Page 5 of Dealing Dirty
An hour later, my hand finds its way around Derrick’s shoulder as another round of embarrassing snort-laughs burst from my chest. At this point, I’m six shots in and way past caring what he thinks about it.
“You did what?” My question echoes around the empty room. It’s well past one o’clock in the morning, and though there are plenty of people still milling around the casino, the number of lingering bodies is significantly lower.
The busty bartender side-eyes me as Derrick wobbles on his barstool. His foot slips but he catches himself just before he falls off, eliciting boyish laughter that is curiously endearing.
“I swear to God.” He smiles wide, placing a palm over his heart. “I’ve never seen my mom so pissed off in all my life. There my little sister was, standing in the kitchen in all her diaperless glory, on top of a giant mud mountain I had proudly made. I even had the gall to tell Mom to ‘make me’ when she asked me to clean it up.” His blond hair catches the bright bar lights as his shoulders tremble with laughter.
I can easily imagine the smaller, lanky version of him smarting off to his mother. “That would not fly with my mom,” I say. “Carmen is more of thewhoop ass first, ask questions latertype.” My head swims with the hard buzz I’m riding. Six shots equals too many, especially when they’ve been married to the champagne Cassidy and I had earlier this evening. “But that’s a conversation for a more sober night.”
I smile lightly. I love my mom dearly, but my long list of family drama isn’t something I’m particularly interested in getting into.
“You’re not close with your family?” he asks.
“I’m close with my parents and my brother Adrián.” I finger a tiny spot on the bar. “We grew up really poor, and my siblings wanted better for themselves. Ironically, their hopes and dreams ended up dividing our family. But it’s fine! I hardly miss ’em,” I lie, giving him a wink. Actually, that was just one long blink with both of my eyes.
At some point during our game, my feet found their way onto the bottom rung of Derrick’s stool, and like the gentleman he is, his legs are spread to accommodate mine. I blink down at my ridiculous flip-flops and try to ignore the fact that my right knee is pressing against his.
My heartbeat flushes through my ears with a steady whir. This tequila is doing wonders to warm my body. Or maybe it’s not the alcohol, but the man across from me.
Derrick follows my gaze to where our legs are touching. “We’ve probably had enough,” he says, admitting defeat.
Gloating that I knew I could hold my own is tempting, but when he doesn’t make a move to get up, I find myself pressing my knee against his a bit more firmly. One of his hands falls to my bare leg, and I stare at the contrast of his long fingers against my golden-brown flesh. His hands are large and softer than they look. When he rubs his thumb in a circle over the sensitive skin of my inner knee, I begin to fantasize about what those hands could be capable of.
Heat pools between my legs, fed by the alcohol joyriding in my veins. I scoot a little closer, encouraging his touch. Feeling bold, I cover his hand with mine and guide it slowly up the expanse of my thigh and under my dress so his thumb brushes over the seamless black panties I’m wearing.
“What if I was in charge of when we’ve had enough?” My voice is rough and spiked with arousal.
The shots have colored his cheeks a deep dusty pink, and those wicked eyes blaze with the magnitude of his desire. It’s strange to be so drawn to someone I barely know, but the expert way he brushes against me, and the longer I burn beneath his gaze, the less I care.
I want to have my way with him.
A rush of air parts his lips. Did I say that out loud?
“Juliana,” he says tightly, and oh, how I love the sound of my name on his lips. I want him to say it until I’m drunk on the word.
The busy lights sway around me when I move to stand. I offer him my palm and watch his hand cover mine before I drag him away from the bar.
“Wait,” he says, stumbling over his feet and words. “A-are you sure this is what you—”
“Derrick,” I interrupt him as we exit the casino. The balmy summer air engulfs us when we step onto the sidewalk, along with hints of mouthwatering pepperoni pizza. My stomach rumbles loudly.
Street performers are scattered about, counting their earnings from the day, and I wave at a man playing guitar on the bridge above us. Cars meander down the usually crowded road, blinding us with their headlights, and we’re two of maybe twenty people walking on this side of the street.
I drag Derrick toward Caesar’s Palace, holding his arm to keep from tripping over my feet, and my flip-flops become a blur of pink. It isn’t much farther down the strip, so now seems as good a time as any to set some boundaries.
“I want to get on your pants,” I slur—extra lady-like—and he snorts from beside me. “Wait, that’s not what I meant. I meant, I want to getintoyour pants.”
His mouth quirks. “I hear you loud and clear. You want theD.”
That quirk quickly morphs into a shit-eating grin, and while I hate to make that big head of his larger, I compliment his double entendre. “Nicely done.”
He bows, but I’m still attached to his arm, and given that the strip is swirling, I stumble a bit.
Derrick grabs me in time to keep me from face-planting. “Easy,señorita.”
Once upright, I bat my wild hair out of my face. “If we do this pants thing, it’s a one-time deal, got it?”
He purses his lips. “Ah. So, you mean a ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ type of situation?”
