Getting Hotter (3 page)

Dylan burst out laughing. “I’m not sure what to do with that.”

“Plus, she’s hot as hell. Smart as a whip. Tough as nails. Doesn’t take crap from anyone, especially me.”

And apparently capable of turning him into a sappy loser who stood around at two in the fucking morning, listing his favorite qualities about a woman.

Dylan set his empty glass in the sink. “Is this a mommy complex thing?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I was watching that new talk show today, the one with those two dorky therapists who wear matching glasses. They did a whole segment about men having this subconscious need to marry their mothers. Well, not their mothers, but, you know, chicks who
remind
them of their moms.”

Seth grinned. “I thought we decided you weren’t gonna watch that crap anymore.”

“I know, but ever since Oprah went off the air, there’s shit-all on TV during the day. I was bored as fuck today.”

“You poor thing.”

“Anyway, it was interesting. And it totally applies to you. Mom’s a showgirl, your new crush is a showgirl…”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not a crush. It’s lust. I want to get her into bed. End of story.”

“Whatever you say.” Dylan strode toward the oak cabinets over the sink, opened one and started rummaging around.

“Besides, Miranda is nothing like my mother. They’re both dancers, but their personalities couldn’t be more different.”

Hell, if Miranda had Missy Masterson’s personality, Seth would run in the opposite direction. He loved his mom to death, but the woman was loud, flighty, and had no sense of tact. She belonged on one of those reality shows where the women got very noisy and said things like “talk to the hand, bee-otch”.

But despite her scatterbrained nature and garish sense of style, Missy was a good mother, a ferocious lioness when it came to her cub, and that loyalty and maternal pride extended to the dancers she now trained, Miranda included.

When his mom had phoned and demanded he keep an eye on Miranda, Seth’s first thought had been
hell yeah
. Moving to a new city was tough, and he’d been more than ready to show Miranda some Southern California hospitality. Helping her unpack some boxes, taking her out to a dinner or two, and then, if they happened to wind up in bed…well, he sure wouldn’t be complaining. Except there was one thing he hadn’t banked on—her stubborn determination to resist his advances.

And he also hadn’t anticipated the baggage she came with.

Kids.

Two
of them.

Christ. Like one wasn’t bad enough.

As he sipped his water, he watched Dylan assemble a baffling collection of items. A box of crackers from the cabinet. A block of cheddar cheese from the fridge. Chocolate syrup. A knife, presumably for the cheese.

“Anyway, if you do have a thing for Miranda because she reminds you of Missy, that’s perfectly healthy,” Dylan said.

Seth let out a sigh. “Do you realize that you have absolutely no credibility right now?”

“Why the hell not?” Dylan added a box of sugar cubes to the growing pile in his hands.

“Because you’re walking around the kitchen with your cock flapping in the wind like the American flag.”

“What can I say? My dick’s a patriot.”

Seth snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure you—okay, seriously, what the
fuck
are you gonna do with all that stuff?” he demanded as Dylan grabbed a pack of toothpicks and a saltshaker from the cupboard.

His roommate strode toward the kitchen doorway. “Some of this is for eating, the rest is props.”

“Please tell me you have a girl in your room.”

“Duh.”

“Thank God, because I just pictured you drizzling chocolate syrup over your own balls, and almost threw up.”

“Quit fantasizing about my balls. Pervert.” Dylan tossed one final grin over his shoulder before disappearing.

Seth chugged the rest of his water and dropped the empty bottle in the blue recycling bin across the room. He left the kitchen, peeling off his black T-shirt as he made his way to the bathroom. Considering the relentless throbbing down below, he really ought to be taking a cold shower, but when he yanked off his jeans, the erection that popped up and slapped his navel was impossible to ignore.

Screw it. One way or another, he was getting some relief tonight.

Two minutes later, he dunked his head under the shower spray, letting the hot water slide down his face and neck. Rivulets coursed down his chest and dripped onto his hard cock, making it ache even more.

With a strangled groan, Seth leaned forward and rested his right forearm on the tiled wall. Then he brought his left hand to his groin and encircled his stiff shaft. At that first stroke, a shudder of anticipation racked his body.

Christ. He needed this. He hadn’t been with a woman in two months, not since he’d picked up that cute tattooed redhead at a bar after another one of Miranda’s rejections. He’d brought the woman home and screwed her all night long—and yet the encounter had left him entirely unsatisfied. He’d tried again a week later, cozying up to one of the ladies Dylan had come home with, but try as he might, he hadn’t been able to muster up any enthusiasm. Or an erection.

Miranda, damn her, had ruined him for all other women. He needed to fuck her, ASAP, before he completely lost his mojo.

Every muscle in his body tightened as he worked his cock, jacking it in a fast, furious rhythm, moving his hips to match the frantic pace he’d set. Steam filled the shower stall. His breath came out in harsh pants.

An image of Miranda’s tight ass flashed across his mind. Shit, she had a great ass. Looked particularly juicy in a pair of black tights. And her tits… His hand moved faster over his cock, mouth filling with saliva as he pictured those round, perky breasts bouncing beneath her tank top each time she walked up and down the bar counter.

The base of his spine began to tingle, all the blood in his body migrating south to pulse between his legs.

“Fuck,” he mumbled. “Fuck, fuck,
fuck
.”

He came with a ragged grunt that bounced off the walls. A rush of pleasure flew through him, and his hand went still as hot jets of come shot out of his dick and landed on the tub floor.

After he caught his breath, he uncurled his fist and let his hand fall to his side. Damn it. Not enough. He didn’t feel an ounce of relief. The climax had been good, but his erection refused to subside. Stiff shaft, tight balls and, holy shit, but the anticipation was building again. The pressure that had just been blown to smithereens began to re-form into a knot of sexual desperation that throbbed in his groin.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.

Smothering a groan, he brought his hand back to his dick and got ready for a repeat performance.

Cursing Miranda Breslin the entire time.

“Sorry, honey. I was chatting with my roommate.” Dylan entered his bedroom and flashed his trademark ladies’-man smile at the naked girl in his bed.

The blonde giggled as she studied the various food items in his hands. “You weren’t kidding about the chocolate syrup.”

“I never kid about chocolate syrup.”

He sank on the edge of the bed and dropped the supplies on the patterned bedspread. Next to him, Kelly scooted closer and reached for the plastic Hershey’s bottle. She popped the lid with her red-manicured fingers. “So what do you say, sailor? Feel like getting dirty?”

“Me? Uh-uh, baby doll, you’re the one getting dirty.”

He swiped the bottle from her hand and had her flat on her back in the blink of an eye, eliciting a delighted shriek from her pouty lips. He wrapped his fingers around the bottle, turned it upside down, and squeezed. Chocolate sauce trickled out of the opening and onto Kelly’s bare breasts.

“And you’ll be getting sticky,” he rasped, dipping his head and letting his mouth hover over those delectable double-Ds. The girl was built like a Playboy Bunny, all tits and ass and long golden limbs.

Dylan licked a drop of syrup off the tip of one pearly-pink nipple. “And wet,” he murmured. Another lick. “I think you’ll get pretty wet too.”

With a moan, she grabbed his hand and shoved it between her legs. “Already am,” she said breathlessly.

He trailed his finger along her slick folds, then pushed it into her pussy. He groaned. Yep, she was wet. Very, very wet. He’d been so damn bored all damn day, but this, right now, totally made up for it. No-strings sex with a cute girl who didn’t mind getting a little kinky? Could anyone say
living the dream
?

Kelly squealed as he grabbed hold of her thighs and shoved them apart. He swiftly lowered his head and brought his mouth to her core, flicking his tongue over her clit, the taste of chocolate and sex infusing his taste buds.

“Mmmm, tastes good,” he murmured, working her tight channel with two fingers while he latched his mouth on that swollen nub and sucked.

Moaning, Kelly rested her hands on his head to keep him in place. Right. Like he was going anywhere.

“More,” she pleaded, rocking her hips faster.

He fingered her harder and rode out the resulting orgasm, his own arousal heightening at the sexy sounds she made and the way she moaned his name, over and over. When she grew still, a sleepy smile stretching across her face, he reached for the condom on the bedside table and tore open the package.

He’d just rolled the latex onto his erection when his cell phone rang.

“Shit,” he said with a sigh. He grabbed the phone and studied the screen, his irritation transforming into a knot of worry. His brother’s number was flashing on the display. And since it was three in the morning, he couldn’t think of any reason Chris would be calling other than to deliver bad news.

With growing alarm, he signaled to Kelly that he needed to take the call, ignored her disappointed look, and pressed the Talk button.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded in lieu of a greeting.

His brother’s answering laughter brought a rush of relief. Chris wouldn’t be laughing if he was calling with bad news.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Chris replied, confirming Dylan’s thoughts. “In fact, everything is very, very
right
, little brother!”

Loud music and muffled voices in the background made it difficult to hear what Chris was saying, but the guy was slurring, that was for sure.

“Are you drunk?” Dylan asked warily.

Next to him, Kelly slid off the bed and slipped into the white button-down he’d tossed on the chair. “I’m going to use the loo,” she whispered before darting toward the bathroom on the other side of the master bedroom.

“I might be a little drunk,” Chris admitted. “But a man’s gotta bust out the champagne when the woman he loves agrees to marry him!”

Dylan’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach like a body chained to a cement block. Oh shit. Had he misheard, or had Chris really just said—

“I’m engaged!”

Yep, he’d heard right.

“To…uh, Claire?” he had to ask.

More laughter filled his eardrums. “Of course to Claire! Who the hell else would I propose to?”

Um, anyone other than that bitch?

Dylan kept that nasty little thought to himself. His older brother didn’t have a clue that he despised—absolutely
despised
—Chris’s latest girlfriend. Fuck. Make that
fiancée
. Chris was actually marrying the woman. That snooty, judgmental, prissy, materialistic woman.

Lord, he’d hated Claire McKinley from the moment he’d met her. Chris had brought her along on his last business trip to San Diego, and the three of them had gone to Dylan’s favorite diner for lunch. Everything about Claire had rubbed him the wrong way—the self-righteous glint in her brown eyes, how she’d turned her nose up at the menu as if diner food was utterly beneath her, the way she’d tapped those French-manicured nails on the table like she was dying of boredom. By the time lunch was over, he’d felt like strangling her, and the next two visits hadn’t gone any better.

He had no idea what his brother saw in that woman. She was attractive enough, sure, but good looks didn’t make up for the whole being-a-total-bitch part.

Show your future sister-in-law some respect…

He blanched as the thought registered. Oh shit. She would be part of the
family
now.

“So that’s it? Silence? No congratulations?”

Chris sounded so upset that Dylan gulped down a lump of guilt. “Sorry, I was just in shock.” He injected a note of excitement into his tone. “Congrats, man. I can’t believe my big brother is getting married. When’s the big day?”

“We’re thinking December.”

Relief trickled through him. Eight months away. Hopefully Chris would change his mind long before then.

“So I don’t care if you have to beg or bribe every naval officer on the base—you’re getting leave to attend my wedding,” Chris declared. “Can’t have a wedding without the best man, right?”

“You sure you want me standing up there with you? I don’t want to steal your thunder, you know, what with me being so good-looking and all.”