Page 55 of I Could Be Yours

He takes the shot and sinks the ball.

I wink; he smiles.

He calls the eight ball and sinks it, too, giving us the win.

I grab my purse as the guys rack up.

Nate frowns. “What are you doing?”

“I have a dinner date with Trixie Rixie.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ll see you in forty-eight hours.”

He links our pinkies and drops his head. “When will you be done with dinner?”

“I don’t know.” I kiss his cheek. “Stay hungry for me.”

CHAPTER 17

NATE

Essie is in front of me, applying her lip gloss.

Do not think about the blow job you got in Vegas last weekend.

It’s too late, though. She’s already drawn attention to those gorgeous, luscious, talented lips, and the head in my pants is waking up. I make a noise in the back of my throat. She smiles coyly.

She clearly does this on purpose. Which also begs the question, how long has she known about the effect that lip gloss and her mouth have on me? That’s a conversation for later.

Essie lifts her carry-on into a bin, then follows with her oversized purse before passing through the sensors. They ding, and the security guy on the other side waves his wand over her. It lights up when it passes her chest and again when it dips below her waist. She seems completely unfazed.

I, on the other hand, am remembering all the little moans and sighs and gasps that tumbled from her lips when I sucked on her pretty little pierced nipples and clit.

“Does Essie have body jewelry?” Flip asks from behind me.

“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter as I toss my phone and jacket in a bin.

The security guy across from me frowns. “Excuse me?”

Flip jumps in. “Hopefully the pretty one doesn’t hold us all up.” He tips his head toward Essie.

Security guy nods, his expression slightly wistful. “Looks like a full pat-down.”

I want to punch him in the face. But I want a criminal record less, and I want to go to Aruba more, so I force a smile.

Essie has been pulled off to the side. Based on her expression, this isn’t the first time this has happened. She’s lost her cropped sweatshirt and is wearing a pale pink tank. And no bra, which means I, and every single other person passing by, can clearly see the outline of her pierced nipples. Our eyes lock briefly as the female security guard makes a pass under her breasts.

I look away before my body reacts in a way that will be embarrassing in the middle of airport security.

“Pierced nipples, huh?” Flip says.

“She dated a tattoo artist,” I grumble.

“I guess that tracks.”

“What’s going on with Essie?” Tristan asks.

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