Manties in a Twist (The Subs Club Book 3) (13 page)

“Please, just do it for a minute. It’s important.”

He got up, went to the light switch, and flipped it up and down rapidly.

I strummed furiously.

“You put a guitar solo in a striptease?”

I nodded. “Keep flipping the lights.”

I fucked up the end of the solo a little, but whatever. He went back to the couch.

“Key change!” I shouted, and shifted up a half step.

“So rub your part on my face,

“Put your part up my butt,

“I’m your sweet little girl,

“I’m your big sexy slut.

“Stick your part down my throat,

“Yeah, I’m ready for you,

“Now give me this part that

“I was boooo-oooorn to do!”

I tossed the guitar aside and straddled his lap. My bra strap slid down my shoulders and my skirt rucked up around my hips. He grabbed my waist and kissed me, and I scooted back so his knee was all jammed against my lace-covered dick and balls.

“I am so gonna give you this part,” he whispered, still kissing me.

I laughed and yanked his hand under my skirt. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to grope someone in a skirt. Like, why the fuck did dudes not wear dresses? If I had a dime for every time some guy tried to grab my crotch and ended up with just a handful of jeans, I could probably buy another freaking juicer.

He unclipped one of the garters, and I forgot how to breathe for a sec. He slapped the other side of my thigh, then undid another clip, then another. The stockings strained at the last connected points. I wanted to stay
right fucking there
. In that moment where my stockings were only connected by one ribbon each, and I could feel the pull on the fabric and the heat in my groin and his hand against my leg.

He undid the last clip on one side, and the stocking slipped down to my knee. He left the other one connected, and he stuck his hand down the back of my garter belt, his warm palm sliding in circles over my ass.

I started rocking against his hand, my dick straining the lace. He smiled at me, and I laughed, grinding harder on his hand. “We should get the clappy lights so I can clap them on and off when I need strobes.”

“You think we should get clap lights just so you can do your stripper routine?” He traced a light line with his fingertip down one ass cheek.

“It’s an
audition
.” I kicked at his leg with my stockinged foot. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

“Really? What kind of girl are you?”

I laughed. “Mmm.”

“What kind?” He played with the last clip.

I closed my eyes with a soft gasp as he moved his hand back to my balls. “Your kind.”

“Then why don’t you get on all fours so we can finish your audition?”

I groaned, still trying to rub against his hand, but he let me go.

“Come on.”

I slid off his lap and got on my hands and knees on the couch.

“Stay right there.” He stood and went to the bedroom. Came back a moment later and jumped on the couch behind me.

I looked over my shoulder at him and grinned. “I thought I already had the part.”

He stroked my ass through the skirt. “I need to make
sure
you’re right for it.”

I faced forward and bowed my head as he ran his palms up the backs of my thighs, teasing the skirt higher. I shivered. He let it fall and leaned farther down to kiss the back of my bare thigh. My breathing roughened as he trailed his tongue upward, his head pushing my skirt up again. His stubble scratched the base of my ass cheek, and I got goose bumps all over. I arched my shoulders and dipped my head lower, my mouth falling open.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say or do. I hardly even felt like we were playing anymore. I got my nose as close as I could to the front of the dress and inhaled. Got the cardboard smell, plus a hint of sweat and deodorant and balls.

He kissed the edge of the garter belt. Bit it and tugged with his teeth. I tucked my hips under me, then released, pushing my ass up and out. He licked under the belt. Let go.

Next thing I knew, his fingers were sliding along the waistband, pulling the belt slowly down. When he finally let it drop to my knees, one stocking stayed up, stuck around my thigh by sweat or me having huge thighs or something. He had to roll it down, and swear to God, I almost came from that.

My dick and balls were just hanging there under my skirt, and I would have given him pretty much a million dollars to touch them, but he came up with better stuff. He reached around and grabbed handfuls of the front of the dress and the padded bra cups and squeezed, pulling me back against him so I could feel his boner through my skirt. I jerked my head up and gasped, and had this sudden vision of myself with soft, curly blond hair and a feminine face, and makeup. Breasts nearly spilling out of my bra, shaved legs. Another second and the image was gone. He ran his hands down the front of the dress. Slowly raised the bra strap that had slid down my left shoulder, and put it back in its place. Then he lifted my skirt and tossed it up over my shoulders.

I was seriously convinced dresses were magic. How could a piece of clothing feel so beautiful and classy and dirty at the same time? Like it was fucking made for . . . access?

He kissed my hip. Made a trail of kisses down to my thigh and across the underside of my cheek, and then started lapping the skin behind my balls. Over and over, pushing at it with his tongue, making circles, sliding up almost to my hole. Just that area, until it started to lose sensitivity, until I was going wild wanting him to touch me somewhere else. Then he stopped and straightened. I listened to him open the condom, then the lube. It took a minute, but he got his dick stuffed all up in dat ass. I was in some sort of haze, my head drooping, my breath harsh and backed by these little high-pitched moans.

He didn’t fuck me that hard, but it was fast, and he didn’t let up. Even when I kind of thought he’d already come, he was still gripping my hips and fucking me, until one of my knees slipped into the crack between cushions and jolted me out of my, like, fugue state.

He pulled out, and my legs shook a little as I tried to hold myself up. My dick was still rigid, and I realized a few seconds later when he pressed against me that his was too.

“Can you blow me?” he whispered. “Please?”

They say there’s no such thing as a stupid question, but dude. Come on.

He sat back, and I climbed off the couch and knelt on the hardwood. My knees hurt, and I didn’t give a fuck. He scooted to the very edge of the couch and stripped the condom off. I got on my knees between his legs and, you know. Put his part in my mouth. As I sucked, he ran his fingers through my hair. I pulled up slowly, releasing his dick for a second to breathe before plunging down again.

He put his hands on my shoulders and slid the bra straps down. He leaned forward, groaning softly in my ear as I continued sucking, and unzipped the dress. His fingers grazed the bumps of my spine as he unhooked the bra. He eased the top of the dress off and stroked my bare shoulders. I hummed around his dick, pulling up with my lips and then touching the head as lightly as I could with the tip of my tongue.

He rubbed his palms in broad circles over my shoulders, then down the front of my dress to rub my pecs. I arched away from the couch so he could reach better, trying to keep my lips on his dick. He leaned back, moaning, and pumped his hips gently until he grabbed fistfuls of the couch cushion and tipped his head up and closed his eyes. As he came, I switched from sucking to licking—long, broad swipes of my tongue until he was done. He lay sprawled like that while I swallowed and wiped my mouth. Cracked his eyes open to look at me. Smiled. “You,” was all he said.

I propped my elbows on the couch and grinned. “Hall of Fame?”

“Yes. For the fucking dress and bra alone. But also . . .” He panted for a few seconds. “Your skill.” He reached out and ran a hand over my head. “And in a minute, I’m gonna return the favor.”

He did. Me on my back with my legs spread and my skirt around my hips. It took about two seconds.

And he did eventually decide I’d gotten the part.

“What
is
this thing?” Dave picked up Miles’s remote. It had six separate sections to control the TV, cable box, streaming channels, and, like, three different players. “You could brain someone with this.” He looked up. “Miles, you don’t even watch TV because you think it only engages the mind on the most basic of levels.”

Miles shook his head. “Ask Drix. Apparently vampyres require forty-six different sports channels.” He went to the stairs and called, “Drix! Zac! We have company.”

I heard pounding in the upstairs hall: Drix’s heavy footsteps plus a lighter set. Then laughter and a loud double-descent down the steps. And then a six-foot-seven vampyre dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt was standing in the living room next to the world’s most freaking adorable five-year-old, who looked . . . weirdly like Miles. Maybe it was just the outfit.

“Are you seriously dressing him in tiny Mr. Moseby sweaters?” Gould whispered.

Miles swatted his arm and addressed Zac. “Zac. These are your uncles Dave, Kamen, and Gould.”

Thanks, Miles. Way to destroy me emotionally. I had an actual friggin’ lump in my throat.

“Hi,” we chorused.

Zac looked back and forth between us, sort of laughing behind closed lips like he was plotting extreme mischief. Then he peered up at Drix and smiled.

“You should probably say hi, huh?” Drix suggested.

Zac faced the three of us again, twisting with his hands behind his back and a huge grin on his face. Then he shook his head.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Miles told us, holding out a hand for Zac to high-five. “He’s not shy at all.”

Drix put a hand on Zac’s shoulder, and the height difference was just . . . even better than Ryan and me. “We were just upstairs wondering whether werewolves enjoy being werewolves.”

Zac glanced up at him again. “They’re monsters,” he said seriously. “And monsters . . . maybe wanna be . . . um . . .”

Dave tilted his head. “What do they want to be?”

Zac turned to him. “Humans.”

Dave nodded. “Maybe so.”

Gould spoke up. “Hey, Zac? We’ve heard a lot about you from your dad. He says you’re really, really cool. We’ve been excited to meet you for a long time.”

This time Zac looked at Miles. Miles nodded. “I do think you’re really cool. And your uncles are also cool. So it’s all gonna be pretty cool-cool around here today.”

“Cool-cool,” Zac repeated.

Then he ran to go get a balloon to show us.

Dave started humming the
Fresh Prince
theme.

Miles glared at him. “He
likes
cardigans.”

“But there’s still time to save him,” Dave insisted. “And you are enabling.”

Zac brought the balloon back and started running his hands all over it to make it staticky.

“That’s an awesome balloon.” I crouched in front of him. “Think we could play baseball with it?” I ignored Miles’s groan. “You like baseball?”

Zac nodded. “Yes.”

“Favorite team?”

No answer except that adorable, closed-lipped smile.

“We’ve been watching the Indians,” Miles said.

“Awesome!” I stood and picked up his giant remote. Took an exaggerated batter’s stance next to the TV.

“Pitch it to me! This is Pell, batting for the Win-dians.”

“Wait, I have to get my cap!” Zac raced from the room.

Miles stepped closer to me. “The Indians most certainly do not win with any kind of regularity.”

I smirked. “You don’t have a bowel movement with any kind of regularity.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “So mature.”

“Actually,” Gould said, “if any one of us is super regular, it’s probably Miles.”

Dave nodded. “Yeah. Miles’s shits are probably tied to the waxing and waning of the moon.”

Zac loped back into the room. “You said ‘shit.’” He reached out and patted Dave’s hip as he passed. He slowed to a stop in front of Miles, wearing a blue ball cap and shaking the balloon by its tie.

Miles turned to Dave. “Thanks a lot.”

Dave shrugged sheepishly. “He’s five. I didn’t think he—”

“Had ears?”

Dave sighed and faced Zac. “Hey, Zac. I’m sorry. The word I used is a bad word, and you should never use it.”

“I know ‘shit.’” Zac flipped the balloon back and forth by the tie.

“Could we step away from the TV, maybe?” Miles asked.

I took a step forward and to the side. The others backed up. “I’m ready!” I told Zac.

He wound up and pitched to me.

The balloon sailed a couple of inches before dropping to the carpet, but I took a mighty swing anyway, letting the momentum spin me all the way around. “Whoaaaa!”

Zac laughed.

“Strike!” he yelled, at the same time I yelled, “Ball!”

“
Stri-ike
,” Zac insisted.

I put on a really bad New York accent. “Whaddis this joker tawkin’ abahht?” I turned to the other guys. “Ump?”

“Definitely a strike.” Dave gave Zac a thumbs-up.

I sagged my shoulders in mock defeat while Zac did a victory dance. I picked up the balloon and tossed it back to Zac.