Resist (Sphere of Irony 3)

I shove the stone back in my pocket and spin around, my erection gone from Mitch’s callous insult. Stepping into Mitch’s personal space, I get right up close so he can see exactly how furious I am.

“Don’t fucking call me a girl, Utah,” I growl.

Surprise registers on Mitch’s handsome face. Then he scowls right along with me. “Don’t act like one then!” he shoots back, stepping forward, trying to bully me back.

Too bad he doesn’t know that thanks to my dad, I’m an expert at dealing with bullies.

Fuming mad, I shove at his shoulders with my hands, sending him crashing into the wall behind him. “You work for me!”

Oh god, my dark fantasy is coming true. What’s the chance he’ll throw me against the wall and kiss me right now?

Mitch growls, a deep, masculine sound that comes rumbling from his wide chest. Christ, I can’t do this in here. It’s too hot, he’s too close, and now I’m fucking hard again from staring at those grey eyes and smelling his cologne mixed with the scent of him.

Knowing I’ll do something I’ll regret if I don’t leave, I spin and fling open the door, stomping down the hall to rejoin the rest of the band. I don’t have to look to know that Mitch has fallen into step behind me.

I’m being an asshole and I know it. Taking out my anger out on Mitch isn’t fair. It’s not his fault I’m attracted to him. That all he has to do is exist and I’ll sprout a hard-on that can pound nails.

But the fact that I can’t get laid is his fault to some extent. I plan to remedy that tonight. A cute brunet cruised me earlier during the meet and greet. Maybe he’ll be in the VIP section and I can convince him to come over later. If I can’t have Mitch, I’ll have the next best thing.

Ross catches me in the hall. “Hey, we’re heading upstairs.”

“Fine.”

I follow Ross out into the main club and up to the corded off VIP area. Catching a glimpse of Mitch out of the corner of my eye as I take the seat next to Hawke, I note his chiseled jaw is rigid and his eyes are hard slits. Mitch scans the area, looking for threats, I’m sure. When those cold eyes land on mine, heat floods my body. Unable to pull my gaze from his, I watch as streaks of crimson flush his cheeks, a slight twitch pulling at one eye, before his gaze darts away.

Shifting in my chair, I realize that I am completely fucked up. I might hate him, I might feel like punching him, but it’s undeniable that I want him.

How the hell am I supposed to function like this?

Mitch

Unreal.

Gavin Walker is one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever met. And the only one who refuses to listen to my advice. I’m fuming from the far end of the limo while Gavin drunkenly makes out with some guy he picked up at the club.

Gavin has no idea who this guy is. For all we know, he could be the stalker! Now I’m in for a long night because I’m sure as hell not going to leave him alone in the house with a random person who may or may not want to chop him up into little pieces. The security set up outside wouldn’t get to him in time if something were to happen.

I watch as the dark-haired guy climbs up on Gavin’s lap, straddling him. Long, thin fingers skate down the guy’s back, gripping his ass tight while they grind together.

Jesus. They can’t wait until we get back to Gavin’s house? The neck of my dress shirt is choking me. I dig my fingers in and pull, loosening my tie. It’s not enough. It feels as if I’m slowly suffocating. I have to swallow down a gag and focus on breathing.

I hadn’t planned on seeing a live sex show. And in a million years wouldn’t have guessed it would turn me on. The unexpectedness of that fact pisses me off, as does the hard cock in my pants.

When we get to the house, I hop out first, checking to make sure there isn’t a crazy person waiting to ambush Gavin. Of course Gavin doesn’t wait for me to finish my sweep. Instead, he stumbles out of the limo with what’s-his-name in tow, both of them giggling like the drunken idiots they are.

They shove past me to the front door and are inside before I can check for threats in the house.

“Christ,” I mutter under my breath.

I follow them inside and lock the deadbolt just in time to hear an upstairs door slam shut.

Fucking celebrities. This is why I don’t do this shit. Corporate bigwigs have more sense of self-preservation than spoiled rotten rock stars.

May as well finish my sweep of the house before settling in for a long night of babysitting.

First, I take off my jacket and hang it on a chair. Then I pull the knot out of my tie and slip it off, folding it up and sticking it in the jacket pocket. After loosening the top few buttons of my shirt, I still feel restricted, but less than before.

I move through the house to the back windows, looking out over the dark, deserted beach. Despite the lack of privacy, it’s beautiful. The moon is three-quarters full, so the sand and the waves glisten an eerie grey under the light. There’s not a soul to be seen. Not unexpected seeing as it’s—I pull out my phone and check the time—three-thirty in the morning.