Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Thatch’s eyes narrowed, and his stance returned to normal. I was thankful for the latter, but nervous about what to do with the former.
“What? Did you just say shots?” he asked then, grabbing his drenched T-shirt from the ground, hopping off the stage, and walking toward me shirtless with the finesse I knew and loved. Deep, relieved breaths filled and left my lungs quickly. No more wet T-shirt contest demands for my husband, I told myself. If you’re in the mood for one, you’re going to have to do it for him. Not the other fucking way around.
“Well, yeah, Thatcher. It’s spring break!”
“Cass, baby, I really hate to be the one to say this again, but it’s October. And you’re pregnant.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, I’m not going to drink. I just plan to watch you drink. Come on, T-bag. You don’t have a little ballbuster in your uterus. Get wild for me. Tequila. Oh, oh! And rum! And whiskey! Yes, yes, whiskey!”
“Sounds like what you really want is for me to be leaned over the toilet bowl later, puking my guts up.”
“Oh, come on,” I retorted and motioned one hand toward him. “You’re huge. It’ll take, like, a ton of booze to fluff you up. Don’t be such a dickwad.”
He gave me a hard glare, and I smiled apologetically.
“Sorry, but there’s not really a good replacement word for dickwad,” I defended with a shrug.
“Well, mixing liquor isn’t a good idea.” He shook his head on a sigh. “Maybe pick one. And I’ll do a flight of shots or something.”
“Body shots!” I shouted and fist-pumped the air, completely ready to go Jersey Shore on this place. “Yes! Yes! Body shots!”
“Cass.”
“What?” I tossed back, pulling my fist out of the air and placing it back in my lap with a frustrated jerk of my wrist. “You could easily do only one liquor. You’ll just need a body.”
He quirked one eyebrow toward me. “Your body, I presume you mean? Because I’m not doing body shots with Pepper.”
“Pepper?” I asked, utterly confused. Who the fuck is Pepper?
“The bartender who probably slit his own throat by now after finding out I was the one shaking my tits.”
“His name is Pepper?” I scrunched up my nose, and he shrugged.
“Hell, if I know, but that’s what I call him.”
I laughed. That was such a Thatch thing to do. Just give someone a fluffing nickname without even knowing their actual name.
“What’s so funny, honey?” he asked, and I just grinned.
“Just you,” I answered honestly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m ridiculous?” He chuckled at that. “I just did a wet T-shirt dance in the middle of an empty fucking bar because you demanded it.”
Oh boy. Let’s not go back to that awful tragedy…
More than ready to stay on the path of distraction from our—mostly my—wet T-shirt mistakes, I stood up and wrapped my fingers around one of my husband’s big, tattooed biceps. “To the bar, baby! It’s time for shots!”
Thankfully, he followed my lead without question, and once we convinced Pepper to come out from the back room by promising that Thatcher would not get back on stage, I was ready to get my big, handsome, still shirtless, beast of a husband turnt the fluff up.
Pepper slid another shot of tequila across the bar, and I grabbed it, lifted it up toward Thatch and shimmied my boobs a little as I slid it between my cleavage. A little salt shaken across my collarbone and a lime firmly placed between my teeth, I winked at him. “Bottoms up, baby!”
His mouth hitched up into a lazy grin, but he obliged, leaning forward to take one long lick across my collarbone before burying his face in my chest and downing the shot without using any hands.
The lime was next. Purposefully, he pulled it away from my lips, sucked the juice out, and chased down a little water to make sure all remnants of tequila were gone from his mouth.
Then he leaned forward and planted a big ole kiss on my lips.
I giggled.
He chuckled.
And I was pretty sure Pepper groaned.
“How many nummers, Craze?” Thatch asked and planted an elbow against the bar so he could rest his head in his hand.
Uh oh. Slurring and incoherent questions?
“What was that, baby?” I asked and reached out to touch his cheek with my hand, trying to gauge where he was on the drunk scale.
“This feels tits.” He chuckled, leaning his face into my touch. “And I says how’s shots?”
Shit. The tequila limit has been reached.
In an instant, it was like all those shots of tequila he’d downed without any trouble had caught up with him, and my big, handsome husband had gone from having a good time taking body shots off me to bordering on sloppy.
Honestly, I had no idea how many tequila shots he’d taken at this point, but it wasn’t a tiny amount. That much, I knew for sure.