“Here ya go,” Lee says, producing my much-needed shot.
I nearly yank it from him, and before I can say thanks, I empty it, my throat welcoming the sizzling sensation.
“I give up,” Brock booms over the music. “I know I’m a business major, but what the fuck is swoon factor?”
My buzz is thicker than molasses, but I’m aware it’s not the alcohol dizzying me. Between Brock and Ryder’s testosterone lighting up my girly parts, I’m sure there’s not a command I wouldn’t obey, a wish I wouldn’t grant, or an immoral act I wouldn’t participate in with either of them.
Madeline kills her shot, her pebble of a nose scrunching up. “It means he’s hot, spicy, muy caliente. Like Jagger, he’s got swagger. Makes the ladies drool. Sets panties aflame. Gets them tingling in all the right places. That kind of crap.”
Ding . . . ding . . . ding . . . We have a winner!
Yeppers. I’m officially toasted.
She blows Lee a kiss. “But it’s nothing like the swoonworthiness my man’s got. He beats them all.”
“That’s my girl.” Smiling, Lee throws a dish towel over his shoulder. “She knows where the real sweetness is.”
Brock snorts. “If Ashcroft or Lee’s got an ounce of swagger, then I’m drowning in it.”
Ryder flips Brock the finger, a wicked smirk shuffling across his face. “Bro, you’re the cat who’s got a ghost wanting to multiply with you. At least my following has—I don’t know—a pulse.”
Brock rises, and with a smirk rivaling Ryder’s, he tangles his hand in mine, gently dragging me to my feet. “This fine specimen owns a pulse,” he points out, his tone thick with reverence as he pulls me into his muscled chest. Laying his fingers against the curve of my neck, he nibbles and sucks my lips, his tongue swiping their seam in soft, slow strokes. “And right now, her beautiful pulse is quickening.”
I part my lips and fall in step with his rhythm, my body aching for his touch, his drugging warmth. He licks into my mouth, his familiar taste a reprieve to my system, his increased breathing nourishment to my soul. Whistling catcalls and hoots of encouragement reach my ears, but the blood roaring through my veins buries the sound, cocooning me in a tomb of desire. My heart clatters—its strength shaking my rib cage—and the world around me vanishes as my fingers sneak into the silky caramel strands of his hair. He bites my lip, his free hand gripping my waist with complete ownership.
“And still faster,” he whispers roughly, cushioning my back against the bar as his erection prickles the flat of my midriff. “And . . . still . . . fucking . . . faster.” He trails his lips down my jaw, resting them on the hollow of my neck. “To be honest, it’s beating so fucking fast it’s scaring me.”
“Then maybe you should stop.” Ryder’s voice electrocutes the air, a conduit of hostility stabbing my ears. “I mean, if you’re afraid for her health, why fucking continue?”
Brock slowly pulls back, an entertained yet lethal sneer etching his mouth. “Yeah, bro. Maybe I should stop.”
Boos, heavy sighs, and laughter from the crowd ignite the bar as Ryder and Brock stare each other down, their eyes alight with venom, possession hardening their jaws.
Adrenaline girds my spine as Ryder’s gaze slithers over me. Though he attempts to mask his pain with a chuckle, the hurt on his beautiful face is palpable, his jealousy stripping the air from my lungs. Guilt crashes an angry wave of nausea through my gut. I take an unsteady breath, confusion tripping over the mess of emotions piled high in the dark corners of my mind.
“Lee?” Ryder calls. His gaze holds mine, the steadiness in it wrapping phantom fingers around my throat.
“What’s up, buddy?”
“I need another shot. Now.”
“I think you need a few.” Brock steps toward Ryder.
My heart stills, the organ stuttering to a deadly plod. But when Brock claps a hand over Ryder’s shoulder, a breath of relief rushes from my lips.
A genuine smile dusts Brock’s mouth. “I think we all could use a few. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Ryder rolls his neck and pulls his gaze from mine. “Sure. Why the fuck not?”
“Come do a couple of shots with us, Ber,” Brock says, jerking his head toward me.
Both men sink onto bar stools next to each other, their demeanors eerily calm as Lee lines up six shot glasses. Hesitation flitters through me, and I gnaw on my thumbnail, my breathing increasing as debate hinders my muscles from reacting to Brock’s demand. A stone’s throw from the two men who’ve had my heart and mind warring since the day we met, I’m frozen, Super-Glued to my spot.
Urgency widens Madeline’s eyes, snapping me from my internal battle. My steps are tentative, cement weighing each one down as I bridge the distance, approaching them. A nervous smile teeters on Madeline’s lips, and she rests a calming hand on my back. But my heart pounds anew as Brock slides his arm around my waist, positioning me between him and Ryder.
On shaky legs, my gaze shoots between what I’m positive are heaven’s visual gift to humanity. Chiseled, masculine pieces of art for all to indulge in, they’re gods in their own right, making it impossible for both sexes not to wish they could snag a taste. One minute my senses are drowning in the cool, icy blue gleam shadowing Ryder’s eyes, the next they’re hijacked by the sincere love squatting heavy across Brock’s face.
Little does the world know that each of these men—each of these simple yet complicated gifts—harbor so much more than their looks.