James, James, fucking Jameson Clark and the annoying-as-shit strand of pearls around her neck. The more I stare, the more aggravated I become, especially when I spot her in the living room with my roommate Elliot.

Elliot, who’s actually a decent guy. Stable and reliable, he’s the serious academic sort—finance and pre-law—and probably a better fit for Jameson than I am.

Better fit for her? Shit, what the hell am I saying?

I must be drunk.

The beer flows and so do the shots.

By midnight, I’m shitfaced enough to stop monitoring her every movement all night like a stalker. Shitfaced enough to stop watching every monotonous move she makes. Shitfaced enough to curb whatever possessive instincts are welling up inside my drunk ass—not because I like her, but because the poor thing looks so out of place in her boring ass cardigan, and for some ungodly reason, I feel a fucked up sense of brotherly affection.

Affection? Affliction? Affection—horrible adjective, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.

She spares no such courtesy for me as she continues flirting with Elliot.

Inhaling another beer, my attention wavers only when a hand snakes around my waist, slides over my hard abs. Warm lips meet the side of my neck, and Christ if that doesn’t feel good. Reaching around, I grab the unidentified round ass behind me, giving it a firm squeeze.

“Oz baby, it’s me,” a throaty female voice purrs in my ear. “Did you miss me?”

The owner of that voice moves to my front, dragging her talented hands across my middle, over my lower abs, fingers tugging at the denim waistband of my jeans. “Can I get you alone, baby? There’s no one in the last bedroom. I checked.”

Say baby one more time, I intone sarcastically. Or better yet, shut the hell up.

“Maybe.” I drag the words out as she toys with the fly of my pants. “If you stop talking.”

She nods, red hair and breasts bobbing enthusiastically. We stumble backward, toward the hall, and I back her against the wall, fingers grappling with her tight leggings, stroking the smooth skin beneath her belly button. With an exaggerated moan worthy of a porn star, she shoves her tongue in my mouth with a husky, “I want you to screw me, Oz.”

I cup the back of her head, dragging a sloppy kiss across her lips, voice devoid of any emotion. “How about you blow me instead?”

With another eager head bob, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and gives me a light shove toward a bedroom door three feet to my right…or is that the closet?

“Not in the hall, though, kay?”

Well, no shit not in the hall. I’m more of a gentleman than that. Jesus Christ.

Still, I let her work my zipper, pulling and tugging while I fumble sloppily for the doorknob. She drags it down slowly, right in the hall for anyone to see, her practiced fingers working their way inside my jeans. The door handle gives way just as a shock of emerald appears in my peripheral.

Bright green sweater, gleaming pearls, dark brown hair, and bright blue eyes come to a stunned halt in the corridor. Turn toward us. Stop dead in their tracks, frozen like a deer in headlights.

Or like a virgin in sacrifice.

“Crap, sorry,” comes an all too familiar voice.

Shit.

Winter hat back in place, pulled down over that long, silky brown hair, it frames her innocent face and pisses me the fuck off. Too wide-eyed, too inquisitive.

Too sanctimonious.

Nonetheless, she does the last thing I expect her to do:

Watch.

Jameson’s perceptive perusal misses nothing as it begins a slow descent down the length of Red’s arm, following her grasping hand into the bulge of my pants. Her warm palm vice-grips my hard cock.

With half-hooded eyes, I watch Jameson Clark watching me drag my teeth over my lower lip, watching as I groan, watching when Red removes her hand from the front of my jeans, playfully zipping my fly up and down to regain my attention. Down. Up. Down. The metal teeth slide effortlessly.

My alcohol-induced haze remains on Jameson even as Red works over my cock.

James’ pale collarbone.

Her flushed cheeks.

“Leaving so soon?” I ask as casually as I can, fly hanging open, underwear bunched up at the zipper.

Jameson never misses a beat. Schooling her features, she takes a relaxed sip from her red plastic cup, staring over the rim with narrowed eyes. “Is this how you’re earning the money to pay me?”

What a bitch.

“Maybe,” I half scoff, half moan. “Are you calling me a prostitute?”

“No.” Back ramrod straight, she arches an eyebrow. “I’m just saying…you might consider charging. You could turn a tidy profit selling that body of yours.”

“That sounded oddly like a compliment.” Bracing a hand against the wall so my weak knees don’t buckle, my eyes rake Jameson up and down. “Interested in being my first paying customer?”

She laughs, the loud sound carrying over both the booming music and the redhead whining in my ear. I ignore her when she gives my arm a tug toward the bedroom.

“Interested?” Another laugh from down the hall. “Gross.”

Gross? “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“At what point do you stop using your body to prove a point?”

Am I drunk or is she enunciating every other word? Groaning, my head dips and my tongue darts out to wet my lips.

“Hey Jim.” I sigh, limply pointing down the hall. “If you want to take a piss, you went the wrong way.” I moan when Red’s hand resumes fondling my balls through the denim. “You went the wrong way,” I repeat. “It’s by the kitchen. Unless of course you want to join us in the bedroom.”