There are eight thousand nerve endings in a clitoris. Though I donât know the exact figure, Iâll bet there are another few thousand in each nipple. Throw in another heap on the lips, the curve of the neck and the inner thigh, and thatâs a whole lot of potential for pleasure.
The man pinning me to the vinyl bar that was sticky with spilled drinks was wasting it all.
âYouâre so hot.â His breath smelled of the halibut and green beans that had been served at the wedding reception hours earlier. The stench was overlaid with the fumes of five or so rum drinks and a couple of beers to boot, and though he clearly disagreed, it was not going to tickle my nostrils and make me swoon with delight.
I grimaced as a wandering hand fumbled its way a bit lower on my waist than I appreciated. I prided myself on being an independent woman, on being able to fend for myself, but this guy, whom Iâd made the mistake of smiling at earlier, was not budging.
That alone spoke volumes about how much booze heâd consumed. I wasnât what anyone with any kind of imagination would call hot. Nor did I think that my prim navy blue suit, out of style by about five years, was sending the wrong message.
Nope, this guy was just ten sheets to the wind. And lucky me, looked like Iâd been voted the one who got to run around like a chicken with my head cut off gathering those sheets and making sure the drunk didnât drown in his own vomit in a gutter somewhere. And just when Iâd thought that the uncomfortable part of the evening was over.
Iâd been more than a little surprised when Iâd received an invitation to Suzanne and Nickâs wedding. Though Suze and I had once been quite close, during our tumultuous, hormone-filled high school and university years, we hadnât spoken much since.
I was equally surprised by the fact that Iâd accepted. Iâve never been much of one for crowds, or parties, or anything that required dressing up, actually. I didnât really drink, and I wasnât a good dancer.
But Iâd said yes. Or at least, my hand had, as it had checked off the appropriate box and sent the RSVP card back on its merry way.
And so here I was. Yep, here I was, feeling frumpy and out of my element, and cursing the fact that Iâd agreed to attend this wedding at allâlet alone allowed myself to get dragged along to some after party at a sleazy strip bar.
As Mr. Tall, Dark and Smelly leaned in for a cringe-inducing tongue bath, I was reminded all too clearly of why I didnât enjoy crowds, parties, alcohol, or even most people.
Wedging my knee in between Monsieur Inappropriateâs, I prepared to give him a shot to the nuts if he didnât back off.
He took the movement the wrong way entirely, and I grimaced as I prepared myself for one hundred eighty pounds of outraged male with a wounded ego. The outrage would be easy enough to handleâ¦the damaged male pride, not so much.
âThere you are, babe.â I blinked and let my knee drop, a bit. That voice, like wildflower honey on a warm day, was nothing like the beery slurs of the man who held me pressed tightly against the bar. I blinked again, rewetting the contact lenses that I hardly ever woreâand regretting having done so todayâand a face to match the voice blurred, sharpened and came into focus.
Holy cow. And what a face. Surprisingly tawny skin under titian hair and wide-set eyes that, though a dark ash in color, were anything but drab. I couldnât see the entirety of the body because the drunk imbecileâs meaty shoulder was in the way, but what I could see was toned and tasty looking.
I suspected the rest would be the same.
Shoving, I pressed against the shoulder that I couldnât see over. âMove it.â
He either didnât hear or misunderstood. âYou like it rough, baby? Mmm, me too.â That slimy, protruding tongue approached again. He hadnât even noticed the redheaded dream standing behind him, looking annoyed. Hell, maybe Iâd dreamed him up myself. I couldnât think of many other reasons that a man that good-looking would be talking to me.
Red tapped a long finger on buddyâs shoulder, that deep slate meeting the paler, plainer blue-gray of my own eyes as he did so. As my knees wobbled a little and my hormones sat up and began to make their presence known, the drunkie blearily turned around halfway.
âDonât be a cock block, man. Go find your own babe.â I snorted outwardly. Babe? He must have been drunk if he thought that I fit into that category. Not that I would break any mirrors, mind you, but I was well aware of my limitations. My eyes were pale, as was my skin, and my strawberry hair was too curly and had a tendency to frizz. I was short and had limbs to match. I tended to purchase clothes that were plain and dark, and had no clue how to go about dressing up for any sort of occasion.