“I don’ts…” Whats weres we talkings abouts? “I don’ts knows whats plurals Maxes means,” I admitted.
“Shh,” Hallie said, brushing her slim fingers through my hair. Her manicured nails felt good along my scalp. “Babies needs heads scratches.”
“Everyone’s havings sexes,” I lamented. “‘Cept Maxes.”
Hallie said something to one of her brothers and within moments, pushed a bottle of water into my hands. “Chug, sweetie.”
So I did. I was nothing if not obedient. When that one was empty, she handed me another glass of wine except this one was suspiciously clear and tasted a lot like water.
“Wha’s dis?” I asked, studying it.
“Pinot Aqua. It’s new.”
“Huh.” I guzzled it down even though it wasn’t as tasty as the other stuff. After a while, I realized I’d been played. “I blame you for the loss of my good buzz.”
Hallie lifted a perfectly waxed brow. “Then I hope you blame me for your lack of hangover tomorrow too.”
“Mpfh.” It only made me sober enough to really realize that everyone was getting lucky except me. “Wah,” I threw in for good measure.
As we watched men toss their partners over their shoulders for whatever the precursor to the walk of shame was, the sexual tension in the room thickened like… thick… whatever.
Now I couldn’t stop thinking about thick things. I wanted some thick things. I glanced over at the beautiful be-suited man standing against a far wall. Arthur radiated calm patience. I wondered idly how many times he’d had to stand around watching a bunch of people get drunk off their asses.
Asses.
I tilted my head back and forth, opening first one eye then the next to see if I could catch a glimpse of the man’s posterior. He caught me gawping at him.
I groaned and accidentally blurted my thoughts out loud. “For the love of god, is there any gay man willing to toss me over his shoulder and take me to his bed?”
Arthur’s eyes heated. Almost in slow motion, he stepped away from the wall and bent at the waist in a formal bow.
“Sir, allow me.”
It was like something out of a movie. He strode over to me andscooped me up, proving to the entire room that age doesn’t mean you can’t go caveman on a dude.
“Eep,” I squeaked when he tossed me over his shoulder. “Omigod, is this happening?”
He smelled like money. Not a dirty wad of crumpled up bills, but some kind of elegant, old-world fragrance that I thought must have been formulated especially for my heart. Or dick. Or something.
“Yes,” I muffled into the back of his suit coat. “Yes, please.”
“Your room or mine, ma crevette?”
I spoke French, but wondered if my buzzed brain was misremembering the word for necktie.
My brain spun with the options of which room we should escape to. “Um… I… huh?”
His warm hand ran up the back of my thigh to my ass like he was exploring the prize he’d won at the fair. It gave me the guts to put my own palms possessively under the tail of his jacket and feel the firm cheeks under the smooth wool of his suit. The minute I grabbed on, they flexed.
“Sweet Jesus,” I moaned. “That’s… that’s a nice set of… muscles.”
His light chuckle made me wish I could see his face, so I was glad when he got us into a room and set me down on the floor in front of him. Arthur’s eyes were intense and focused directly on mine.
“Hi,” he said softly. “I’m Arthur Biancheri.”
My heart thump thumped. “Max Wilde.”
“Will you let me take you to bed, Max Wilde?”
