The Bet (Winslow Brothers 1)

The first song on my list is by the one and only Pretty Ricky, and when the opening beats of “Grind with Me” start to echo inside the private room, I smirk to myself. Frankly, if I weren’t so focused on making sure I beat Maverick at his own game, I might even laugh out loud over this. I mean, when I headed into work tonight, playing stripper for the evening didn’t even cross my mind.

Hell, if my three brothers knew what I was up to right now, they’d be begging these women to record it so they could razz my ass for the next fifty years. Also, I’m pretty sure Ty would keep it on hand for future blackmail purposes.

Normally, I spend my weekends schmoozing the VIPs at whatever club my company is currently promoting, not engaging in the customer experience. But I’m no stranger to a wager, and to be frank, resisting them is kind of my weak point. The thrill, the excitement, the bragging rights that come with besting a challenge—they’re better than any drug.

I’m always up for a contest. And by tomorrow, Mav is going to have to cough up the dough when he realizes I can pull more tips than him in a night by a long shot.

The women inside the private room start to form a half circle around the bachelorette sitting in the center, and they don’t hesitate to squeal and shout their excitement.

I work the room a little, gyrating my hips to the beat, and try to amp up the excitement of all the bachelorette’s party friends by dancing and flirting with them a little. I don’t give them much eye contact, though, reserving all of my looks for the bachelorette herself.

She’s gorgeous, so it’s not even remotely a shock that some sappy bastard has decided to lock her down for life, even if marriage is a fool’s game.

I swerve and grind and mingle among the crowd, but when a tall blonde with a loud mouth gets a little too handsy, I smirk and gently excuse myself from her attention so I can put all my focus on the most important woman in this room—Belle, the bride-to-be.

Without delay, I stalk straight over to her, grip her thighs with my hands, and spread them wide so I can step in between them. She squeals, puts both of her hands between her legs to cover herself, and her beautiful emerald eyes expand when she looks up into my steady gaze.

I wink and whisper toward her, “Don’t worry, gorgeous. I won’t peek.”

Slowly, I unbutton my white dress shirt, never once removing my gaze from hers. Which, oddly enough, isn’t a difficult task at all.

No doubt, this woman is a fucking stunner. Big green eyes, full red lips, and the kind of long, dark lashes most women would sell their souls for.

She’s the epitome of beauty, but it’s not even by normal standards. She’s just…striking. The kind of woman you can’t just take one quick look at.

No. She makes it hard to pull your eyes away from her.

But beyond all the outer-layer beauty, something mysterious and intriguing lies below the surface. I like to think it means she has all sorts of dirty, sexy secrets that she’s never told anyone about, but she’s dying to find someone to spill them to.

Pretty Ricky sings about taking your time, and once the buttons of my shirt are undone, I slide the material off my body and toss it over her head, so it’s wrapped around the back of her chair. Swiftly, I tie the sleeves into a loose knot at the front of her chest, pinning her arms down at the sides of her body. It’s a pretty comical move considering she already seems to be sitting on her hands, but it gets the gaggle of ladies worked up, to say the least.

Dollar bills fly in the air as the women start cheering over the idea of their friend bound to a chair.

The pretty goddess in front of me blinks rapidly and laughs, digging her teeth into her bottom lip in the sexiest fucking way. It’s a hearty mix of nerves and embarrassment and excitement, and I’d be willing to bet that I’m not the only one who’s experiencing a firsthand exotic dance for the first time.

I smile back at her, running my tongue along my top lip in the hopes that she’ll show me something new. It pays off as her eyes broaden, and the vein in her neck starts to pulse at a rapid pace.

Damn. Before I know it, I start to think about what she looks like when she’s having sex.

Is she completely uninhibited? Or is she adorably shy? Are her moans loud and uncontrolled or soft as a whisper?

Fuck. I probably shouldn’t go there. I mean, she is someone’s fiancée, not a single woman who isn’t spoken for, but in a way, that makes it even more fun to play. There’s no pressure of dealing with overdeveloped feelings, no chance that she’ll grow attached and become clingy—no danger of coming on too strong and scaring her away. Coming on strong, in fact, is kind of the fucking point.