More Than Want You
Page 2
“So you have to beat the champ at his own game.” Rob sighs, sounding like he finally understands my proclamation that I’m fucked.
There’s no way to top Griff. He’s got a goddamn natural gift.
“Okay, your brother might find a buyer a week or two earlier.” Britta shrugs. “But you’re the better man.”
“They don’t give a shit about that.”
“You always come through,” she argues.
“To the people dying to unload this estate so they can cash out, those seven days make a five-figure difference in their bank account. Besides, they don’t know the Maui market. And they don’t know me except as the pushy salesman who barged in. They certainly don’t know my reputation except through boring statistics and my own claims, which they probably see as bragging. It sounds as if Susan Stowe was fond of Griff, so she picked him. Her heirs would need a damn good reason to cross her wishes.”
My brother would have to fuck up badly. And he never does. Well, almost never…unless there’s a gorgeous woman involved. Unlike me, he has a bad habit of allowing his dick to distract him. Always has. That’s how he started fooling around with Britta at the office once upon a time. Too bad he’s not having a torrid fuckfest with someone high maintenance now—at least not according to my spies. A good hourglass-shaped distraction in Griff’s bed would sure help my cause.
As the waitress sets down our drinks, the lights dim. Everyone turns to the stage at one end of the cramped sports bar. Ah, the live entertainment. After the tragic act last week, I was hoping we would miss the show.
But then I see her.
Crooked smile. Pink hair. Winged black liner over laughing blue eyes. Vivid red lipstick. Tacky cheetah-print dress. Tiny waist. Sleek legs. Chunky black heels that have seen better days. I don’t think I would have looked at her twice normally, but she’s got two things going for her: an obvious zest for life and a great rack.
Griff can’t resist either.
I turn in my chair to watch as she grabs the microphone with deft confidence. She’s comfortable on stage.
“Aloha, Lahaina. I’m Keeley Sunshine. I’m going to sing you some of my favorite songs, and since I’m a single girl in the middle of a long drought, they’ll probably all be about sex. You can buy me drinks after the set if you’d like to change that.” She winks.
She’s got a certain charm. Griff values that, along with a sense of humor.
“I’d be more than happy to end her drought,” Rob whispers in my ear as the small band nods at one another.
Keeley Sunshine—clearly not her real name—closes her eyes as the primal beat of the music rises to a quirky old tune. It’s familiar. I know I’ve heard the song but I’m having trouble placing it, until the chorus. Then, while she sways her hips to the beat, she’s belting out that she doesn’t want anybody else. She just thinks about me and touches herself.
Oh, yeah.
Less than thirty seconds; that’s how long it takes me to have my first boner for her. And I’m a tough customer. At thirty-three, I’m not used to adjusting my dick or embarrassing myself around a girl. That stuff happened, like, fifteen years ago.
As she deftly transitions to the second verse, I picture her naked, pretty tits pointing at the ceiling, legs in the air. In my head, she’s got a bare pussy, which I realize may not be accurate, but that’s how she looks in fantasy. Griff likes them smooth, too—about the only thing we agree on anymore.
When Keeley assures everyone in the room she would get down on her knees and do anything for whomever she’s singing to, she’s not looking at anyone in particular.
She ought to be looking at me.
But she seems lost in the song, in her passion for the music. She’s got a surprisingly smooth voice with just a hint of rasp. Another check in her plus column.
As the song winds toward the end, her oohs and aahs grow breathier and louder, higher-pitched. Shit, she’s having a choral orgasm center stage. And yeah, I squirm, fighting the urge to pry my hard dick off the teeth of my zipper. I can’t help it. I’m a guy, and Keeley Sunshine drips sex.
The old Divinyls classic ends to hearty applause. I have to agree that this vixen is a musical savant compared to last week’s squeaky screen door on repeat. At a tap of Keeley’s toe—I notice her nail polish is black—the band begins the next tune.
Old jazz, the kind you drink to, so easy it makes you smile. But they’ve modernized it with guitars and drums. Still, I know this tune well because my granddad loved it. Eddie Cantor’s 1929 classic “Makin’ Whoopee.” But she sings it like Rachel MacFarlane, smooth and vampy.
I gotta admit, I’m mesmerized. I can’t stop watching her mouth. Her lips are bee-stung and would look great wrapped around a cock. Mine, for instance.
When the jazz standard ends to even more enthusiastic applause, Keeley picks another decades-old tune. I suspect she’s got an old soul. It fits her slightly retro vibe.
After a sexy, rhythmic intro, she drags in a deep breath, nearly kissing the mic, and uses her breathy voice to say that she put a spell on me because I’m hers. Right now, I can’t argue, especially when her words sparkle brighter than glitter.
Listening to her, I get chills.
Britta leans closer, lips near my ear. “Put your tongue back in your mouth.”
I shoot her a quelling glance, but she’s right. Under normal circumstances, I’d wait for Keeley Sunshine’s set to end, buy her a strong drink, and sweet-talk my way into her panties for the night. But right now the needs of my business outweigh the needs of my dick.
If Griff could see this woman, especially if I cleaned her up a bit, he’d be all over her. In fact, that’s a great idea. I need to figure out how to hook the two of them up—fast—so he stops thinking about the Stowe estate with all those beachfront views.
Still, I can’t suggest that to Britta without upsetting her.
“Blow me,” I murmur instead.
Britta scoffs. “No, thanks. You’re an asshole.”
“I am.” That’s something I’m proud of. Best way to get ahead in business.
“It runs in the Reed family.”
She’s right. My old man is an impeccable textbook example of a puckered anus, too. From him, I learned well. Vaguely, I wonder which pretty young thing he’s banging in his office while my mom buries her head in some all-talk/no-action ladies’ function, but they’ve moved to San Diego. It’s no longer my problem. I’m only irritated they took my younger sister but didn’t persuade Griff to shove off with them. He’s a total sphincter.
There’s no way to top Griff. He’s got a goddamn natural gift.
“Okay, your brother might find a buyer a week or two earlier.” Britta shrugs. “But you’re the better man.”
“They don’t give a shit about that.”
“You always come through,” she argues.
“To the people dying to unload this estate so they can cash out, those seven days make a five-figure difference in their bank account. Besides, they don’t know the Maui market. And they don’t know me except as the pushy salesman who barged in. They certainly don’t know my reputation except through boring statistics and my own claims, which they probably see as bragging. It sounds as if Susan Stowe was fond of Griff, so she picked him. Her heirs would need a damn good reason to cross her wishes.”
My brother would have to fuck up badly. And he never does. Well, almost never…unless there’s a gorgeous woman involved. Unlike me, he has a bad habit of allowing his dick to distract him. Always has. That’s how he started fooling around with Britta at the office once upon a time. Too bad he’s not having a torrid fuckfest with someone high maintenance now—at least not according to my spies. A good hourglass-shaped distraction in Griff’s bed would sure help my cause.
As the waitress sets down our drinks, the lights dim. Everyone turns to the stage at one end of the cramped sports bar. Ah, the live entertainment. After the tragic act last week, I was hoping we would miss the show.
But then I see her.
Crooked smile. Pink hair. Winged black liner over laughing blue eyes. Vivid red lipstick. Tacky cheetah-print dress. Tiny waist. Sleek legs. Chunky black heels that have seen better days. I don’t think I would have looked at her twice normally, but she’s got two things going for her: an obvious zest for life and a great rack.
Griff can’t resist either.
I turn in my chair to watch as she grabs the microphone with deft confidence. She’s comfortable on stage.
“Aloha, Lahaina. I’m Keeley Sunshine. I’m going to sing you some of my favorite songs, and since I’m a single girl in the middle of a long drought, they’ll probably all be about sex. You can buy me drinks after the set if you’d like to change that.” She winks.
She’s got a certain charm. Griff values that, along with a sense of humor.
“I’d be more than happy to end her drought,” Rob whispers in my ear as the small band nods at one another.
Keeley Sunshine—clearly not her real name—closes her eyes as the primal beat of the music rises to a quirky old tune. It’s familiar. I know I’ve heard the song but I’m having trouble placing it, until the chorus. Then, while she sways her hips to the beat, she’s belting out that she doesn’t want anybody else. She just thinks about me and touches herself.
Oh, yeah.
Less than thirty seconds; that’s how long it takes me to have my first boner for her. And I’m a tough customer. At thirty-three, I’m not used to adjusting my dick or embarrassing myself around a girl. That stuff happened, like, fifteen years ago.
As she deftly transitions to the second verse, I picture her naked, pretty tits pointing at the ceiling, legs in the air. In my head, she’s got a bare pussy, which I realize may not be accurate, but that’s how she looks in fantasy. Griff likes them smooth, too—about the only thing we agree on anymore.
When Keeley assures everyone in the room she would get down on her knees and do anything for whomever she’s singing to, she’s not looking at anyone in particular.
She ought to be looking at me.
But she seems lost in the song, in her passion for the music. She’s got a surprisingly smooth voice with just a hint of rasp. Another check in her plus column.
As the song winds toward the end, her oohs and aahs grow breathier and louder, higher-pitched. Shit, she’s having a choral orgasm center stage. And yeah, I squirm, fighting the urge to pry my hard dick off the teeth of my zipper. I can’t help it. I’m a guy, and Keeley Sunshine drips sex.
The old Divinyls classic ends to hearty applause. I have to agree that this vixen is a musical savant compared to last week’s squeaky screen door on repeat. At a tap of Keeley’s toe—I notice her nail polish is black—the band begins the next tune.
Old jazz, the kind you drink to, so easy it makes you smile. But they’ve modernized it with guitars and drums. Still, I know this tune well because my granddad loved it. Eddie Cantor’s 1929 classic “Makin’ Whoopee.” But she sings it like Rachel MacFarlane, smooth and vampy.
I gotta admit, I’m mesmerized. I can’t stop watching her mouth. Her lips are bee-stung and would look great wrapped around a cock. Mine, for instance.
When the jazz standard ends to even more enthusiastic applause, Keeley picks another decades-old tune. I suspect she’s got an old soul. It fits her slightly retro vibe.
After a sexy, rhythmic intro, she drags in a deep breath, nearly kissing the mic, and uses her breathy voice to say that she put a spell on me because I’m hers. Right now, I can’t argue, especially when her words sparkle brighter than glitter.
Listening to her, I get chills.
Britta leans closer, lips near my ear. “Put your tongue back in your mouth.”
I shoot her a quelling glance, but she’s right. Under normal circumstances, I’d wait for Keeley Sunshine’s set to end, buy her a strong drink, and sweet-talk my way into her panties for the night. But right now the needs of my business outweigh the needs of my dick.
If Griff could see this woman, especially if I cleaned her up a bit, he’d be all over her. In fact, that’s a great idea. I need to figure out how to hook the two of them up—fast—so he stops thinking about the Stowe estate with all those beachfront views.
Still, I can’t suggest that to Britta without upsetting her.
“Blow me,” I murmur instead.
Britta scoffs. “No, thanks. You’re an asshole.”
“I am.” That’s something I’m proud of. Best way to get ahead in business.
“It runs in the Reed family.”
She’s right. My old man is an impeccable textbook example of a puckered anus, too. From him, I learned well. Vaguely, I wonder which pretty young thing he’s banging in his office while my mom buries her head in some all-talk/no-action ladies’ function, but they’ve moved to San Diego. It’s no longer my problem. I’m only irritated they took my younger sister but didn’t persuade Griff to shove off with them. He’s a total sphincter.
