CHAPTER 5
“With someone or alone?” Sadie felt blood rush to her cheeks.
“With someone, of course,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on the bar. She could still feel the warmth of his hand on her waist, pushing her into spins and dips… was she taking this game too far?
Then she thought of Craig, and how he never drank with her.
How he was never any fun.
How he was SO not JC Chasez.
Ah, fuck it.
“Nope,” she said. “Used to have a book on bartending, and I make all kinds of shots at home, but I rarely get to share them with anyone.”
“Very well, then,” he said, and gestured to the bartender. A moment later, the shots arrived, and as Sadie lifted hers to her lips, JC pushed closer to her, so their arms touched from elbow to shoulder; she wondered if her sweater was fireproof or if he could actually melt the fabric. He crowded in close, holding the shot glass, still grinning wickedly. He looked like a frat boy about to do a keg stand. Or a ten-year-old boy about to put a frog in his teacher’s purse.
“To swing dancing,” Sadie said, straining to keep her voice light and tremble-free. She raised her shot.
“No,” he said, and put his hand on her wrist, searing the skin there, too. Did Lake Tahoe Hospital have a good burn unit, or would she have to life-flighted to UCSF? “I have a better toast.”
He leaned forward, eye to eye with her and lifted the shot glass to his lip. She watched the glass, poised so close to his rosy bottom lip, the liquid sloshing a bit over the rim, wetting the skin there, and her heart slammed against her ribcage. She felt a surge of wetness dampen her underwear and blushed again; she never had such a visceral reaction to anyone before.
“Are you ready for this toast?” he asked, and she raised her glass to her lips. Their fingers almost touched as they each held their glasses at the ready, and she tried to breathe, but couldn’t, not when she was so close to him, not when he gazed at her from beneath his eyelids, not when that one damn drop of liquor clung to his bottom lip like that.
“I’m ready,” she said in a whisper.
“OK,” he said. “We have to do that shot at the same time.”
“OK,” she said. Her fingers tingled, and she thought if he didn’t get on with the damn toast, she might actually HAVE a screaming orgasm at any second.
“To... simultaneous... screaming... orgasms,” he said, voice low, and she heard herself suck in air, a noise between a gasp and a hiccup. “One, two, three, go!” he said, tipping his glass back, and she somehow followed suit, the alcohol burning a path down her parched throat, her eyes squeezed shut as the vision of him arching his head back, his neck bare, lips wrapped around the shot glass, a tiny drop of liquor trickling down his cheek, burned itself into her memory.
She slammed the glass on the table, wiped her mouth, and opened her eyes. He leaned on the bar again, arms crossed, a challenge in those blue eyes.
“Was it good for you?” he asked, and she choked out a laugh.
“Not bad,” she said, and he arched an eyebrow. “Bartender?” she called out, eyes still locked on his blues. “Bring us two shots, please. Blow jobs.”
JC laughed then, and the sight of his delight—you’re playing along! his giggle said—made her heart thump faster in her chest, and she couldn’t help but laugh with him. “You ever done a blow job?” she asked.
“Me, personally?” he said. “No. But I’ve... seen it done.”
“I’m sure you have,” she said, laughing. “You’re not allowed to use your hands. It takes a level of skill most men don’t have.”
JC furrowed his eyebrows as the bartender, clearly enjoying their game, brought them the frothy shots, whipped cream sliding down the side of one. She reached a finger out, scooped up the cream, and licked her finger. “You ready for this?” she asked.
He cocked his head.
“You first.”
She met his eyes for a moment, shrugged, put her hands behind her back, leaned over, slipped her lips over the rim of the shot glass, the cool whipped cream melting on her tongue, tipped her head back, swallowed the sticky shot in one toss of her head, and set the shot glass down on the bar. She ran her tongue along her lips, licking away the excess cream, and turned to face him.
“Think you can do that? Four years of college taught me…” But he wasn’t smiling any more. His nose was a little flared, in fact, and his eyes turned a rather smoky shade of blue.
“What?” she asked. Blood rushed to her cheeks again.
“Nothing,” he said, and shook his head lightly, as if to clear his head. I did that, she thought with mild amazement. Two can play at this game, buddy.
“My turn,” he said, and held his hands behind his back. “Like this?” he asked, and her breath caught as his shirt strained against his chest; the act of slipping his arms around his back made his collarbone stand out even more, and she fought a sudden urge to dump the damn shot on his neck, let it pool in the hollow of his collarbone, and lick him clean.
He turned and leaned forward, but as he pursed his lips to taste the shot, he straightened up and said, “Better get rid of this. Here,” he said, and took off his hat. His curls sprang free; he started sweating during their dance, she saw, and his hair had become a little matted and damp on the top. Her jeans chafed against her underwear, and when she shifted her position, sensation rocketed through her body. She clutched the hat, swallowing, as he slipped his arms behind his back again, muscles flexing in his chest, and turned.
Her mouth dried up as he leaned forward, snaking his tongue out to feel for the shot glass; he touched the tip of it to the whipped cream, tasting it, then slid his lips over the full rim of the glass. Her breath quickened as she watched his jaw flex; he fought to hold the glass steady, and in one swift move, he threw back his head, curls falling against his ears, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, tight shirt threatening to tear against his chest.
Blow job. Bad idea. Sadie rested one hand against the bar to steady her weak legs.
A moment later he set the glass down with his mouth, took the hat from her, plunked it back on his head, and grinned.
“What’s next?”
“Your call,” she said, swallowing.
He gestured to the bartender and looked in her in the eye. “Two shots,” he said with a wink. He turned to face the bartender.
“Slow comfortable screw against the wall.”
Sadie shuddered, blood and heat rushing through her body; a moment later, she shook her head to clear away the white stars that suddenly clouded her vision.
What the hell?
He turned to look at her. “Hey, are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” Sadie choked out. “Slow… slow comfortable screw it is.”
Sadie wiped off her upper lip with the back of her hand and grinned.
Any more surprise orgasms and she’d have to buy new underwear.
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