Page 40 of The Winslow Brothers

I laugh at her drunken seriousness—it’s too hard not to—and finally pull her into a hug so I can whisper directly into her ear. “I love you, Bells. But I also fucking hate you.”

She nods. “It’s the Sage sister way.”

“Well, two out of three,” I correct, knowing that Katelynn is the least drama-associated sister of the three of us. At five years our senior, she was always more of a “Disciplinary Board” than a defendant when it came to Sage sister arguments.

“That’s true,” Belle agrees. “I’m seriously surprised at how drunk Kate’s gotten tonight. It’s a real mom’s-night-out kind of vibe.”

I roll my eyes. “Like you should talk. You’re drunker than she is.”

“Yeah, but it’s my bachelorette,” she asserts.

Immediately, I shake my head with a fake smile. “Uh-uh. Not anymore, it’s not. Thanks to you, the glory of tonight seems to be mine.”

Jude

No matter what I do, I cannot get the sound and feel and look of the bride orgasming beneath me out of my head. For as talented as I am, I’ve never made a woman come without even touching her pussy before, and the rush of power I feel after having done it is exhilarating.

But she’s not just any woman—she’s the bride of a bachelorette party I danced for as a stupid fucking bet.

And, apparently, as I stand in front of the mirror in the back dressing room, pressing my hands into the tabletop in front of me with the force of a superhero, I don’t know how to cope with that kind of dichotomy.

I can’t pursue something like taking her home tonight, but for as much as I try, I can’t seem to just forget about it either.

The door to the dressing room cracks against the wall as it slams open, temporarily undiluting the thump of bass from the DJ’s music. I crane my neck to see who it is, but when Maverick’s jovial eyes lock on to mine, I wish I hadn’t looked.

“Oh, man, Jude, don’t tell me it didn’t go well,” he remarks with entirely too much excitement. Clearly, he’s misread the stress I’m carrying as being performance-related, and being the type ofguy he is—and I normally am, frankly—he isn’t hesitating to rub it in my face. “Did the ladies not like what you had to offer?”

I shake my head and close my eyes briefly before spinning around to face him, crossing my arms over my chest, and sinking my ass into the edge of the table.

“It went fine,” I hear myself say, a huge understatement by any standards. Still, it doesn’t seem right to disclose what I witnessed without the bride’s permission, let alone to a bigmouth like Mav. He’d eat it up, that’s for sure, if he could even find it within himself to believe it.

The truth is, it’ll probably be much easier to pretend I flopped than contend with any of the other complications of the truth.

The only problem, of course, with that plan of action is my ego.

Fucking hell, I don’t want to lose this bet when I really kicked its ass five ways to Sunday.

But I can’t bring myself to prove it either. It looks like Maverick might get to keep that hundred bucks he owes me after all.

“You bombed, dude. I can see it written all over your face!” he practically yells, crossing the room to slap me on the back. One more hard slap and all the confessions about what really happened in that VIP room are libel to come up like vomit—word vomit.

“I didn’t bomb,” I hedge, gritting my teeth against the urge to wring my own neck. I don’t know what is wrong with me all of a sudden or why I’m being such a pussy, but I don’t like it one bit. “But I am inexperienced in the ways of your profession, and the lack of training was obvious.”

Because I’m pretty sure making the women orgasm isn’t part of the exotic dancer’s handbook or official training video.

“I told you,” he boasts cheerfully, slamming his palm into his locker and laughing. His muscles twitch obnoxiously as he holds his arms out to his sides and proclaims, “Everyone can’t be as good as me, dude. It’s just a scientific impossibility.”

Somehow, I manage a nod, even though the tension in my neck feels like it could snap it in two.

“Well, I guess we’re even on the money, then, huh?” he says through a growing smile. “Too bad you had to double down on that shit, but I guess that’s to be expected. Jude Winslow can never resist a bet.”

He’s right. Up until now, I wouldn’t say I’ve ever had the impulse control to resist much of anything that comes with a temporary high or instant gratification.

How is it, then, that I managed to stop myself from telling him all about how good I really am at his job?

Back in my normal clothes, I stand at the window behind the DJ booth in the top office and scan the crowd of partying New Yorkers and tourists. The mood is up, the vibe is right, and Club Craze is an undeniable hit among the young and fabulous.

Rainbow-colored lights strobe the dance floor, cascading over the writhing bodies of hundreds of coeds as they experiment with heavy bodily contact.

---