Clusterpuck (Vegas Crush #9)

7. Chicken Fight

7 /

chicken fight

Lila

This is not good.

Why did I have to blush like that? Why did I have to give him the satisfaction of knowing I find him attractive?

I mean, it’s just a physical attraction. I’ve always thought Tripp was hot. More like sexy as sin with a perfect combination of masculine beauty.

Ugh. Heat rushes between my legs as I think about his chest. Carved in muscles like an ancient Greek marble with a happy trail of sandy blond running down into his shorts. His pecs are ridiculously defined. And I didn’t get to look long enough, but I think that was an eight-pack.

I wanted to look and look and look. I wanted to touch his biceps, his nipples. I wanted to trace along his tattoos with my fingertips. I wanted to kiss my way down to his navel?—

No. You have to stop this insanity.

Thankfully, my rational side gives my raging libido a beat down.

I dance around, trying to shake it out. Shake out the lust. Because that’s all it is with him. Just a chemical reaction of hormones performing to a biological directive that keeps the Homo sapiens population on Earth from going extinct. He’s an attractive guy by anyone’s standards. That’s all. I just need to remember what a crap personality Tripp Blackburn has, and I’ll be just fine. I need to think with my brain instead of pandering to my increasingly rampant sexual frustration.

Also, Tripp Blackburn has always been like a much older brother. Or a cousin or something. I’ve known him my entire life. Our families are close. It would just be very weird if we were ever together.

And good. I bet it would be very good, too.

“Stop it, Lila,” I whisper out loud. He’s not a match for you. STOP fantasizing about him.

Taking a deep breath, I grab my drink and head back outside. The first thing my eyes find is Tripp, of course. Sunning himself on a pool floatie, looking far too ridiculously sexy for my eyes to ever look away. Dammit. Then I overhear the other taxi-squad rookie, Johnny, say something about a chicken fight.

A younger member of the PR team, I think she said her name was Alexis, jumps in the pool, declaring that she’ll play. Johnny kicks Tripp’s raft with his toe and says, “Play, man.”

“I don’t have a partner. I’m good.”

“Come on, a battle of the ages,” the kid coaxes.

“I’m cool right here.” Tripp looks over at me lazily from his vantage point of a full-access view of the entire party. Like a king on his floating throne.

Again, this is sooo not good.

My grandfather walks up behind me and says, “Oh, go on and help an old friend, will you.”

“Why me?” I realize I’m whining, but I don’t care.

“Because you know him, and he doesn’t have anyone else.”

“He doesn’t want to play, Grandpa.”

“He does. Go help him.”

I groan and stand, pulling my cover-up over my head and tossing it on the chair. “I was trying not to be seen in front of my coworkers in a bathing suit.”

“Oh, shush,” he scolds with an encouraging pat to my shoulder.

I feel like every pair of eyes is on me as I walk to the side of the pool in my Marchmont Exclusive bikini. My mom is curvy but on the willowier side. I did not, however, get her willowy genes. But thankfully, she decided she wanted to design clothes that fit bodies more like mine.

Tripp watches my entire walk, his gaze skimming over me slowly. He takes his time, a slight smirk on his handsome face as I break out in gooseflesh despite the temperature hovering just above a hundred degrees. I’d like to say turnabout is fair play, that this is payback for making me feel—well, for making me feel the way I felt earlier when he took off his shirt. But I think this is for show, just performative. I think he’s trying to make me blush because it makes him feel powerful. I think he likes annoying me, playing with me. It makes me feel like a fourteen-year-old girl all over again.

At the edge of the pool, I hear Scarlett yell for me to jump. I dip a toe in and turn away. “Nope. Too cold.”

“Don’t be a baby. It’s warm once you get used to it,” Tripp encourages. “Come on, I need to shut this kid up.”

I grimace at the thought of the cold water but decide to suck it up, jumping in. I emerge to a chorus of cheers from the women at my table. I let out a hoot, indicating just how shocking the water is. Pushing my hair back from my face and the water from my eyes, I swim over to Tripp. “Let’s go then.”

Tripp rolls off his raft, splashing into the water and then popping back up to surface, looking Greek godlike again as the water sluices over his hard muscles and tanned, inked skin.

“Giddy up, then.” He lowers down into the water to give me access to his shoulders.

Alexis, the PR girl, scrambles onto Johnny ’s shoulders while I hesitate, trying to recall if Tripp and I have ever played chicken fight together. No. This is our first time. I return to the moment and quickly hook first one leg, and then the other over Tripp’s strong, muscular shoulders. I try not to dwell on how his hands feel wrapped around my ankles, holding me securely.

The game is fun, and the other party goers cheer us on as we battle. I feel a little like a kid, and it takes me a moment to let my guard down and stop feeling stupid for playing a children’s game when my coworkers are all watching me.

“Come on, don’t back down,” Tripp growls as Alexis works to push me off his shoulders. “Knock her skinny ass down.”

His hands are strong, still locked around my ankles. Honestly, that’s way more distracting than the anxiety I feel over being watched by my two bosses, my grandfather, and several veteran team members. The distraction, the focus on Tripp, is enough to push me into the game, and I reach out, more vigorous in my efforts to unseat my opponent.

Tripp and I win the first two rounds, the blonde Alexis sputtering water each time she emerges after a strong dunking. Our competition gets a little aggressive at that point, fighting dirty, Alexis pulling my hair and gripping my arms a little more forcefully each time she gets her hands on me. She manages to unseat me in the third round, sending me under the water with such force that I end up gasping and coughing up water as I emerge.

“Oh, that’s war,” Tripp growls. “You okay?”

I laugh and nod. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

We keep battling and take the fourth round. Max yells, “Hurt my granddaughter and you’re fired!”

Everyone laughs, but I know him well enough to know just how serious he is. It seems to get in the other team’s head, too, as they back off a bit, enough for us to take the win.

We do a victory lap around the pool, and it’s then that I realize my legs are nearly wrapped around Tripp’s head. His shoulders are so strong, his biceps so thick. I’m suddenly very, very turned on, my nipples hard beneath my bikini top. My core is overheated, my clit straining for attention at the back of his neck. I want to swing around and let him lick at my most sensitive places.

Daydreaming, I come to reality and realize Tripp is at the edge of the pool, asking me if I want to jump out.

“Oh, I—uh. Yeah.”

I climb out of the pool and head straight for my towel, wrapping myself up before heading toward the house. I pass Tripp, who looks at me strangely, making me blush all over again.

I go straight for my room, shutting and locking the door before heading into the shower. I let the water go hot before stripping. In the mirror, I look at my body. The heavy breasts, accented by large, dark nipples. Full hips and thighs contrast against my smaller waist and flat stomach.

Would Tripp find this body attractive? Would he like my curves, or would he find my breasts too large, my shape too soft?

In the shower, I explore, touching my nipples, pinching them to hard nubs. My hands caress my aching clit, fingers slipping between my folds, and then sinking inside and sliding out again. I guide the shower stream to vibrate at my clit, pushing my hips forward, straining against the ache it causes, using two fingers to push inside again, the water caressing hidden parts, driving me up and up and up.

When I fall, it’s with Tripp’s name on my lips, Tripp’s face in my mind. The orgasm spears through my body. It dissipates and then begins again, each time with imaginings of Tripp there to stroke me, to finger me, to lick me into oblivion.

It feels so good I want to weep.