“Am I supposed to be sexy?” she asked with a smirk as she leaned down to turn the radio on. The simple beats of Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey” were just starting to build on the very first station, and she left it to play softly into the night.
Subtle but sure, she started a sway of her hips, back and forth like a form of hypnosis.
“Oh, yeah,” I agreed as I watched them move. “Sexy is definitely you.”
Her eyes lit, a reflection of moonlight making them shine bright across the distance to mine. Like a tree in the breeze, she moved with ease, just barely mimicking the beat of the music but leaving no doubt that she’d fully embraced it.
She started to move in my direction, up from the outstretched location of my feet to the side of my hip and back again. Her eyes followed mine the whole time, and my heartbeat seemed to build in intensity.
Her back became my focus as she turned away with a flick of her hair and a wave of her arm, before bending at the hip like a hinge. Excited eyes sought mine from the gap between her legs, but the sight of her ass in the air made compliance a struggle.
“You okay, Thatcher?” she asked, her voice a tease.
My answer came out in a hearty rasp. “Yeah, baby. I’m real fucking good.”
Back up to standing, she moved quickly, spinning her way to my head and dropping to her knees directly behind it. I dropped flat to my back, pushing my elbows down into the blanket roughly.
She leaned over my face, her tits swinging the front of her dress with every sweet movement. I was fucking spellbound.
Her dance was more sensual than overtly sexual, but my dick obviously didn’t know the difference.
Sweet Jesus.
I reached behind my head with the cock of an arm until the palm of my hand met the warm skin of her thigh. It was soft and luscious, and I could feel the muscle move underneath it as she continued her torture.
And then my hand wasn’t on her anymore as that leg kicked up behind her into a full extension. Her whole body turned on a pivot with a flourish until she fell to my chest—executing a split directly on top of me as though I was an apparatus.
“Holy fuck,” I muttered to myself, and she smiled.
“Strip aerobics, baby. You wanna be my pole?” she asked with a wink of her own.
Goddamn.
“Count me in seven nights a week.”
As we sat at the bar, drinking beers, eating peanuts, and enjoying the ambiance that was a small-town bar, I could still feel the pulse of Thatch between my thighs.
There’d been no stopping him after showing him some of my best naked dance moves under the stars. One orgasm, two, he’d worked me over like we weren’t outside on the edge of some random lake, but instead, like we were putting on a porny performance for millions. Just the thought of it made me smile.
But the sex had done the opposite of its usual, waking me up to a level that I knew I’d need something else to soothe the pounding pulse of my energy enough that I could fall asleep. So I had convinced him to take me to the infamous Sticky Pickle for a nightcap.
The satisfied look in his eyes told me I could have swayed him into pretty much anything.
He kept up a steady stream of affection in my direction—kissing my forehead, sliding a lock of hair behind my ear, flashing flirty winks and charming smiles. And every time he grabbed my left hand and kissed my ring, I’d threatened to slap him in the dick again.
Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun.
“Shit,” Thatch muttered as his eyes glanced toward the front of the bar.
“What?” I asked and swiveled on my stool to watch three guys stroll in through the door. They were loud and boisterous, and my initial thought was that they looked like small-town douchebags looking for trouble.
I turned back toward Thatch. “You know those guys?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I grew up with them.”
“They look like assholes.”
He smirked. “Hit the nail on the head, honey.”
One of the guys made his way to the bar and stood as close to Thatch as was humanly possible without sitting in his lap. “I’ll take three Buds, Charlie,” he told the bartender before turning his attention to us. “Oh, hey, Thatch,” he greeted, and it was anything but friendly. “You brought a friend. How fucking precious.”
Thatch ignored him, stood, and turned to me. “Wanna shoot some pool?”
His blatant avoidance had me tilting my head in confusion.
“Uh, sure, okay,” I agreed and took his outstretched hand. I let him lead me over to the back corner where three pool tables stood in a row before I started asking questions.
“What was that about?”
He handed me a pool stick and grabbed the rack. “That was me avoiding trouble.”
“Was this the same kind of trouble that I had to bail you out of?”
“Exactly that kind of trouble,” he muttered.