The Infatuation (Josh and Kat #1 , The Club #5) (17 page)

“A few minutes ago, but he hasn’t responded yet.
Will you let him know I’m here? We’ll hang out by the downstairs
bar for a bit so he can find us.” Josh motions to me. “Oh, sorry.
Barry, this is my lovely date for the evening, Kat.”

“Hello there, Kat,” Barry says in his deep voice. He
puts out his hand and I take it.

“Nice to meet you, Barry,” I say.

“Careful, Barry. Don’t look her in the eyes. She’ll
hypnotize you with that fucking gorgeous face and try to trick you
into telling her your darkest secrets.”

I look at Josh, flabbergasted, but Josh and Barry
are laughing easily together.

“I dunno, Josh. Seems like there are much worse
things that could happen to a guy than getting royally fucked over
by this one here.”

“Amen, brother,” Josh says.

“Uh . . .” I say, at a loss for words. I think Barry
just complimented me, but I’m not sure if “thank you” is an
appropriate reply.

Before I can figure out what to say, Barry opens the
velvet rope and motions for us to pass into the club. “Have fun,
kids. Go easy on him, Kat. He’s a good guy.” He chuckles. “I’ll
tell Reed you’re here.”

The minute Josh and I enter the club, I slip into
some sort of hedonism-induced coma. I’ve been to my share of
nightclubs, but I’ve never seen a temple to pure excess quite like
this. Almost-nude women “bathe” throughout the club in clear
Plexiglas bathtubs filled with flower petals; lithe, rippling
acrobats in skin-tight bodysuits hang from the ceiling on trapeze
swings, twisting and gyrating like the performers Josh and I saw
earlier tonight with Jonas and Sarah at
Cirque Du Soleil
;
seizure-inducing lights and lasers are bouncing around every square
inch of the place; and screens scattered throughout the club flash
shocking pornographic images in rapid-fire succession, so fast my
brain isn’t sure what my eyes just witnessed. It’s sheer spectacle.
Obscenity. Titillation to the extreme.
And I love it
.

Josh pulls me to a long, sparkling bar and flags
down the bartender.

“Martini?” he shouts into my ear above the thumping
music.

“Shots!” I yell. “So we can get onto the dance floor
right away.”

“Good idea!” Josh shouts back and turns toward the
bar.

Oh man, I’m ready to dance. Even standing here at
the bar, my body’s already begun involuntarily herking and jerking
to the bass-heavy beat.

A phenomenally good-looking guy in a suit sidles up
to Josh and taps him on the shoulder. Josh turns toward the
unidentified tap and, when he sees the guy, his entire face lights
up. The two men hug with what looks like extreme affection and as
they break apart the guy kisses Josh on his cheek with a giant,
enthusiastic swak.

Josh motions to me, talking into the guy’s ear, and
Mr. Handsome smiles and waves at me, though I can’t hear a thing
above the thumping music.

Josh leans into my ear. “Reed’s part-owner of this
club.”

“Nice to meet you Reed,” I say, but it’s clear he
can’t hear me. He just smiles and waves again. Wow. He’s a really,
really good-looking man. I lick my lips. I guess hotties travel in
packs.
The Brotherhood of the Traveling Hottie
McHottie-pants
, I think, making myself laugh.

The bartender places the shots in front of us on the
bar, and Josh distributes them among the three of us.

Josh leans into Reed’s ear and says something and
they both burst out laughing. Reed nods and slaps Josh’s back.

Damn, I wish I had superhuman hearing right now. But
all I can hear is the blaring music. Appropriately, the song
playing right now is “I Can’t Feel My Face” by The Weekend, a song
about a guy who, of course, can’t feel his face, presumably because
he’s drunk or high. On what, though, it’s not clear. Booze? Lust?
Whichever it is (or both), I’m right there with him. Fo
shizzle-pops.

Josh and Reed are still talking in each other’s ears
and laughing, so I begin dancing in place to the music, marveling
at just how little I can feel my face. Or toes. Or brain. I’m
verging on drunk, actually. And it feels hella good.

“Thanks, bro,” I hear Josh say. “I owe you one.”

“You bet.”

Josh turns his gaze on me and smiles like a wolf. He
leans into my ear and snakes his arm around my waist.

“You still going commando?” he asks, right in my
ear. His hand migrates down to my ass.

“I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself,” I
say. “Right after you kiss me and concede to my terrorist demands,”
I say.

He laughs. “You mean after
you
kiss
me
and give up your fucking
jihad
.”

I shake my head and retract my lips completely into
my mouth, signaling my lips are unkissable until he gives me what I
want.

He laughs and grabs my hand. “Come on, Madame
Terrorist. It’s time to dance.”

Kat

Holy hell.

If dancing is any indication whatsoever of a man’s
sexual prowess, then Josh Faraday is a sex god. Oh my God, the way
he swivels and rocks those hips makes me yearn for him to grind
them just like that on top of me while wearing nothing but a cocky
smile. Holy shitballs. This man can
move
.

The song playing is “Want To Want Me” by Jason
Derulo and Josh knows every word. He’s singing the song to me,
serenading me—and with so much charm and swagger, I can’t help but
laugh with glee. I can’t remember having this much fun dancing with
a guy—with my girlfriends, sure. But with a guy? A
hot
guy?
No. Usually, when I’m dancing with a really hot guy, I’m so
concerned about coming off as sexy and desirable to him, I forget
to just let loose and have fun. But Josh makes it impossible to
feel anything but totally uninhibited. Oh my God, I’m laughing too
much to even try to be sexy. I throw my hands above my head and
wiggle my hips and giggle uncontrollably, mirroring Josh’s
confident movement, and he laughs his ass off at every little thing
I do. And the crazy thing is, having fun like this is making me so
wet, I’m worried I’m gonna drip down my bare thigh in this
shorty-short dress.

As the song reaches its conclusion, Josh looks up
toward the balcony and locks eyes with Reed. He gives Reed a thumbs
up and Reed returns the gesture. When Josh’s eyes dart back to me,
he levels me with a smile that makes me feel like he’s planning to
put me in an oven with some onions and potatoes.

The song abruptly changes to a hip-hop song I don’t
know. But, clearly, Josh does—because as the rapper begins spitting
out lyrics, Josh mouths every single word along with him. Oh my
God, Josh is freaking hilarious right now. He’s thugging out to the
song, going all in, shaking his ass and owning it. Oh man, I’ve
never seen a concoction of maleness quite like this before. He’s
raw and smooth and funny and hot and goofy all at the same time.
He’s redefining sexy for me, right here and now. He’s just...
wow.

I listen intently to the lyrics of the song, trying
to plumb the depths of my dance-club memories, but nope, I don’t
recognize it. I pull out my phone, activate my Shazam app—and just
when the song title displays on my phone—“Kiss Me” by Lil
Wayne—Josh begins singing along to the chorus. “Kiss me,” Josh
raps, grinding his hips like he’s auditioning for
Magic
Mike
. “Kiss me.”

I laugh. What a sneaky little bastard. And a
hilarious one.

He inches closer and closer to me, still rapping and
grinding his hips ferociously, until, suddenly, and with great
dramatic flair, he grabs me, pulls me into him, and grinds his body
into mine with enthusiastic thrusts to the beat of the music. “Kiss
me,” he says to me, his lips on my ear, his intoxicating cologne
wafting into my nostrils. His strong hands encircle my waist and
grip my back as he presses his undulating body into mine. His lips
migrate to my cheek, where they trail the length of my jawbone. His
tongue laps at my neck.

Oh muh guh. Playtime’s over. Shit just got real.

His hard-on presses into me, thrusting, grinding,
making my knees weak—and, holy shitballs, there’s no mistaking the
size of that hard bulge, even through the man’s pants. Good lord.
Josh doesn’t need to chain me to a donkey—he’s got it covered on
his own.

He parts my legs with his thigh and grinds his hard
dick right into my clit, over and over, still rapping and groping
me as he does.

I throw my head back.

Yes.

My clit ignites inside my panties. I’m beginning to
warp and ache. My skin is beginning to prickle.

“Kiss me,” he says into my ear, gyrating his body
against mine. Oh my God. He’s taking my breath away.

His mouth skims my ear and lands on my cheek and
then my neck. I run my fingers into his hair, pressing my breasts
into the hardness of his chest and my crotch into the bulge of his
pelvis. Oh God. He nuzzles the tip of his nose against mine,
teasing me. His lips are an inch away from mine, skimming, teasing,
hovering as close as humanly possible without actually making
contact, his erection continuing to grind into me as his mouth
taunts me.

The song is thumping in my ears.

The lights on the dance floor are entrancing me.

My body is moving in time with his.

He smells so frickin’ good, I wanna ingest him.

I feel dizzy.

Weak.

Frenzied.

I lift my leg and encircle his hip with it, aching
to take him inside me. He shifts position and presses himself even
more feverishly against me, sending his hard-on right up against
the exact spot that makes me burst into flames.

Yeeeeeeeeoooowwwwwwww.
Yes.
Right there. I
press into him harder, moaning, and he rubs that hard bulge
ferociously against me, still rapping the words to the song.

His hand navigates under the hem of my dress and
brushes against my bare ass cheek, causing goose bumps to erupt all
over my body.

Without the slightest hesitation, he fingers my ass
crack, presumably trying to figure out if I’m wearing a G-string,
and when he finds the string, he slides his fingers all the way
down it, down, down, down, and then forward, straight to the
crotch, where his fingers begin exuberantly stroking the soft,
extremely wet fabric of my panties.

My knees buckle and he holds me up, his fingers
continuing to stroke. He kisses my ear and then my neck, yet again,
rapping into my ear. “Kiss me,” he purrs.

His lips migrate to mine and hover, yet again, just
over my lips, inviting me to bridge the gap and slip my tongue into
his mouth—inviting me to lay my weapon down.

But I don’t.

“Terrorist,” he breathes.

Without warning, his fingers slip underneath the
fabric of my G-string and plunge right into my wetness.

Holy fuckburgers.

I cry out in surprise and extreme pleasure, pressing
myself into his fingers and gyrating to the pulsing music.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers in my ear.
“Stop torturing me.”

I don’t reply, but he can plainly feel how badly I
want him, too. I’m absolutely dripping for him.

I moan loudly right into his ear and lick his cheek,
and his body responds against mine with obvious excitement. I run
my hands through his hair, grinding myself into his fingers like
I’m riding on top of a big, hard cock. I inhale sharply. I can’t
breathe. My body is warping. “Oh God, here it comes,” I say into
his ear. “A big one. Oh God. Josh, yeah. Don’t stop. Just like
that.”

A huge orgasm slams into me and I stiffen in his
arms, my loud moans swallowed by the blaring music as my body
clenches around his fingers, over and over.

“Oh shit,” he says. “Yeah, baby. Do it.”

When the clenching and warping and rippling stops, I
can barely stand. I nuzzle my face into his neck and he holds me
close, supporting my entire body weight in his arms. He presses his
body into mine as he holds me, and our bodies sway together to the
loud, thumping music.

A new song begins. “In Da Club” by 50 Cent.

He suddenly pulls back from me and puts his hands on
my face. His chest is rising and falling sharply. His gaze is
intense.

By the look on his face, I’d guess he’s trying to
decide if fucking me counts as losing the bet. Or, at least, that’s
what I’m trying to figure out. Did we decide
kissing
or
fucking
ends our stalemate? I can’t remember now.

Sweaty bodies are bouncing and swaying all around us
on the dance floor, but we’re standing stock still, looking at each
other, trembling with pent-up desire. I tilt my face up to his and
close my eyes, inviting him to swoop in and kiss me already. But he
doesn’t take the bait.

“
Fuck
,” he says.

I open my eyes.

He’s glaring at me like he’s enraged at me.

He releases my face, grabs my hand, and begins
dragging me across the packed dance floor. It takes effort to snake
through the sea of bouncing people, but finally we’re off the dance
floor, working our way through the crowded club. The restrooms are
in sight—but there are long lines of people waiting to get into
both sets. Is that where he was intending to take me? Or was he
headed to the exit? Or maybe to the bar? Any of these destinations
is equally possible, given our current location in the club.

He stops walking.

“Fuck,” he says, gripping my hand. He looks up at
the ceiling for a brief moment, apparently gathering himself.
“Goddammit.”

50 Cent raps his famous line about being into
sex
rather than
lovemaking
and I can’t help but sing
along at the appropriate moment.

Josh chuckles. “You’re hell on wheels, Kat. Jesus
Christ.”

Out of nowhere, Reed appears next to us, swatting
Josh on his shoulder. “Hey, man.”

“Oh, hey, bro.” Josh glances at me, a wistful smile
on his lips. “Thanks for the song.”