Cousins In Love: An Alpha Bad Boy Romance (Book 3) (6 page)

"Oh, I'm not going to kill the messenger." I grin sinisterly. "I'm just going to kill what's in between the messenger's legs. I promise you that shit."

"Promises. Promises," she says in a flirty way that shoots straight from the base to the tip of my dick.

"That mouth of yours," I warn.

"Well somebody has to–"

And before she finishes saying whatever snarky comment she was about to make, I slam my crab cracker down and shoot straight out of my seat. I've had enough, and I'm about to end all this shit right now. She knows it too, because she shrieks, and makes a beeline for the loft.
 

"Stay away from me, you Neanderthal!"

I laugh a little out loud, because my girl's reflexes are so slow. So slow that I could have easily caught her ass right by the forearm at the table, but where's the fun in that? I allow her to reach midway up the ladder to the loft, but then literally grab her ass off of there and throw her over one of my shoulders.

"Put me down before you throw your back out!" she protests.

I give her ass a quick whack.

"What am I an old man now? It'll be a long time before lifting your tiny ass will ever throw my back out."

"I'm serious, Roman."

"I'm serious as fuck too."
 

With one hand holding her in place, I use the other to quickly and dramatically swipe our entire crab bake to the floor, and then I toss her ass right on top of the table that we were just eating on.
 

And then I eat her.

Until she finally whispers with an exhausted smile and two orgasms later ...
 

"You always deliver on your promises, Masterson."

Fucking right I do.

CHAPTER FIVE
 

ELIZABETH

There is sleep crusted in the corners of my heavily lidded eyes. My mouth tastes like I've swallowed a bottle of liquid chalk, and my head is pounding like a bratty little five year old has been kicking me in the temples for days.
 

I've come to the conclusion that being best friends with a professional partier and drunk (I mean social drinker) can be utterly exhausting for an ordinary girl like me.

Last night Sloan and I spent the majority of our evening bar hopping with a few of her co-workers to celebrate her latest promotion at work. I'm not really sure how things work exactly in the world of pharmaceuticals, but I'm pretty sure that she is now the head of her own team of sales reps, instead of being on someone else's team (or something like that).
 

Sloan's not really one for giving lots of details about her job, and I'm not really sure why. I guess she's just weirdly private about some things, and then on the other hand gives way too much information about things like her sex life. But whatever the specifics about her new job, she's happy about it, and therefore I'm happy for her. It means more money, which Sloan is very much used to having since she is the daughter of a professional basketball player. So it's a very good thing that she can now further keep herself living in the lifestyle that she is accustomed to.

To celebrate, last night we probably stopped by four different bars, and unfortunately I had a drink at every single one. Two drinks is truly my happy place. That's the point where I need to stop. Big girls already know their limits, but idiots like myself? Well we keep going and going. And that's how I know that at three drinks I'm twisted sideways, and at four I'm just plain old stinking drunk. Interestingly enough, I know for a fact that Sloan drank way more than I did, yet I seem to be the only one that's in a whole world of pain the morning after. So unfair. She gets legs that go on for days and the ability to drink most grown men under a table, and I get ... this.

Lying on one side of her feather soft bed (she has one of those memory foam mattress toppers), in a fetal position, wondering why I allowed myself to drink that damn much, and promising God that I'll never do it again if he'd just stop the pain. While she's over there happily humming an old David Bowie song and brushing her teeth like she hasn't a care in the world.

A sound very much like a sickly animal escapes from my mouth. I want her to stop humming. I want her to stop brushing her teeth so noisily, and I desperately want to attach several strips of tape across her mouth, so that she’ll shut the frack up.

"Are you finally awake?" Sloan asks me with toothpaste suds oozing out from the corners of her mouth.

"Eww." I gag. "Would you please finish taking care of that before you start talking to me," I beg while my stomach rolls.

"It's just toothpaste you nutball."

"Just spit it out!"
 

Ugh, just saying those four words made my head even worse.

"We drink every time we go out, and you're in your twenties. I cannot for the life of me understand why you're acting like a fourteen year old newbie. It's alcohol, not heroin, for God's sake."

"First of all, I wasn't getting drunk when I was
fourteen
. At that age, I was still in braces and spent my free time scrapbooking with my mom."

"Cornball!" she jokingly sneezes through her fist.

"That's right, I was," I say proudly. "Which made me a newbie at drinking alcohol at the age of twenty-one, which wasn't that long ago thank you very much. You know the age when drinking is legal for law abiding citizens of this great country of ours?"

"Hardy, har, har. You told me that you used to drink your mom's wine when you were a kid, cornball."

"Not even close, person who only hears what she wants to hear. What I told you was that I would steal
sips
of my mom's wine on occasion. That's a little different than all of your high school tales of getting drunk at the local baseball field with a boy four years older than you, slut puppy."

"Okay, okay. So I'm a little more
seasoned
than you," she admits while cracking up. "But I gave you a ritual to follow. Food, then alcohol, then water. Then alcohol again, then water, then home, then Motrin, then sleep. It's foolproof. Learned it from my parents and their wino friends when they used to have house parties after the home games."

Ah, that explains a lot. Sloan's parents had a busy social life when she was a kid, and her dad was a popular basketball player for the Sixers. The complete opposite of my quiet childhood in the 'burbs.

"I never get sick at night, and I never have a hangover in the morning. You must have skipped something. Do I need to write it down for you, Babygirl?" she asks with a crooked smile.

I suck my teeth as my response, but unfortunately I think she may be right. I'm not the best listener sometimes, and it's very possible that I may have skipped a couple of steps. I definitely didn't drink all the water I was supposed to, and the Motrin bottle is still in my bag. I don't even think I ever took it out, or I probably would have left it on top of Sloan's nightstand last night.
 

I suck at this.

"You know what?" she asks after spitting toothpaste suds in the sink. My stomach rolls again.

"Oh my God, Sloan, what?"
 

Why is she still talking?

"We should do this every week!" she announces excitedly.

"And why the hell would I want to do
this
every week?"

"Well I wasn't sure how to bring it up, but I think we're a little off right now. Our friendship is a little off I mean, and I want to fix it."

What is she talking about?
 

"I mean I know I'm on the fast track at work, but lately I seem to be spending way too much time with the girls at work. All they do is blow smoke up my ass, because I'm the top female rep in my department. They just want my spot. They're not real. You're my only real friend, Bitsy."

"There's nothing wrong with our friendship, Sloan." I groan not really wanting to talk about this right now. Especially if the end result is me agreeing to a night of this type of ridiculousness every weekend.

"Come on. You have to admit that we've grown a bit apart over the last few months, especially because of the bubble you seem to be living in."

"Me?"

I knew it was just a matter of time before Sloan brought up the "Roman bubble" that she believes I've been floating around in. She's mentioned that term a few times to me lately, but after fighting my feelings for so long, I'm not ashamed to admit that I definitely have fully embraced my relationship with Roman. When I'm not working on my business, I want to spend every waking moment with him.
 

In the car with him.
 

Talking to him.
 

Texting him.

Kissing him.
 

Under him.
 

On top of him.
 

I already know how that must seem to some people, especially Sloan, but I'm smart enough to also recognize that I'm in the honeymoon stage of this relationship. And that I'm still learning new things that I like, or frankly that I love about Roman every single day. And that excites me. I like the bubble.

She also needs to understand that a lot of this is probably because I'm making up for lost time sexually (which is why I'm always jumping his bones or permitting him to jump mine), and that eventually this need I have to spend every waking moment with him will eventually subside. Of course I probably need to do something proactive in order for that to ever happen. So I can't believe I'm thinking this, but maybe my crazy friend is right.

Perhaps agreeing to a weekly girls night out with my bestie would be a beneficial part of helping that process along. I need to explore other interests other than Roman if the two of us actually plan on moving forward in a healthy way. I need balance. We both do. I don't think I'd survive it if he became tired of me. Not after all it took to get here.

I'll probably have to fight Roman tooth and nail for him to agree to this though, because no matter how much I talk up her attributes, Sloan and her very large personality have not grown favorably upon my boyfriend. It's no secret that she isn't his favorite person. I think he believes she's a "bad influence" and simply tolerates her for my sake.

"Okay let's do it," I say.

I agree partly because I think it's a good idea and partly to shut her up. I just want to sleep this hangover off.

"Friday nights?"

Fridays? Oh boy, he's definitely going to hate this idea.

"What?" She notices my hesitance. "Are Fridays going to be a problem with the Dark Knight?" she asks with one hand on her hip. "Even Batman takes a night off."

"Oh would you stop it already."
 

I don't really want to give Sloan any more ammunition to talk negatively about Roman than she already does. Some days it's funny, but on other days it makes me uncomfortable.

"I mean Fridays are the best party nights in the city. Plus it's the easiest way I can get some of the guys from work to pay for a round of drinks, so it doesn't have to come out of our pockets all night. The whole office goes out Friday nights."

"You sure are cheap for someone who just got a raise."

"I don't care if I become a billionaire. A lady should have her drinks paid for by a gentleman. That's just how shit is supposed go down. My daddy taught me that a man who won't at least pay for a round isn't worth a second glance."

"Earth To Sloan. Your daddy is a millionaire. Of course he'd say that."

"He wasn't always a millionaire, and I know for a fact that–"

"Oh my God. I'm going to vomit in your bed if you don't shut up now. Fridays are fine, okay?"

Sloan sits on the edge of the bed while drying her mouth with a fresh towel.

"Good."

 
She stops what she's doing and begins to glare at the screen of her phone with a perplexed look on her face.

"What is it now?" I ask.

"I'm not trying to sound like I'm full of myself, but this is the third guy in about six weeks to basically blow me off. I mean ... I'm no hot model chick, but I've got a halfway decent ass and an amazing pair of tits, so I just can't believe that not one of these dudes is even remotely interested in seeing what I'm like in bed."

"You're right, that's not egotistical at all," I say sarcastically as I pull Sloan's feather down comforter back over my head. "Gosh, it's so bright in here. Can you please close the shades?"

"I mean look at this text." She shoves her cell phone under the covers ignoring my obvious pain.

"Sloan, please," I whine. "That screen is like a sunbeam. You could at least turn down the brightness level."

"All right, lightweight." She adjusts the settings. "Here." Then she shoves the phone back under the comforter.

215-555-7982: Hey I can't make it tonight. I'll call u when my schedule clears.

"That's all he said?" I ask.

"That's it, and I'm absolutely confused as all hell. Me and this guy had some serious chemistry percolating. Tall, built, tax attorney, and twenty-nine years old. He's perfect on paper and even hotter in person. We would make beautiful golden babies in an alternate universe where I cared about shit like that."