Rich Player (The Dirty Thirty Pledge 3)

“I don’t know,” he says. “My best moves come out when I’m protecting damsels in distress.”

“Just pretend you’re saving me from every other guy in this club, and I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

He leans down, and for a second I think he might kiss me. And despite the fact that I just met him, I’m going to let him. But there’s a sharp sound next to us, and I turn to see the bartender setting down a large bottle and two glasses.

“What is that?”

“This is Johnnie Walker Blue. It’s twelve-year-old scotch.”

I’ve heard of that. The shit is expensive, and I’ve heard it’s smooth as hell. But I’ve never been able to try it. I don’t have the kind of budget that would let me take shots that cost a hundred dollars a pop.

The bartender pops the seal on the bottle and the deep brown liquid gathers in the bottom of the glasses. “Going all out for that birthday, huh?”

He hands me a glass, and grins. “Nah, this would be a normal night. If you want us to go all out, we could do that.”

I stare at him. “You can afford this kind of scotch on a normal night?”

All he does is smile a small, coy smile, like the goddamn Mona Lisa. “Tell me if you like it.”

I take a sip. Do I like it? Oh my God, the stories were right. It’s smooth like butter but sharp with rich after-notes that linger on my tongue. It’s like drinking warmth and sunshine, and I can practically feel it pour through me. “Wow.”

“Good?”

“Amazing,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to try it.”

He pours himself another shot—the bartender is nowhere to be seen—and throws it back. “Whiskey girl?”

“You bet.” I slide my glass across the bar for more. The second shot is just as good as the first. “We’re allowed to just keep drinking this?”

“I bought the bottle.”

I try to keep my jaw off the floor while Glenn grins and waves to the bartender. Then he takes my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor. “Now that I’ve had a couple shots, maybe I’ll be a better dancer.”

“Somehow I don’t think you’re going to have a problem,” I say, as we blend into the crowd.

I’m right. Even without the drinks hitting our systems, it’s clear that Glenn is an amazing dancer. He pulls me to him and we’re moving with the rhythm effortlessly. This feels so much different than our first dance which was a little awkward and not sexy at all. Not really.

Now I’m focused on him, and oh my God, it’s a little overwhelming. Glenn’s hands are on my hips, guiding me and exploring. Up across my ribs and down my arms where our fingers tangle together and back to my sides where I like the feeling of his fingers holding a little tighter while we spin.

His arm slips around my waist, and I lose my breath at even that little feeling of skin on skin. My ass is pressed against him, and I can’t ignore the fact that he’s aroused. He’s not hiding it, and I don’t mind, because I’m aroused too. All that warmth from his skin and the whiskey is pooling together in my gut making me crave more. More touch, more scotch, more of this feeling.

I’m definitely getting a little drunk, but not so drunk that I don’t know what I want. I came all the way to Nashville, and while I’m here I’m going to have a good time, and I don’t want to stop. Who better to have a good time with than the guy that helped me out? I already know that he’s a good guy. That’s more than I can say for some strangers.

Glenn’s thumb hooks into the waistband of my jeans, and it’s that little, intimate touch that makes me gasp. I didn’t know a finger could make me feel like that. I turn so that we’re face to face, locking my arms around his neck. That finger is still there, sliding around just under the waistband of my jeans until his hand sits on the small of my back, pressing us together.

“I think you’re probably a good dancer without the shots,” I say.

“Maybe,” he says, grinning down at me. “Maybe not. Guess you might have to dance with me again when I’m sober to find out.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, there’s another way that I could find out.”

“What’s that?”

“You know what they say about dancing and sex.”

Glenn’s hands pull me tighter against him, and I can feel his erection raging hot between us. I press my chest into his so he can feel all of me. We’re barely dancing anymore, standing in the middle of a crowd of moving people. “Enlighten me,” he says.

“They say that people who are good dancers are pretty good at sex. But they also say that people who are great in bed are fantastic dancers, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter whether or not you’re sober.”