Picture fucking perfect, as always.
It’s grating.
I’m about to turn away, to focus on that girl in the other booth, when Kennedy stiffens. A slight tightness in her shoulders. Smile frozen in place. The hand fiddling with her button halts.
Tiny things. Hardly noticeable on first glance. But I notice. Since it’s the same reaction she has to me.
Whatever this creep just said, it’s nothing Kennedy liked. And it gets worse, as that pink smile twitches. Slips for the briefest second.
I grab my beer. Make my way across the bar, weaving around tables and ignoring anyone who complains when I bowl past them. Taking the most direct route to their table, until I’m right beside it. Corduroy guy startles. Kennedy’s smile fully disappears when she sees it’s me interrupting.
The guy opens his mouth, and I’m sick of it. Of watching him speak. So I don’t give him the chance.
“Fuck off,” I tell him. Then, ignoring that I’d told Morris I’d start getting my fucking act together, I yank him by his corduroy fucking blazer out of the booth. He stumbles. I let him, taking his spot, even though I fucking hate the booths at Kellermann’s because they’re not accommodating for someone of my size.
He leaves without another word, knowing by my hard look I’ll punch him if he dares open that fucking mouth one more time. I drink, watching him walk out the door. When I turn back to Kennedy…
She’s seething.
Not that she shows it. But I know. The tension in her shoulders, worse than before. That pink mouth, in a flat line. Brittle as a frozen lake, luring unsuspecting idiots onto its solidly beautiful surface so it can crack open and trap them in glacial waters below.
I won’t be one of those idiots. So I say before she can crack, “Question four.”
“Spencer—”
“Question. Four.”
“You have no right—”
“The fuck did he say to you?” I slam my glass on the table.
“That’s none of your business.”
Nope. It fucking is not. I don’t fucking care. So I repeat, “Fourth question, princess. Make it a good one.”
Two more questions. Then we’re done with this Leopard Leap bullshit.
And I can forget that she looks better up close than from my spot at the bar. That she hadn’t been fiddling with the button on her sweater due to any sort of flirtatious behavior. But because it keeps popping out, and she slips it back in with merely an irritated twist of her fingers. That those lips are shinier and pinker than on first glance. I can forget even that yesterday morning, when I’d tried to play nice in her kitchen, her ass had brushed over my swollen cock. And I’d noticed, blood racing, that it’s a nice ass.
Dangerously nice.
She closes her eyes. Rubs a finger over her temple. “Fine. What makes you a valuable addition to the Leopards?”
“I said make it good.” I don’t know why I can’t accept that one. Sure, it’s generic, but that means I can give her a shit answer and get out of here sooner.
I don’t want to give a shit answer, though. I want to play my game. To put thoughts in her head that are just as depraved as mine. See if that blush from the other morning travels far enough down her chest to reach that disobedient button. If I’ll see flushed skin when it comes undone again.
“Give me a fan question.” There’s always questions from fans, especially where I’m concerned.
“The fan questions are inappropriate.”
Exactly.
She crosses her arms. There goes that button. Kennedy doesn’t notice. And I’m rewarded with a hint, a slope of lace over one round tit. Red lace. Brighter than her hair. I think of her boots under the table, curving over her knees and leading to that clinging skirt. What’s under it? More red lace? Because girls like Kennedy Fucking Walsh, with every single detail put together, they wear fucking matching sets on dates.
I imagine the rest of those buttons popping open. Of those boots squeezing my head as I move red lace to the side to make way for my tongue. Of that hair, up in its usual ponytail, wrapped around my fist. All the better to guide those lips until that pink shade is smeared along my cock.
I shift, jeans too constricting. My legs knock the table. “Who the fuck cares? They’re the ones reading the paper.”
That icy stare doesn’t move a muscle. Freezing me out. Until I decide it’s not worth it and leave.
I don’t think so.
“I’ll start,” I lean my elbows on the table. “Boxers or briefs?”
An eye twitch.
“Neither,” I answer. Her mouth parts, just the slightest, and I know she must wonder. If neither, does he mean nothing?
“Or, when did I lose my virginity?”
She raises an eyebrow. I smirk and take a drink. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I run through more in my head, fan questions from Leopard Leap interviews past. Ones I’d refused to answer because no one has any fucking right to dig through my privacy like that. But I recall them now, wanting to throw the worst in her face. How many threesomes have I had? What’s my dirtiest sexual fantasy? Weirdest place I’ve fucked someone? Top most searched porn phrases? Favorite kinks? Anal?
Then I have it. The perfect question.
“Am I loud or quiet in bed?” I tip my glass to her. “I think you can answer that, princess.”
Her cheeks flood with a shade of pink to match her lips. Proof that she had been listening that night at The Six-Pack party.
I wait for her to stand, to leave in a huff because, for once, I’m the one to get in the last word. But she leans forward, matching my stance. Eyes hard, despite that her face and neck are flushed. “Why do you sleep with a different girl every night?”
“You offering?”
“I’m asking why. Do you really have that high of a sex drive? Or are you trying to get over someone from your past?”
Oddly specific. There’s no way that question came from a fan. Unless it
