Page 23 of Matched

“Yes. Exactly that.”

He laughs and tugs me back toward him, closer than before. It registers in the back of my mind that Jim somehow managed to get Bear on stage and they’re singing an old Britney song while the place roars, but not even that’s enough to make me turn away from the heat crackling to life between Tony and me.

His gaze sears my skin, lighting up every cell in my body.

I lick my lips. Or maybe I do know what I want. I simply need to decide to take that first step.

“I was joking,” he says. “This is the part where you laugh.”

As if they have a life of their own, my fingers trail from his hand to his forearm and to the edge of his sleeve to slip under. His muscle twitches, but I couldn’t pull away if the whole place caught on fire. “I don’t feel like laughing.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

Heat surges just below my belly. I open my mouth to respond only to pause when Trevor Graves clears his throat awkwardly from the wall end of the booth. I glare at him. “Kind of having a moment here, pal.”

He winces and nods. “Yeah, sorry, but uh, I need a bathroom?”

I sigh and swallow my mounting frustration. It’s not Trevor’s fault that my hormones picked a terrible moment to go into overdrive. Tony mutters under his breath, but I shove him out of the booth to make way for Graves. The newest member of the team doesn’t make eye contact with either of us, but passes quickly.

Before I can turn back to Tony, though, Jim and Bear come striding back toward the table. I clench my hands together to hide my disappointment. Bear throws an arm over Marge’s dainty shoulders while she hugs his middle. Envy settles in my chest, digging its way into my heart.

Jim drops into the seat, his unblinking eyes focused on Trevor. “Who invited him anyway?”

Tony grabs his drink and chugs it without stopping. Enough conversations have been had that I’ve figured out Jim isn’t fond of the newest team member, so I follow my husband’s lead in evasion and turn to Bear. “Mardi Gras beads?”

Marge laughs, jangling the set sitting around her husband’s thick neck until he gently pushes her hands away. “The crowd started throwing them about halfway through the chorus.”

Jim’s glare isn’t singularly aimed at one of us, but at us all. “You said tonight would be fun. So far I’ve lost five bucks, I’ve been publicly humiliated, and on top of that I have to deal with…Graves.” He says the man’s name like a curse, and his expression darkens. But when Taya lays a hand on his arm, the anger melts away, and he smiles.

“Five bucks?” I mouth to Marge, and she snorts and motions toward the stage.

“Bear wanted a cut if he was going to be performing.”

I glance at the always good-natured Bear. No way would he miss the chance to drag Jim up on stage. Five bucks or not. And someday, hopefully soon, we’ll all do this again, but tonight, my objective has shifted.

My gaze travels over the tantalizing shapes of my husband’s shoulders and chest, and that familiar flame rekindles somewhere below my belly button. I’m horny. And I’m married. That is a perfect recipe for dragging—hopefully, it doesn’t take much—my husband to bed. I want him. I want to feel him inside me. But more than that, I want to know if he can walk the walk.

And I’m ready. Really fucking ready. Because one thing that isn’t going to make either of us get along better is forced celibacy for another three-hundred-plus days.

Jim, Tony, and Bear have formed their own little circle to gripe about Trevor, but I don’t care. Tony has somewhere else to be and something—someone—else to do. I tuck myself under my husband’s arm and raise my voice just enough to be heard over their bickering. “You guys should try a little harder with Graves.” I ignore Jim’s narrow-eyed glare. I’m not a terrorist, so I’m in no danger. “He’s one of you now. All for one, one for all.”

“That’s The Three Musketeers.” Tony smiles down at me and winks. “But she’s right. He’s one of us. And like the Musketeers took in D’Artagnan, who proved to be quite loyal, by the way, maybe we should give the kid a chance.” When we all stare at him, he flushes and shrugs. “Can I help it if the chick in that one scene had amazing tits? I might’ve watched it a few times.”

Marge groans and Taya rolls her eyes. Normally, this would be the moment where I write Tony off, but tonight I don’t. He shifts and I continue to stare. Our friends might be surprised when he exhibits a thought deeper than a puddle in a parking lot, but I’ve seen him sit and read, a book which I now suspect might be a copy of Dumas’s musketeer tale. His intellectual shortfalls are an act. A good one, but still as pretend as unicorns and rainbow faeries. My husband works hard at keeping up his act of class clown.

I spot Trevor making his way back from the bathroom and the nervous glance he shoots all of us standing clustered together. As if he can tell he’s the topic of discussion. It’s as much for his benefit as mine that I start leading Tony toward the stage. He starts to give a token protest and then his eyes go wide.

“I can’t sing.” He hisses the words in a low, desperate whisper.

I shrug but don’t slow. “Then don’t. I’ll do all the singing for both of us.” I glance at him over my shoulder and smile. “I’m a former choir girl. Now, I belt out the oldies to blow off steam. Come sing with me.”

His shoulders relax when he exhales. “My little sister likes to sing too.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You’d like her.”

I laugh and pull him up the steps onto the stage. “Well, mi esposo, you’ll just have to introduce us, then.” I put my hand on his chest and walk him backward to the stool where performers usually sit for the slow ones. Leaning in, I press my lips against the shell of his ear. “This one’s for you, babe.”

I chat with the DJ tucked away in the shadows, so as not to draw attention to himself. I give him my song choice and he nods. By the time the opening bars of Amy Winehouse’s “You Know That I’m No Good” start to roll through the bar, Tony is staring, brown eyes dark with what I hope is hunger for me.

I turn my back on him, gripping the mic and belting out the über-sultry opening lines to the crowd. I don’t care about the people in the audience. Just the one to my right because I want him to want me as much as I want him and if this doesn’t work, nothing will.

And I’ve got his total attention.

My heart swells and excitement stirs in my blood. And fair is fair. I walk backward and position myself between his knees, then sway us back and forth, like the couples on the dance floor. The words don’t even matter anymore. His arms wrapped around my waist, his breath on my throat, the thumb stroking my belly... those things matter.

The music carries me away, and I turn into his body to trail my fingertips across his shoulders, down to his heart, press my breasts into his chest. “I told you I was trouble.”

He shudders and grips my hips, pulling me in closer, until only clothes separate us, and his growl sends my pulse over the edge. I gasp, too distracted by the rigid curve of his cock against my hip to pay attention to the cheering crowd. We’re both breathing hard and I lean back enough so that my voice doesn’t get drowned out by the applause. “We should grab an Uber and go home.”

“Yeah.” His eyelids are at half-mast and never have I been so turned on. He helps me off the stage, careful to angle his body so I’m blocking the crowd’s view of the bulge in his pants.

“I don’t think you heard me.” Before we make it back to the booth for our stuff, I stop and stare up at him until I have his full attention. “I said that we should go home. Together.”

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