Page 8 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"Yeah, maybe."
Someone shows up to escort the Chicago Outlaws to the VIP section on the other side of the club. When Ron goes along, not once glancing our direction, I breathe a sigh of relief. Ron did not catch sight of me.
After the excitement by the front door dies down, a guy I've never met before comes up to our table. Turns out Mar knows him. After a quick check in with me, she goes off to do her boogy thing. Soon she's on the dance floor, letting her freak flag fly.
A stranger I've never met walks up to the table and asks me to dance. Even though he's polite about it, I give him the brush off. Mar's the dancing queen Me? I like to observe. Hopeless, I know.
While I sip my drink, my gaze wanders toward the VIP section. Located up a flight of steps, it's not so high I can't tell what's going on. And what's going on is plenty. The Outlaws are spread out over several open booths. On the left, two of the players are putting on quite a show, groping, open mouth kissing a couple of blondes, and a brunette. On the right Ron Moss sits with a couple of other players, but no women. Well, except for the waitress who's bending forward flashing a pair of impressive breasts at him.Honey, that's not going to work. Sure enough, he says something, squeezes out of the booth and heads toward the back of the exclusive area. Now that I know him better, I feel bad for him. This has to be hard for someone who doesn't enjoy these types of recreational activities. Maybe I should go talk to him and apologize for what happened today on the field.
While I'm debating the wisdom of doing that, my gaze wanders to the middle of the VIP section where Ty's holding court, front and center. The blonde on his right is rubbing his chest, kissing his jaw. When she tries to kiss him on the mouth, he jerks away and says something. She pouts before taking on a new tack and nibbling his ear. The brunette on his left smirks, presumably at the blonde's lack of success. She pushes her breasts right against his bicep and whispers something in his ear. When he nods, she crawls under the table, between his knees.
It's so smoky in the place at first I have a hard time seeing what's going on. But suddenly the mist dissipates long enough for me to catch a gander of what she's doing. Her head's bobbing up and down right between his legs. Holy shit! Is she going down on him, right here in front of God and everyone?
He bares his teeth as his hips move in tune to her rhythm. Is anyone else seeing what I'm seeing? Yep. Many at the raised tables around me have their gazes glued to Ty and his floozy. He'll get into trouble, won't he? Anyone could complain to the cops about the lewd PDA. But the audience doesn't look shocked. Going by the snickers and the laughter, they're titillated, excited, but not shocked. They came to see a show and they're getting one. Besides, who'd be stupid enough to report the god almighty quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws the night before game day?
Like a magnet unable to fight the attraction, my gaze's drawn right back to Ty. His gorgeous face tight with passion, his sensual mouth huffing breath after hard breath. My face flushes with heat. My panties get wet. All of a sudden I imagine it's me doing that to him. My mouth on his shaft, my lips wrapped tight around him. When the crisis hits, his head rolls back. I can almost hear his moan of ecstasy from clear across the space. The woman takes a second—to wipe her mouth? to zip him up?— before she climbs back into the booth. She makes a big show of swiping her lips again before she drinks from her glass. But when she tries to kiss him on the mouth, he turns his head, just like he did with the blonde before.
"What's going on?" Mar asks.
When did she get back? Did she catch the peep show? Or worse, my reaction to it?
In a panic, I come to my feet. "We have to leave."
Hot and sweaty from dancing, she stops blotting the perspiration from her brow. "But we just got here. Wait. Something's wrong, isn't it?" Her darn spidey sense has picked up on my distress.
"I don't feel well." It's true. My stomach roils with nausea, excitement, something.
"You do look a little flushed."
"Yeah, I think I'm coming down with that bug that's going around." My gaze drifts to the VIP section. Ty Mathews is standing up, throwing an arm around each companion. Oh, God. He's coming down the stairs.
I grab Mar's hand. "We gotta go. Now." I run toward the exit, but before I get there, like Lot's wife I look back. And just like her, I'm punished when his gaze finds me.
For an infinitesimal second, he smiles, not the least hint of embarrassment on his face.
Horrified, I drag Mar out the door and don't stop running until I reach home.
