She reaches for my arm. "Don't be that way. I'm just having fun doing something that's new to me."
"Yeah—while every man in this casino is blowing his load just looking at you every time you bend over." They're all thinking about how they'd give it to her in that position. I know what the fuckers are thinking because I have the same thing on my mind.
"Come on. You're being a little dramatic, don't you think?"
Hell, no, I'm not being dramatic. She isn't sitting back watching these bastards eye-fuck her. "No. They're all watching you, even the ones here with women."
"Well, you're the only one who gets to be with me." She takes her chips from the table. "Let me cash in and we'll go upstairs so we can get busy."
"Hey, hey. Now you're talking."
Yeah. I just acted like a toddler throwing a fit, but it totally worked so I don't give a fuck. I put my drink down on the lower shelf of the craps table because I don't need another drop of alcohol. I'm not wasted but I definitely have had more to drink than I should have. Laurelyn still has a surprise for me when we get in the room—I'll bet it's hot lingerie. She loves to dress up for me.
When we're back in the room, Laurelyn takes a bag from the top of the closet and tells me to sit in the chair in the living room to wait while she changes. She seems to be taking a long time. "Everything okay in there?"
"Yeah. Just give me another minute. This is trickier than I thought."
Hmm…that sounds interesting.
She opens the door an inch or two and peeks out through the crack. "Close your eyes."
I love it when she makes me do that. That means this is going to be fan-fucking-tastic. "Okay. They're closed."
I hear the start of slow, seductive music I don't recognize and she tells me I can open my eyes. I'm more than a little surprised to see her standing in front of me dressed in her sexiest ensemble yet—a black and red showgirl costume. "Fuck me running! You look so damn fine in that, baby."
"I'm glad you like it."
"Oh, I more than like it."
She begins to move to the music. "I don't have my pole so I'll have to improvise."
I put my hand on the crotch of my pants. "There's only one pole that counts and I've got it right here."
"That mouth of yours…"
"You love this mouth of mine and everything it does to make you come."
She lifts the back of her hair from her neck and bites her lower lip as she bends at her knees, swaying her hips. "Yes, I do."
She turns her back to me and slowly swings her bum from side to side in my face. The feathers forming a skirt oscillate back and forth and I think about what I'm going to do to that arse when I get her out of that costume. She doesn't know, or maybe she does, how it's killing me to see her look so damn hot without being able to pounce on top of her.
"Talk dirty to me," she purrs.
That won't be a problem. "I'm so fucking hard for you right now. When I get you out of that costume, I'm gonna bend you over and fuck you from behind because you're a dirty girl and I know you love it."
She bends at her waist and shakes her bum in my face. "Mmm-hmm. I love it when you do me like that."
Oh, hell! She hasn't even touched me and I think I may be close to blowing my load just by hearing her talk dirty. "Come here and give me a lap dance."
She shimmies her way over and sits on my lap with her legs wide apart. She lightly rubs her bottom back and forth across my hard-on and then leans closer until her back is against my chest. She drops her head back and my mouth hovers over her ear. I nip at her earlobe and she moans, "Say something else dirty."
I suck her earlobe and then release it as I move my hands to her proud breasts standing up in her bustier. I don't know where it comes from but I suddenly feel this intense emotion overtake me, and it's not lust. It's love. And it makes me brave.
I feel my heart racing as I prepare to say the words that just popped into my head. I reach for her face and turn it so she can see me over her shoulder. "Marry me."
Chapter Twenty-One
Jack Henry just asked me to marry him. Sort of. Maybe. I'm not really sure if that was supposed to be a real proposal. I don't know if I can take him seriously; he's drunk as hell. Who knows if tomorrow he'll remember bringing it up?
I spin around so I'm sitting sideways across his lap. I need to see his eyes. "What did you just say?"
His blue eyes are hazy but they don't leave mine. "I said, marry me."
"You're drunk."
"Yes, I am a little wasted, so you have a good argument there, but I still know what I'm saying. I've been thinking about it for a while—a long while, actually. I love you and I want you to be my wife."
"I can't say I'm really all that excited about a drunk proposal."
"I get that this is really bad. I know my proposal is terrible, but don't say no. I can do better when I haven't been drinking. I'll have some flowers and a ring and I'll say things to make you swoon." At least he recognizes the problem.
I can't put too much thought into the things he's saying. I'd be a fool to get my hopes up but I must admit I love hearing those words come from his mouth. I'm not fool enough to encourage this talk while he's shitfaced, so I take him by the hand and tug until he's up from the chair. I lead him toward the bedroom and we stop beside the bed. I loosen the knot of his tie before I lift it over his head and fling it to the chair in the corner of the room. I unbutton his shirt and pants to remove them before he lies down. I figure it'll be much easier than trying to undress a drunk, oversized toddler in the bed.
When I have him naked, I barely push my finger against his chest and he falls backwards. "Tim…ber."
He chuckles at my reference. "Don't worry. I've got some wood for you."
Even drunk, he's still witty.
He scoots up in the bed until his head is propped on a pillow. "Strip for me."
The music has moved on to another sexy tune, so I begin my slow seduction of removing my showgirl outfit. He watches me with heavy, hooded eyes and I wonder if I'll be able to get naked before he passes out. I decide I probably shouldn't tarry too long in removing my costume.
When I'm free of the getup, I crawl up the bed and straddle him. I don't figure I should expect a lot of extracurricular activities since he's a bit saturated with whiskey, so I sink down on him. He watches me as I ride him and moves his hands to my breasts. He squeeze them as I move up and down his length. "I love your tits so much. They're fucking perfect."
He rises and flips me onto my back. He's kissing down my shoulder onto my chest and then takes one of the rosy pink tips into his mouth. "I can't wait to see you nurse our babies."
Whoa. That's not dirty talk. It's serious when you start bringing babies into the mix.
I'm not even drunk and my head is spinning.
And he said babies—as in more than one. This Jack Henry is so different than the man I met six months ago. This one tells me he wants things that the other one was hell-bent on never having a part of. Maybe I'll regret it, but I decide I want to explore this a little more while his tongue is loose. "You changed your mind about wanting babies?"
He doesn't answer so I grab the top of his hair to pull his mouth from my nipple. "You changed your mind about getting married and wanting kids?"
"Yeah."
I grab his face to make him look at me. "Why?"
"Because I love you and I want to be your husband." He slides down and kisses my stomach. "And I want to see your belly grow with a part of me in it." He rubs me there. "I wanted you to be pregnant when I found you, but you didn't know that, did you?"
"I sort of suspected it based on how you acted and the things you said."
"It's probably better to be married for a while without a kid on the way."
"I think that's highly recommended."
"Yeah. 'Cause I'm gonna want to fuck you a lot." He enters me and groans, "Oh, this is so good. I'm gonna do this every day after I marry you."
It's all drunken talk so I probably can't pay it any attention, but it still sends shivers down my spine to hear him say things about marrying me and having babies. I have to question if he means what he's saying. After all, he is wasted. How sincere can he possibly be when he's in this kind of shape? There's only one way to tell—see what he says when he's sober.
He doesn't mention marriage or babies the next day. Or the next. I'm beginning to think he doesn't remember our discussion at all. Sure. I have no idea what I'd say if he asked me for real, but it pisses me off that he hasn't brought it up once. It's like the whole conversation didn't happen.
Maybe he doesn't have a recollection. He was definitely wasted. But I want him to remember saying those things to me. I want him to say them again when he's not shitfaced—even if I'm not sure what my response would be.
We're back in Nashville and I have two days before I return to the studio with the band. That means we only have two weeks before Jack Henry goes home. I don't want him to go. I wish he could stay here with me forever, but time isn't our friend. It never has been. Our moments together are always the grains of sand falling through the hourglass. A few months here. Another month there. I'm sick of having time restraints placed on this relationship like we have an expiration date.
It's Saturday morning and we're lounging on the couch. Jack Henry's head is in my lap while I'm reading my latest romance novel and I'm running my fingers through his hair. I know how much he loves it. He's relaxed, eyes closed, and I suspect he may have drifted off until he asks, "What do you want to do today?"
I don't want to do anything but be here with him without any distractions. "This."