13

Ambrosia

By the sixth inning, the Twins and Yankees are tied at four runs apiece. Eloise is acting like a puck bunny and hanging on Ares’s every word. I shouldn’t be surprised—she’s always gone for the guys with a limited vocabulary.

Parker and Zeus are in a contest to see who can catch the most peanuts—Parker’s winning, twenty-three to seven—and Chase has discovered Willow’s stepdad is an honest-to-god king of a small Nordic country, and he’s grilling her on the country’s economy. Give a guy a billion bucks, and suddenly he thinks he can hobnob with royalty.

Entitled prick.

As for me, I’m trying to enjoy the game. Dusk is settling, it’s seventy-two degrees, and it’s anybody’s ballgame.

What more could I want?

I mean, it’s not like I want Chase to yank me by my hair like a Neanderthal, drag me into the bathroom and make him besmirch my already tattered honor.

That would be crazy.

It’s not like I’ve been sitting here for five innings getting more and more turned on every time the man laughs. Or like I’ve been eyeballing that bulge in his pants, wondering how much longer he can go before he explodes or if being a billionaire somehow gives him magic junk that swells purely to torture the nearby women without causing him any discomfort. Or like I’ve been wondering if there’s any way I could slip my hands into my pants to take some pressure off without anyone noticing.

It’s his cologne, I’ve decided. His newest form of warfare. Odorless pheromones.

I need to steal his recipe. Bottle it and sell it with mobile sex rooms, and then I’ll be a billionaire too.

Or possibly incarcerated again for breaking some obscure pheromone drug and sex peddling laws. Thanks, Chase. Two trips to the pen, all courtesy of you.

I growl at him.

He shifts his attention back to me and lifts a brow.

As if he doesn’t know I’m on to him and his unscented, Ambrosia-targeting pheromones that are making me consider criminal activities.

I roll my eyes.

He grins, but this isn’t the smile he’s been giving Willow.

No, this is a smile of victory. Of power. Of corruption.

That’s right. Corruption. Sexual corruption. All heavy-lidded and smirky and has he always had those long eyelashes? and holy sex on a stick what the hell is wrong with me that I want to bang this man blind?

I lift my chin and look away, and suddenly Zeus is punching me in the arm. “Kiss Cam,” he hisses. “Kiss Cam.”

We’re mid-inning and the crowd’s chanting Kiss her, Kiss her, Kiss her. I lift my gaze to the video board, expecting to see a saggy grandma and gramps or some cute college couple, and instead, I’m staring straight at myself.

And Chase.

Zeus’s giant fist is gargantuan on the screen, poking me hard enough to make my whole body shake. “Kiss Cam. You have to kiss. It’s a rule.”

Fine. It’s a rule. I have to kiss Chase. Because the baseball gods demand it.

I’ll do it. But I’m not going to like it.

I turn to him, and see my exact thoughts written in his eyes. Bet you flinch first.

He was so on.

I lunge at him before he sees it coming. My lips smush against the side of his mouth. My arm bangs the back of his chair. Someone shrieks, and I wonder if my beer is now decorating the suite.

That’s the last rational thought I have before Chase grips my hair, guides my lips to his, and does that holy toe-curling, mind-bending, mouth-orgasm-inducing thing with his tongue. It’s as twisted as his dick is, and oh my god, I want to suck on it until I can’t feel my lips anymore, except then I couldn’t feel the glorious way his twisted, wet velvet mouth-dick is making my entire body light up like a flashing neon video board strung with a billion Christmas lights.

Pleasure here, enter now and suck face until your ovaries explode.

There’s an armrest between us, and that won’t do, nope, absolutely won’t do at all. I fling my leg over his leg—god, I ache, just one little touch, one little stroke, please, I’ll be a good girl and only call you a dick to your face when we’re naked and not in an elevator and—oh.

Oh, yes.

I don’t care if that’s his hand or the armrest or if it’s a fucking bratwurst, something’s rubbing my clit and he’s still fucking my mouth with his tongue and he has an iron grip on the back of my neck and I can’t breathe but I don’t want to because yes, yes yes yes, more, right there, don’t stop, oh my god, I’m rocking on his leg, or his arm, or something, and it’s perfect and I’m suddenly remembering that thing he did with his hand in the elevator and I’m wet and hot and ready and I need to touch him.

I need to touch his cock right fucking now.

I uncurl my hands from fisting his shirt and tug the fabric out of his pants, seeking, searching—

And beer rains down on my head.

I jerk up.

Just in time, too, because Ares has dropped the twin beer cans he just crushed over our heads and he’s grabbing Chase by the back of his shirt and lifting him like he’s a feather. Or maybe a small bird. Or maybe a guy about to be murdered by an angry, three-hundred-fifty-pound brother whose day job is being a monster on and off the ice.

Someone screams.

I’m pretty sure it was Parker, but it might’ve been me, because it’s totally worth screaming over the way Ares looks like he’s contemplating tossing Chase out of the suite.

Right there.

At the edge of the suite.

Just drop him six stories onto the unsuspecting fans below.

“Out the door, dumbass,” Zeus bellows.

My heart is simultaneously in my gut and in my throat, my legs are the consistency of melted jelly beans, and I can’t catch my breath.

Ares twists Chase and stares him right in the eyeball, close enough that they both go cross-eyed. “That’s my sister,” he growls.

“And she’s a big girl who can kick your ass,” Chase growls back as if Ares doesn’t have at least eight inches and well over a hundred pounds on him and why am I thinking about inches and pounding and getting turned on again?

“Holy fuck,” Eloise whispers.

I’m simultaneously mortified and lustified. And if you don’t think lustified is a word, trust me, it is, and I am so that right now. Hornified too, which is like being horny and horrified all at once.

And I can’t make up any more words, because I’m going to throw up because Ares is going to throw Chase out of the box.

“Ares, put him down,” I order, but I sound like a sex-crazed nympho at a dildo party.

I don’t know. I’m not thinking straight. Just go with it.

And for God’s sake, someone make my brother put Chase down.

Either Ares reads my mind, or I shriek that last part out loud, because he finally puts Chase down. In the doorway. Which he flings open for the sole purpose of shoving Chase out of the suite, and then slams it shut again.

“You called him Chase,” Ares says. “Not Dick.”

Oh, shit. Oh, double hornified lustified shit.

He’s right. I didn’t call Chase a dick.

I like to think it’s because I’m a nice person, but the truth may be far more sinister—and hornifying—than that.

Zeus is looking at me with his hockey game face. I’ve seen that face make grown men cry. I’ve seen that face make lumberjacks cry. It would probably make God cry, but for other reasons that aren’t really relevant now because Zeus does exist and that is God’s fault.

But that face won’t make me cry, because I know Zeus is ticklish on his third rib and that he’s terrified of daddy long legs, which I silently communicate back to him.

“You have a problem,” he says.

I toss my hair. “I just wanted him to think he was doing a good job. It’s my charitable act of the day.”

I have a problem.

My phone dings somewhere in the suite. My three wide-eyed friends all lunge for the floor in front of the chair that probably needs to be disinfected or burned, and all three of them simultaneously gasp.

“Oh my god, Sia, you have a problem,” Parker whispers.

“We’ve established that,” I start, but my brain catches up quickly.

The Kiss Cam.

We just dry-humped on the freaking Kiss Cam. It’s probably already on Facebook and YouTube. My mother’s going to see this.

My fingers go numb.

Thankfully, so does my vagina. Would’ve been nice five minutes ago, vagina.

“What country did you say your mother married into?” I whisper to Willow. “And do they need a social media manager?”

Parker shoves the phone at me. “Hide this from your brothers. I’m taking you home. And making sure you stay there.”

I glance down, read the message, and every last inner muscle Chase hit the other night clenches in anticipation.

Mortification be damned.

Chase just texted that he has a sex room. And that I’m welcome to join him in it anytime.