Page 11 of Pretend I'm Yours
“Your turn,” she says, poking me in the stomach playfully. “What are you doing here?”
“I was on a date, too,” I tell her with a sour tone.
Corinne wrinkles her nose. “Then you should quit grilling me and get back to it. Bye,” she says, attempting to duck beneath my arm.
“Nope.” I push my chest against hers, pinning her to the wall, strictly keeping my hands flat beside her shoulders instead of cupping her tits spilling out of her itty, bitty V-neck white T-shirt, the bottom knotted at the nip of her waist. “Date’s over, and I’m not done with you, young lady.”
Why did I have to go and say that?Because, of course, Corinne reads more into it than I intended, and she drops her head back to expose the length of her neck, peering up at me with hooded eyes beneath her bangs.
“Why? Do you need a little help, Declan?” It’s what she always says when she’s hinting at offering me a massage, which I haven’t taken her up on in too long, my muscles aching for her as much as my hard cock.
“UncleDeclan,” I bite out with a glare.
She hooks her fingers in my belt loops to pull me closer, then tugs the back of my top out of my jeans and runs her fingernails up and down my lower back, making my dick lengthen. “You’re here, I’m here. Our dates arenot. So how about we”—she shoves her hands up farther, dragging her nails down hard enough that my spine bows with pleasure—“pretend we’re an old married couple who left the kids at home with a sitter for date-night?”
A vision of what could very well be our future—the kids, the sitter, the rare night out with my wife, if I would just give in—is too tempting to overcome, and I yank her hips against mine.
Chapter 4
Corinne
“Hey! You want to make out? Take it outside,” an employee dressed in all black says as he squeezes past us, carrying a heavy caddy of clean pint glasses.
Uncle Declan immediately pushes off the wall and tucks his top back into his jeans. “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” he says, grabbing my hand.
“To make out?” I ask with a hopeful, girlish lift of my voice.
“To sleep. Separately. Because you’re myniece,” he says over his shoulder, as if he needs the reminder, too. He drags me past the line dancers toward the exit of barn wood doors manned by a bouncer who looks like he could crack a skull as easily as an egg for breakfast. Like Uncle Declan and Uncle Kason.
I had slipped the bouncer my number when I arrived, because why not? If Uncle Declan wants to pretend he isn’t interested in me, then why shouldn’t I do the same?
I dig my boots in and shake Uncle Declan’s hand off. “Then I’m not going. I came out to have fun. But if you want to leave, fine by me.” I turn on my heel, weaving back through the crowd toward the bar so I can order a drink.
The handsome, older cowboy finishing a tumbler of dark brown alcohol at the bar swaggers closer to ask, “Can I buy you a drink, beautiful?”
See? This is how it should be. The cowboy is two or three inches shorter than me, yet he doesn’t look the least bit like my five-foot-ten height will bruise his ego.
“She’s taken,” Uncle Declan says, sliding in between me and the cowboy before I can even open my mouth to sayyes, please.
“No, I’m not.” I slip around to the cowboy’s other side. “A shot of tequila, please,” I tell the bartender with black space buns and large, silver glitter gauges in her earlobes, then give the cowboy a smile. “I’m Corinne. Thanks for the drink…”
“Steve,” he says, shaking my hand, his palm oddly smooth. When Uncle Declan makes an impatient, annoyed noise, Steve asks, “Who’s this joker?”
“My uncle,” I emphasize, narrowing my eyes at Uncle Declan.
The skin between Steve’s brows creases, even as he lowers his hand to the dip in my back. Though he looks closer to fifty, there’s not a hint of gray in his thick crop of black hair or trimmed beard.
Uncle Declan circles Steve’s wrist and flings it away. “Get your hand off my wife.”
“You married your uncle?” Steve asks me, his mouth twisted with disgust. “That’s some seriously sick shit.” But then he leans into Uncle Declan with a sleazy waggle of his thick brows. “Though if any of my nieces looked likethat…” He whistles with appreciation as he stares at my chest.
Uncle Declan cocks his elbow, ready to slam his fist into Steve’s face, and I catch his arm in the nick of time.
“Get lost,” I tell Steve. As soon as he’s gone, trying his luck with another lady, I quickly down the shot the bartender sets in front of me when she reappears.
When I lift the new tumbler of bourbon Steve had ordered, Uncle Declan takes it out of my hand and sets it down hard on the bartop, pushing it away. “You’ve had your fun. Now, can we please go home?”
“To sleep?”
