Down and Dirty (Hot Jocks #5)(2)

She laughs, amusement dancing in her honey-colored eyes. “You are. I can tell.”

I don’t disagree with her. Sure, I’d like to think I’m a decent human being, but let’s be real. Being a good guy doesn’t get you very far.

Exhibit A is the current state of my life. Single as fuck and horny—which isn’t exactly a winning combination, even though I’ve brought it on myself. Being celibate is a choice, but that doesn’t make it any easier. And when you throw in my fears about getting canned from the team, let’s just say I’m not exactly a barrel of laughs tonight.

Aubree makes a pensive sound and watches me over the rim of her glass like I’m a puzzle she wants to solve.

My self-imposed abstinence isn’t usually a problem, and while I’m not picky, I am selective. And the gorgeous girl beside me makes me feel a little unsteady. Like she’s capable of pushing past all my inner defenses without even trying.

Am I out of my element? Yes. Does that only make me want to push harder, strive for more, and take more chances? Bingo.

When Aubree lets out a lengthy sigh, I glance at her. “Everything okay over there?”

I expect her to say something mundane is bothering her—like maybe those insanely high heels she’s wearing—but it seems Aubree is full of surprises.

“Ugh . . . where to start.” She fiddles with her straw again. “Let’s see. I’m thirty and single, which is basically like the kiss of death.” She meets my eyes quickly before deciding that’s too intimate and scans the dance floor again. “All the good guys my age are already spoken for.”

She’s never opened up to me like this before, but something inside me appreciates her vulnerability. I turn to face her and meet her eyes. “You’re a ten, so you could have any guy you want. Your dancing skills are questionable, but still.”

“You’re an ass.” She rolls her eyes, but the tint on her cheeks at hearing me call her a ten is evident.

“Not denying that.”

She smirks and stirs the ice cubes in her drink with the straw.

“Cheers to being single.” I raise my glass to hers, and Aubree clinks her near-empty cocktail to mine. “Should we order another round?”

“God, yes. Immediately.”

Her timing is perfect, because our cocktail waitress has seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and we quickly place an order for another round of drinks.

It’s over our third cocktail that Aubree blurts, “So, who here is your type?” She sweeps her arm around the bar. “I’ll help you pick someone out.”

My sip of tequila goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough to clear my throat.

Is that what Aubree plans on doing tonight? Picking out someone tall, dark, and temporary to provide some stress relief? More importantly, why does the idea of that bother the hell out of me?

“I don’t have a type,” I finally manage to say, my throat tight.

Aubree scoffs. “Everyone has a type.”

“Are we seriously doing this?” My tone hints at annoyance, but in truth, I’m anything but. Sitting here talking and laughing with her is the most fun I’ve had tonight. To be honest, it’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

“What about her?” Ignoring my question, she nods toward a blonde swaying her hips on the edge of the dance floor. She’s dressed in a barely there halter top and a tiny black leather skirt.

Frowning, I shake my head. “No.”

Aubree turns and glares at me. “What’s wrong with her?”

It’s strange how expressive she is. I study her for longer than I should, unable to tear my gaze away. But rather than answer her question, I plead the fifth with a shrug and take another long gulp to drain the rest of my glass.

“So, are you going to tell me your type, or what?” Her eyes fix on mine and stay there for what feels like too long.

I don’t hate it.

“Fine. I prefer brunettes.”

She smiles triumphantly. “There. Was that so hard?”

Trust me, I’m halfway there, sweetheart.

Quizzing me while she sips her beverage, Aubree gets me to admit that I like petite brunettes who can hold a conversation and are feisty.

She quirks one eyebrow in my direction, and I’m suddenly certain that she’s just realized I’m describing her. Thankfully, she doesn’t call me on it. She just continues tapping her finger against her chin, scanning the bar for prospects like an athletic scout does at a training camp.

“There’s got to be more than that,” she says, challenging me. “Breast man? A nice heinie? What’s your thing?”

“My thing?” I can’t hide the humor in my voice. “First off, don’t use the word heinie ever again.”

“But—” she says.

God, I love that she’s about to vehemently defend even this.

I hold up one hand, stopping her. “Promise me. Never again.”

Aubree makes a low sound of agreement, and I feel a sudden ache in my balls. “Just answer the question, lover boy.”

“Tits are nice,” I say.

Aubree laughs, the sound deep and throaty, and any regrets I had about muttering that inarticulate phrase vanish. I’d do it all again just for a shot at hearing that laugh.

“But a nice curvy ass is pretty great too. I’m a guy, so I wouldn’t deny either.”