Page 7 of Jig's Last Dance

“Wha—” I moan when Jig’s face looms over mine before he picks me up. “Something’s wrong,” I mumble.

“I know. Someone spiked the booze,” he says, glancing down at me with a crease between his eyes.

“What?” I whisper before a chill racks me, and I shudder in his arms.

I think I pass out because when I come to, I’m in a vehicle, and Jig is sitting next to me. My head is in his lap, but I’m too fucking tired to worry about the semantics. At least the roiling tumble in my belly has subsided.

“Where are we going?” I ask, wiping my face. I’m covered in dried sweat. My face feels like I ate dirt, and my mouth is sour. I’m fucking disgusting.

“Home,” Jig says, and it’s the last thing I remember.

Chapter Two

Rollingover, I open an eye before slamming it shut when an arc of pain bounces through my brain. Fuck me, but it’s bright.

“You okay?” The deep rumble makes me jump, and I grab my aching head before glancing to my left and confirming I’m in bed with Jig fucking Blackstone.

He’s lying on his back, shirtless, with his thick blond hair in disarray. I run my gaze over his chest, surely formed to torture me, and suck in a breath.

His honey-colored skin gleams and is interspersed with intricate tribal tattoos covering his left pectoral. The vivid swirls continue over his abdominals and end at his pretty little happy trail.

Both his nipples are pierced, and I idly wonder what it would feel like to play with them.

He’s got one arm behind his head and fuck me if the flexion doesn’t make my mouth water, which I blame on nausea. And mentally roll my eyes when Jig smirks.

Running his other hand down his chest, he rests it on his yummy abs. Heat fills my cheeks as my gaze wanders further South and I spy his erection tenting the sheets.

“Alice?” he says huskily, and I tear my gaze away, meeting his dancing eyes with a frown.

“What am I doing here?”

With a shrug, he says, “You passed out. Didn’t know where you live.”

“Shawn—”

“Your friend? She was sick too. Some fucker picked her up,” he says.

Her boy toy? Hmm.

Rubbing my face, I set his comment aside because I can’t worry about Shawn when my cheeks are flaming in direct correlation to his dick still distractingly huge beside me.

Jig’s phone chirps and I glance around. “What time is it? Fuck, Ben is going to kill me.”

“Ben?” he says, grabbing my hand that’s covering both my face and my blush.

“My brother,” I mutter, glancing at him sideways.

His brows furrow before he shakes his head, and a grin pulls at his lips. “Okay. Let me get you some water and toast.”

“Okay,” I rasp. Water sounds really good.

When he shifts, I’m drawn back to his dick like it’s a homing beacon, and I can’t decide if I’m excited for him to move and reveal it all or horrified.

There’s a pregnant pause before he says, “Or we could stay here.”

I pulse at the deep timbre and meet his burning gaze before swallowing back a whimper. That is, until the events of the night before come back to me in living fucking color and I come to my senses.

“If you can get past my tiny tits,” I say with a cold stare.

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