Joey

We’re four steps outside that stuffy-ass schmooze-fest when I spin on Zeus freaking Berger and startle him into stepping back. “Where’d your buddy take my sister?”

“Whoa, princess—”

Princess? I have that fucker pinned to the wall by the throat in less time than it takes me to make grown men cry. “Do not ever call me princess.”

He grins.

Probably because he knew calling me princess would piss me off.

Possibly also because his throat’s so thick that even with my fingers stretched as wide as they’ll go, I can’t reach from one end of his jawbone to the other, and his neck’s solid as steel.

What the fuck is up with that pulsing in my lady brain? She’s usually smarter than this. More independent too.

And she’s getting all worked up before we notice the brush of something else solid as steel pushing against the top of my abs.

Holy dog. If that’s real—no, concentrate, Joey.

“Where. Is. My. Sister.” I don’t make it a question, because men don’t respect questions. They respect demands and balls, and, honey, I got both.

“Probably took her out to admire some sheep.” Even with the coconuts, dress, and pink wig, Zeus Berger is nothing short of complete masculinity. It’s raining testosterone in this hallway. Only explanation for the wetness in my underwear. “Told you, sheep are more his speed. Besides, she’s a big girl. Nothing wrong with letting her admire some livestock.”

Back home in Podunk, Alabama, yeah, Gracie can take care of herself. But wielding Gomer Smith’s pet duck like a weapon when he tries to sneak a pinch of ass—Gomer, I mean, not his duck, though I wouldn’t put it past the duck either—isn’t the same as being hit on by men with money, fame, and mastery of at least a third of a dictionary.

And don’t go thinking we’re all dumb hicks down in Alabama.

Nope.

Gomer’s simply the only one dumb enough to brave hitting on my sister.

“Admire livestock? That’s the worst euphemism I’ve ever heard, and if he hurts her—”

Zeus’s grin gets bigger. “You gonna kick his ass? Can I watch?”

Fuck if that yard of beef in his skirt doesn’t grow three inches and fossilize right there under my rib cage. And what’s up with my nipples trying to slice their way out of my bra? I gave my virginity to a dildo when I was twenty-one after too many over-confident blowhards fumbled around petting my pussy more for their own pleasure than for mine.

Yeah, I’m technically a virgin. Blow me. Point is, it’s a rare man with a pulse who can crank my engine, and I don’t understand why Zeus Berger is doing it for me.

“I know six different ways to kill a man,” I tell him.

“You are so fucking hot.”

The doofus is still grinning, yeah, but his eyes are hooded blue flames that keep dipping to my lips, and this fucking inconvenient arousal is interfering with my focus on my sister. Pretty sure my clit just tried to outdo his boner, and I have an ache in places between my thighs that have never ached for my dildos or my vibrators.

I don’t know why or how he’s doing this to my body and I’m equal parts horrified that I’m considering asking to see the sausage in his skirt and at the same time jonesing to grab life by the balls and see if a ride on his mega-rocket is everything it’s promising to be.

He’s not trying to prove his manliness by fucking my breastbone—yeah, the stilettos make him that tall—and even though we both know this grip I have on his throat is probably the same as him being cuddled by a teddy bear, he’s letting me keep the illusion I’m in control.

I like being in control.

I’m very much not in control right now.

“Tell you a secret?” he says in that overconfident hockey god growl.

“No.”

“I’m not actually a woman.”

“Yeah, well, I hardly qualify as one myself.”

“Jupiter begs to differ.”

I’m embarrassed to admit it takes me a full three heartbeats—fast heartbeats, just so we’re clear—to catch on. “You named your dick Jupiter.”

He gives one of those of course I fucking did shrugs. “Didn’t want him getting jealous that he wasn’t named after a god too.”

“He has rings?” I ask, which honestly shouldn’t be making my lady brain pulse harder, but there she goes, insanely curious if he’s naturally ribbed for my pleasure.

He wiggles his oddly attractive brows at me. “Don’t you want to know.”

“A spot?”

I’m insulting his junk, and he’s grinning wider by the minute. Hard not to like the guy, which is pissing me off more, because I don’t want to like Zeus Berger. He’s the physical personification of every battle I’ve fought in my professional life to get where I am today.

“You need a telescope to see it?” I guess again.

He traces one long, thick finger down my forearm, which sends my nerves into hyperdrive as a pleasurable shiver licks its way up to my shoulder and down my breasts, making my nipples catch fire and pop mini-boners of their own.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” he says. “Me and Jupiter, we’re both big guys.”

Damn well better be. If I’m gonna screw this ogre’s brains out, it’s going to fucking count. Not that I’m going to—oh, hell, who am I kidding?

Thirty seconds in control of his joystick, and I probably won’t need my toy drawer for two months. Can’t pass up an opportunity like this. “You know there’s a reason they call me Fireball.”

“Because you go down smooth like whisky?”

The idea of going down on him—if that bulge in his dress is real—is one more challenge I might be up for. Which is further proof I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. I smile at him. “Don’t you want to know,” I parrot back.

His blunt fingers are drawing Z’s over the back of my hand. “So how are we going to play this? Me toss you over my shoulder and carry you out of here? Or you toss me over yours?”

The only time a guy’s ever thrown me over his shoulder and carried me anywhere was during a military exercise where I had to play the wounded victim. He tripped, sprained his ankle, and I ended up carrying him to real medical help.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” I say.

“Fuck yeah. Optimistic too. Wanna pet my dragon?”

That grin. That smirk. He’s playing with me. He doesn’t think I’ll do it. Doesn’t think I’ll take him up on his offer. Doesn’t really mean it.

Just like every other jackass who’s thought it would be fun to say he fucked with Joey Diamonte’s mind.

I slide my fingers down his neck, over his thick collarbones, and down to fondle the coconuts on his chest. “You pet mine, I’ll pet yours.”

“Don’t want to pet yours. I’m gonna fucking eat it.”

Highly unlikely. I grip him by the strap of his dress and go in search of a room.

This won’t take long.

And then I’m going to find my sister.