just prefer mine salty.” His hand closes around the shaker.

“Then show me how it’s done,” I taunt. “But I’m not holding the lime in my teeth for you.”

“Do I look like a frat boy?”

“I don’t think you want me to answer that,” I volley back. He does not look like a frat boy. The word boy doesn’t belong anywhere near this man. He’s masculine, knowing, and right now with the way he’s staring down at me, he’s exuding so much undeniable sex appeal that it’s a wonder I’m not pregnant from just the vibes he’s putting off.

“All you need to do is sit still, not punch me, and maybe even enjoy yourself.” His eyebrow cocks in question—no, in challenge.

Damn it. I’m so screwed. It’s like he’s reading right from an instruction manual—one with my face on the cover. Since we’ve met, he’s known all the buttons to push. I’m too competitive for my own good, and he figured that out without even trying.

“Can’t make any promises.” Annoyance slices through me at how breathless it comes out. That was not the snarky comeback I was aiming for.

He dips two long fingers into the liquid, his thick thigh pressing into my leg as he leans in close, pushing the strap of my tank top down the slope of my shoulder with his dry hand. “I’m really going to enjoy this. It’s not too late to back out if you can’t handle it.”

“Show me what you’ve got,” I say, my stubbornness showing its ass.

Heat from his body wraps around me as he traces my collarbone with his tequila soaked fingers, making me warm and fuzzy before the alcohol has had a chance to take hold. My nipples pebble against my will as he drags the chilled liquor from the base of my neck and out towards my shoulder.

I must be on another planet because when he dips his fingers again and brings them to my lips, I let them part, my tongue darting out to taste it. “You’re being so good for me.”

The lust-blurred fog I’m in tricks me into abandoning the urge to bite his finger for that last remark. I’m so lost in the sensation of him caressing me that I don’t even notice the salt shaker until he’s sprinkling some over the sticky line he drew. His tongue darts out and his eyes flash to mine.

“Indie?” My name is a question—a chance to say no.

I don’t; the request for consent is my tipping point. My head bobs of its own volition, giving him all the permission he needs.

His palm and fingers span both sides of my neck when he grips the back of it, holding me in place. Soft lips move over my collarbone, sucking, licking, and kissing before he pulls back with a satisfied smile on his face. Blindly reaching for his shot, he takes it, lime forgotten on the tray, and releases me, pushing up from the couch.

I’m still reeling when his rough voice breaks through my lust filled trance. “Dance with me.” The playful tone he’s used with me since we met gives way to something more gruff, and I find myself swallowing nervously.

If it wasn’t for Dean reaching to grab his shot, I’d have completely forgotten he was a witness to the debauchery that I just allowed. “You’re really not going to dance?” I’m stalling, trying to preserve my sanity long enough that maybe I’ll come out of the hypnosis he has me under.

“No, you two have fun.” The knowing smirk he gives me puts him near the top of my shit list; possibly even above his friend.

“Afraid if you dance with me, you might end up falling head-over-heels?” he taunts like the devil with a pretty face, his hand waiting to drag me down to hell with him.

But I bet it’d feel like heaven. I know it would.

I ignore it, or I try to, but my palm itches to reach out and take his. After that little stunt with the tequila, it’s safe to say that my hormones have taken control. “Not a chance.” Every reason I want this man is a stark reminder of the last time I got mixed up with someone like him. Handsome, easygoing, and on top of the world—deceptively wholesome.

“Then I guess you’ve got nothing to worry about.” He waits, his hand still extended between us.

Dammit, this is one of my favorite songs. The beat is sultry, the lyrics a tempting tale about how blissful it feels when you give into your desires. And I do love dancing, which is the whole reason we came to this club.

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