Page 87 of Cruel Games

When he disappeared into his room, I glanced at Coyote and frowned. “Was it just me, or did you spot that white mess on his pants?”

He quirked a brow in return as if to sayof course I didn’t stare at our buddy’s dick; what is wrong with you?

Not that I could blame him. It was pretty odd of me. Still, I couldn’t discount what I’d seen. If I didn’t know better?—

No. No way in hell.

I was overthinking it.

The only logical explanation for that convenient white-ish stain on his crotch was that he’d had messy, quick sex, and hadn’t bothered to clean himself up.

Or maybe I was reading too much into things. Also totally possible, I supposed.

But unlikely.

Maybe I’d get a chance to ask him when we got wasted tonight.

“Hey, you two hurry up so we can go celebrate,” I shouted to the room at large, already eager to drown myself in booze and forget my endless questions. “There’s tequila at the bar, and it’s calling my name.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised that you’re a tequila man,” Ivy said from my bedroom door, her arms braced on either side of the frame.

Fucking hell, was she trying to kill us all with these clothes she wore?

Usually, her daily clothing choices consisted of leisurewear and the occasional questionable pair of shorts. In fact, I wasn’t even aware she owned a dress. But standing in the doorway of my bedroom, she’d put on an utterly out-of-character outfit for her—at least out of character to the extent that we’d known her. Maybe she’d been hiding this girl all along, and we weren’t allowed to see her until now.

The dress she’d put on was a flowing number, hitting mid-thigh with a soft, wispy skirt that teased her bare legs when she moved. The neckline was daring, her bra peeking out at the top as it worked overtime as a shelf for her impressive cleavage. And, of course, to top off the look, she’d left her hair hanging around her shoulders and slipped into a pair of heels that made her already impressive height even more imposing. Hell, if she stood next to Coyote, easily the tallest of us, she might just be eye to eye with him in those numbers.

I wondered how she planned to walk in them.

Did girls go through some kind of classes on how to walk in heels and sit in skirts that taught them the finer aspects ofmanaging today’s insane beauty standards, or were they all just winging it?

Who fucking knows.

“You look . . . ” I started, my voice trailing off when the words to describe her didn’t just appear in my brain. I could use a host of words to describe this side of her we had just now been allowed to view, but none of them seemed to do her justice.

Stunning. Flashy. Daring. Dangerous. Sly. Conniving. Cunty. Sexy as hell.

Did I mention dangerous?

I shook images of her in various positions from my mind, grumbled my displeasure at my lacking vocabulary, and tried for nonchalance. I probably failed miserably, but who cared?

“You gonna finish that comment or not?” she taunted me, a hand coming down to rest on her hip as she cocked it out and grinned. “Because the longer you stand there and stare at me like I’m growing horns, the longer we have to be sober around each other tonight.”

Sober wasn’t always a fun ride, but drunk—drunk was . . .

Drunk with Ivy was unknown. A mystery. And I wasn’t sure I was willing to bet my life on the chance that it’d go smoothly.

“We’re wasting time standing around here, you three,” Dingo said as he emerged from his room, dressed in a less messy outfit, his hair still damp and dangling around his face, droplets staining his shirt collar. His eyes trailed over Ivy for a long second, and he frowned. “You plan to ride in that?”

“Why not?” She glanced down at her skirt in confusion. “Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“No,” Coyote and I nearly snarled in unison before Dingo could ruin it for us and tell her a million different reasons she should wear something else.

It’ll be cold.

Your skirt will fly up in the wind.

You look like catnip for every alleycat of a man in the bars we frequent.

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