Page 91 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
“Bite that cookie, baby!” someone screams from the front row, pointing at Kane’s briefs.
“I wanna jingle your bells!” another woman yells at Noel, and her friends absolutely lose it.
“Get on the naughty list!”
“Gingerbread, over here!”
“Jingle-boy, turn around again!”
It’s ridiculous and festive and somehow makes them ten times hotter.
They’re big men, broad, solid, and those stupid novelty briefs do nothing to hide it. The fabric is stretched just enough that a few women in the front start fanning themselves, one of them nearly dropping her drink when she leans too far forward.
Someone in the middle section actually swoons and sits down, her friends clutching her shoulders while laughing so hard they’re crying.
“Oh my God!” a voice screeches from somewhere behind me. “TheBite Meone is mine. I call dibs!”
Kane shoots a murderous look toward us, like he’s already planning revenge on me for convincing him this was a good idea. Noel just tips his head back and laughs, running a hand over the glittering slogan on his waistband like he’s fully prepared to lean into the bit.
And the crowd is ready to worship at the altar of terrible Christmas underwear.
The front rows explode in shrieks.
The woman Noel has been crawling toward almost falls off her chair laughing and screaming at the same time. I can’t stop laughing. He winks at her, blows a kiss, and she screams like her soul left her body.
Kane is still playing coy, shoulders hunched, one hand covering the writing on his waistband like he’s trying to be modest and failing spectacularly. He peeks out between the fingers of his other hand, and the crowd goes mad, shouting that he’s perfect, that he’s beautiful, that he should never wear pants again. When he finally drops his hands and flashes a giant grin, the noise hits a new level.
They’re working opposite ends of the stage now, making sure no one feels left out. Noel is all swagger and precision, milkingevery beat for maximum effect. Kane is a weaponized mix of power and boyish charm.
The song builds toward the final chorus, and they gravitate back to the center, drawn together like magnets. They move perfectly and end up with Noel on one knee, flexed and smirking, Kane behind him with his arms crossed and his head tipped like a challenge.
The music cuts.
The venue erupts.
It’s not just noise; it’s a wall of sound. Women are screaming, laughing, howling their appreciation. Money starts flying like confetti, twenties and fifties fluttering onto the stage.
“They did good,” Ruby murmurs.
“They might have missed their calling,” I say.
Onstage, Noel and Kane straighten, then bow. Then they jog off toward the back, disappearing behind the curtain.
The crowd does not calm. If anything, they get worse.Feralis the only word for it. They’re chanting for more, stomping their feet, demanding an encore.
“That was… I don’t even have the words,” Ruby says. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m mated.”
“I need to check on them,” I manage. My voice comes out a little breathless, like I was the one up there grinding to the beat in novelty briefs.
She grins as I hurry toward the side of the stage.
As the door swings shut behind me, muffling the roar of the bar, the noise drops away. It’s just the hum of backstage lights, the faint echo of the music still playing out front.
Both men are leaning against the wall, chests heaving, covered in a sheen of sweat that leaves their muscles glistening.
“Fuck me,” I blurt out before my brain catches up to my mouth. “I might have just had an orgasm watching you both.”
They stare at me with identical expressions of hunger.
