Irresponsible Puckboy (Puckboys #2)(38)

“You smell like hot sauce,” he says, elbowing me.

I breathe hot sauce breath all over his cheek and tighten my hold on him.

“Fuck off,” Tripp says, squirming.

“Sharing’s caring.”

“One bro does not share stank breath with another bro.”

“Good thing we’re husbands now, then.”

We wrestle as the line moves forward and only break apart once we hit the front and the bouncer apologizes to Tripp about making him wait in line instead of being let straight in, as though it’s some huge fail on his part.

“I didn’t realize you came here that much,” I say.

“I don’t, but they like it when I do because, you know, publicity of having an NHL player at their venue. I always tell them not to give me VIP treatment, but they don’t listen.”

Finally, I get my first view of Rump.

It’s busy and looks like most clubs I’ve been to. Dark and moody with flashing lights over the dance floor. The biggest difference here is it’s about ninety percent guys.

Tripp’s come here plenty of times without me, and I’ve always thankfully been aware enough that it’s his place to hook up, so I’ve never pushed to come with him even though I’d be an awesome wingman.

But as Tripp takes my hand and pulls me through the crowd, I’m suddenly very glad he said that grinding up on other guys is out of the question, because even in the dark club, he’s getting a lot of attention.

I have no idea if these guys recognize him or think he’s hot, but I definitely notice the heads turning in our direction.

Tripp pauses, tugging me close to tilt his lips to my ear. “Drinks or dancing?” He pulls back to see my reply, and I use it as a chance to try to see him the way the guys here do. The dark red hair and freckles are adorable, and his hazel eyes are big and round, but that’s where the soft qualities end. His jawline is solid, his neck and shoulders are thick, and there’s an overpowering masculine quality to him that I’ve never paid much attention to before.

Tripp has always been Tripp. All of these things put together make up my best friend, but breaking his features down into his nose, his hands, the quiet confidence he has when he’s around me …

“Dex?” His crooked smirk comes out and connects with some sort of hook behind my belly button. It tugs and feels weird and good at the same time.

“Dancing,” I shout.

His hand tightens around mine, and he starts walking again.

It wasn’t a hard question when the margaritas are still making everything softer around the edges.

Tripp gets attention on the dance floor too, so as soon as he comes to a stop in the crowd of bodies, I immediately pull him against me. I’ve always been needy for his attention, and it’s no different tonight. I want to be the only one Tripp pays attention to.

It’s selfish, sure, but I’m his husband—technically—and his best friend, and the rest of the guys here are nothing to him.

My hands close over his back until we’re chest to chest, and Tripp’s breath hits my jaw.

“Last chance to back out of the grinding,” he says.

“What, you think I don’t have moves?” I let my hands fall to his ass and pull him tighter against me. Having a muscular body pressed against mine isn’t as weird as it probably should be, but this is far from the first time I’ve been close to Tripp. It’s just the first time I’ve done it while grabbing his ass.

“I know you’ve got moves,” he says, voice barely audible over the music. “You forget, I know everything about you.” Then after a second of hesitating, Tripp’s hands find my sides, slide down to my hips like earlier, and then dip lower to grab my ass as well. “You’re playing my game now, Dex.”

“I like games.”

He pumps his eyebrows. “You going to get a boner again?”

I drop my head onto his shoulder. “You just had to remind me. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

I pull back. “I … I poked you with it.”

Tripp’s head falls back on a laugh. “This may come as a shock to you, but I like being poked by dicks.”

Before I can stop myself, I picture Tripp bent over and … “So you bottom? Shit. Can I even ask that?”

“No, you can’t.” He presses his lips to my ear, and I get a nose full of lime from our margaritas. “The only guys who get to ask that question are the ones I’m about to sleep with.”

“I guess no one will find out for a year, then, huh?”

“I guess so.” Nose trailing over my cheek, Tripp’s hands tighten on my ass. “So would you rather …”

“Yeah?”

“Top or bottom for your hypothetical hookup with Coach?”

I huff. “I’m not answering that.”

“But you like games.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to ask that question.”

“Yes, but this is a hypothetical. Not real life.”

Fair point. I’m not sure what my answer would be, but when it comes to Coach, it’s a giant hell no to both. Graham too. Hell, maybe every guy in this bar. And if I can’t even answer a hypothetical, then where is this curiosity coming from?

I release Tripp’s ass to run my hands up and under his shirt. “I’ll answer, but only if we take Coach out of the question.”