“Sorry,” I laughed. It was an itchy sweater. Wearing only a tank top now, I settled back against Pepe’s broad chest. He was excellent furniture, as long as you didn’t mind the sensation of his dick poking at the bottom of your spine.
And I didn’t.
I thought of Pepe as the human equivalent of a black Labrador puppy. He had a clumsy, happy attitude, big feet and a lot of dark hair all over his body. (All over his body.)
He wasn’t the deepest man I’d ever met, but he was a good friend. And tonight I didn’t mind soaking up some of his light-hearted affection. Nothing would happen between us, because Pepe had gotten back together with his high school girlfriend over the summer. So a few risqué jokes were the only sex Pepe and I would be having.
Whittaker didn’t know that, though. When he came into the TV room with two beers, his eyes narrowed as he found me sitting in Pepe’s lap. With a frown, he handed me a glass.
“Thank you,” I told him.
His response was a grunt. Whittaker took his own beer and sat on the skeevy ottoman.
The Canadiens, unfortunately, picked that moment to secure a breakaway. Behind me, Pepe sat up a little straighter as his team chased the puck down the ice.
Uh-oh.
“C’est magnifique!” Pepe roared in my ear. “Formidable!”
Pepe was a very enthusiastic guy, and all that enthusiasm translated well during sex. We’d shared some very energetic sessions, usually with me bent over some piece of furniture while he panted French words of encouragement into my ear. (C’est bon! C’est bon! Magnifique!)
“Exceptionnel!” Pepe screamed now as they scored for the second time.
“Come on, guys!” I hollered at the screen. “This is Montreal you’re playing! You’re not supposed to lose.”
Behind me, Pepe laughed like a little kid. “Eef we were playing for keeps, now I would win this little blouse.” He tugged on the fabric of my tank top.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “But if you can pretend-win my top, I can pretend to put on my rally cap. You guys are going down.”
“Non, l’amour. You will watch and see.” Pepe took the beer out of my hand and stole a sip.
I took it back, giving his thigh a little pinch. “Pay attention, babe. The Rangers are getting a power play. Your D-man got called for slashing.”
The next half hour of the game was intense. My Rangers pulled it together enough to score once. I pretend-demanded Pepe’s pants. But then Montreal scored an ugly goal in front of the net. Again. And Pepe pretend-claimed my jeans.
In the grand tradition of inside jokes everywhere, we thought our game was hysterical. “If we were playing for real, you’d be sitting here in those teeny tiny purple briefs, right?” I teased Pepe. Because the man did have peculiar taste in underwear.
“C’est possible.” He chuckled. “And you — a pair of panties with no…?”
“Crotch?” I guessed. Pepe was in fantasyland now. Sexy lingerie was not my style, and he knew it.
“Oui.”
“Sounds tacky. What color are they?”
“Striped. Like zee hide of a zebra. And the brassiere has the same.”
I laughed, because you had to give him credit for imagination, and Pepe gave me a wet kiss on the cheek. (Come to think of it, his kisses were all really pretty slobbery. That too reminded me of an enthusiastic puppy.)
We both turned back to face the screen. “Third period, mon amie. We find out who ends up naked.”
Too bad it was only a pretend naked. I’d rather not go home alone tonight.
Both teams skated well during the third period, and Pepe and I were glued to the screen. Whittaker started rooting hard for the Rangers, probably because I was a fan, and hope springs eternal.
The clock ticked down. Several times the Rangers almost tied up the game.
Almost, but not quite.
The game paused for a media time-out. And since I’d had a few beers tonight, I really needed to pee. “Whittaker? Any chance there’s a bathroom somewhere without a line in front of it?”
“Pledge!” he bellowed. A few seconds later a freshman — dressed as a twenties casino operator — came skidding around the corner. “Unlock the bathroom off the kitchen for Bella.”
Remind me never to pledge a fraternity, I thought as I followed the poor plebe to the secret bathroom. “Thanks, dude,” I told the freshman. “You don’t have to wait.”
The kid tipped his rented bowler hat at me and disappeared.
If the game weren’t on, I would just get the heck out of here. Beta Rho had always left a bad taste in my mouth. They were famous among women for their nasty little habit of awarding the Skank of the Week trophy to whichever brother had managed the most unsavory hookup.