Chapter 11 #3
The thought of tugging on his soft curls has my cock plumping up yet again. “Princess.” The word sounds like a warning, but feels like a plea. “You better stop threatening me like that, before we keep fucking around up here and get caught.”
“There’s a Saint Andrew’s cross downstairs that I’d like to borrow for the night.” Tate sighs wistfully, further teasing me.
I growl, reaching for him, and he just laughs, hopping up and darting out of my reach.
“Let’s go back downstairs,” Tate says, smoothing his hair and adjusting his shorts and harness. He gathers the candles while I fold the blanket.
“Let me carry those for you,” I offer.
“Such a gentleman,” Tate whispers, resting the candles on top of the blanket in my arms. “We can drop them off in the back office on our way out later.”
“Are we leaving together?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
“Duh.” He rolls his eyes with that sexy little smirk, and I can do nothing else but obediently follow him. I think I’d say yes to anything he asks of me. “But not yet. We’re dancing for at least another hour. Come on. Let’s go.”
We carefully sneak down the dark stairs, and Tate instructs me to set the blanket and candles on the last step. “We can grab it when we leave,” he whispers into my ear before unclipping the velvet rope for us.
As we turn the corner, Tate stops short in front of me. “Oh. Stanley. Hey.”
“H-hi, Tate. I like the outfit,” he replies with an overly friendly smile and flushed cheeks. His beady little eyes roam over Tate in a very intrusive way that I don’t like.
I stand tall behind him, eyeing the man in the oversized red silk pajamas with a black lace pocket square.
He’s out of place, fully clothed at a leather and lace party, and as Tate would likely say, it’s giving Hugh Hefner.
When Stanley sees me watching him, he quickly looks away from Tate’s body, staring at the floor instead.
But I didn’t miss the hungry look in his gaze.
“Thanks, Stan. Nice pj’s,” Tate says, and I can’t fight the smirk that takes over. “This is my . . . friend. Spencer.” Then he turns to me. “Spence, this is my coworker, Stanley.”
“’Sup?” I give him a nod.
“Nice to meet you,” Stan says, but I don’t think he means it. He pushes up his dark-framed glasses. “What were you two doing up there?” he asks Tate in an almost accusatory way, and I honestly don’t like his fucking tone.
“Blow jobs,” Tate says truthfully and matter-of-factly. Not a lie in sight.
Stanley’s face turns beet red, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish. He glances between Tate and me and back again, and I’m starting to feel a little bad for the guy.
“Kidding, Stan! Don’t have an aneurysm. Geez,” Tate laughs casually, grabbing my hand and entwining our fingers. He tugs me with him toward the dance floor, tapping Stanley’s chest on our way past. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite!”
“Tate,” I murmur under my breath.
“What? He needs to mind his own damn business and go home to his mom’s house in those dreadful Hugh Hefner pajamas.”
I shake my head, unable to stop the quiet chuckle. “I thought the same thing.”
Tate smiles up at me sweetly. “I knew I liked you.”
His words make my stomach flutter. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. Not really. But damn, it feels good to hear him say it, even if it is because of something stupid.
“Come on. Let’s dance!” He tugs me toward the dance floor, and we weave our way through writhing bodies into the center of the action. Tate immediately starts moving, and there’s nothing I can do besides support him as he twerks and grinds and rolls his hips against me.
The crowd is pulsing and moving as one, swaying to the R&B mix thumping through the speakers. Strobe lights pulse and flash around us, lighting up the beautiful man before me as he dances to the beat. I love seeing him happy and carefree like this.
He’s genuinely breathtaking.
After another song, we take a water break, making our way over to the bar and having a much-needed rest. Charlene comes over to check on us, and Tate orders two ice waters.
“Extra lemon for you, my dear,” Charlene says with a kind smile, placing one cup in front of Tate and another with no lemon in front of me.
“Thanks, Char.” Tate leans forward, wrapping his glossy lips around the straw and sucking.
Fuck.
Every time I look at him, my brain won’t stop replaying what just happened upstairs. It’s distracting.
“Have you seen Daija or Jake yet?” Tate asks, spinning around on the barstool and sipping his water as his eyes scan the crowd. “The fashion show is about to start.”
“No, I haven’t.” I lean back against the bar, casually sipping my water and zoning out.
I startle when Jake suddenly plops down on the barstool next to me. “Getting tired, buddy?” Jake laughs. “You look like you’re about to nod off.”
“Nah. I’m good. Where’s Daija?” I look behind him and don’t see her.
“Ladies’ room with Kaylee. Grayson dipped already, so I’ve been keeping an eye on both of them and dodging the creeps.
“Nice,” I say, dapping him up.
Daija and Kaylee walk over with big smiles on their faces. “It’s fashion show time!”
Tate squeals with excitement, while Jake and I look at each other in panic.
He starts to tug me with him, and I attempt to resist. “No. No. I’m not entering the contest,” I say with a laugh, trying and failing to slip my hand out of Tate’s.
“Oh, yes you are,” he retorts confidently.
I narrow my eyes at him.
The little troublemaker is going to get it tonight.