Give Me More (Salacious Players Club #3) (19)

She gives me a contemplative expression. “There has to be another way,” she replies.

And I kiss her again. “I’m sure there is.”

“I mean…what if it makes you crazy with jealousy? What if you can never forget it and it ruins our entire marriage? What if—"

I quiet her worries with another kiss. “Red, forget about it. I won’t ask about it again.”

“Hunter, I can’t risk losing you.”

“I know, baby. But nothing in the world would ruin our marriage, understand? Nothing.”

The feel of her warm body in my arms brings me enough comfort to ease up the anxiety I felt a moment ago.

“Are you going to talk to him?” she mumbles after a moment.

“I probably should.”

“Go,” she replies, pulling out of my arms.

“No, we have plans today,” I reply. “You wanted a mimosa flight.”

“There is time later for mimosas, Hunter. Go talk to him before he books a flight home.”

“Are you sure?”

She leans up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine. “Yes. I’m going to shower. Don’t drink too much. We still have to tour the club tonight.”

“I love you,” I murmur against her kiss.

“I know you do. Now go,” she says, pushing me toward the door. Pocketing my cell phone and grabbing the hotel key off the table, I glance back at her before disappearing through the door in search of my best friend…to apologize for basically asking him to fuck my wife.





Rule #9: Don’t make bets with a gambling man.





Drake



Bright light bathes the dark corners of this seedy bar every time someone walks in, and every time that happens, I glance up, expecting it to be Hunter. Because I know he’s coming. Eventually, he’s going to walk through that door and want to talk about what just happened back at the hotel.

And every time the bright Texas sun infiltrates my corner of the bar and it isn’t my best friend silhouetted in the doorway, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not ready.

I’ve rehearsed my argument over and over, replayed every moment of that short and awkward conversation, twisting and bending his words in hopes of finding the part where I misheard him. But no matter how I try to translate it, it comes out the same.

And I’m pretty fucking sure this is a test. No, I’m one hundred percent sure this is a test. After that rope bondage thing the other day, Hunter is feeling insecure and nervous, so he’s hooking me up to the machine to test my loyalty. To see if I would ever touch his woman. And he should know, I would fucking never.

The real problem is, I don’t know how to respond to this. Because the more I keep trying to say no, no, no in my head, it all sounds so forced and fake.

Probably because it is forced and fake.

I’m forcing myself to say, ‘no, I will not fuck Isabel,’ because Hunter cannot know just how badly I want to. How I’ve dreamt about fucking her two nights in a row, and before this trip, I’ve casually dreamt about it for the past ten years.

Again, I would never. But the brain does some tricky shit even when you tell it not to. And the only part of me that listens worse than my horny brain is my horny dick. Both of them have conspired against me.

So, when he does walk through that door, I have to be ready. I have to make it sound like I genuinely do not want to sleep with that beautiful woman, without it coming across as insulting to her. I’m going to pass this fucking test of his, and then I’m never going to touch Isabel again for as long as I live.

I’m on my second beer, at only noon, when the front door opens again, revealing a familiar crop of curly hair and broad shoulders. He’s not in his usual suit and tie for work. In vacation mode, Hunter has on a short-sleeve Henley, tight enough to reveal the shape of his hard pecs and bulging biceps, and I consider it an honor that he will let me see him like this since he’s always hiding his tattoos from his work friends.

His dark eyes find me across the bar in a heartbeat, without even having to look for long. I mean, I am six-three and hard to miss, but Hunter’s always had the uncanny ability to seek me out of any crowd like a homing beacon. A lifelong friendship has given us a natural sense of connection. I can just sense when Hunter is in a room, as if his presence changes the air around me. As if it’s easier to breathe when he’s there.

My hand tightens around my glass as he crosses the dingy, dark bar to take the barstool next to mine. I keep my eyes focused forward as he orders his own beer, and I wait for him to speak first.

Except, he doesn’t. It’s quiet for too long. The bartender drops the beer on the counter. Hunter takes a sip. Then he lets out a heavy sigh, and I keep waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Why the fuck is he so bad at this? Why can’t he just speak? At least to me.

My patience runs out as I mutter in his direction, “I know you’re testing me.”

“I’m not testing you,” he replies plainly.

“Yes, you are, and I don’t blame you, but—"

“Drake, I’m not fucking testing you,” he barks in response.

My eyes widen. “So, you’re telling me that was serious?”

“Yes.” The cool confidence in his expression is infuriating. How can he be so calm about this? It makes me want to knock him right off his seat.