Barzy's is the perfect sports bar; bright enough to see everyone, big enough to fit everyone, and at the beginning of the night, quiet enough to hear everyone. There are booths to sit on, a pool table and darts to play at, and a dance floor to dance on.
The only thing that's different tonight is the fact that I'm not dressed like a four-year-old boy. I'd say I was upset about the attention I've been getting, but the guys are making me die of laughter. They've gotten creative at keeping the men away; from wafting their hands and acting like I stink, to speaking too loudly about my non-existent third nipple, they've successfully kept the flirting and gawking at bay.
It's all been teasing and funny, but starts to get intense when the boys fan out and I'm left alone with Greyson. His tactics for keeping the lingerers away is a bit less silly and a lot more... how do I put it...
"Hey Syn. Woah... You look fucking good," one of the fraternity guys I met at the house party says, stepping closer to give me a hug.
Well, at least I thought that's what he was doing, but before I could figure it out, Greyson stepped up to give the guy one of those manly-bro handshakes. Then he leaned into me and slipped his arm over my shoulder and into my back pocket.
"Uhh..." the guy stutters, looking back and forth between the two of us, looking uncomfortable.
"My girl does look fucking good," Greyson mocks.
Why can't I tell if the shiver that just ran down my neck was because of the way he called me, or the way he's touching me? His hand is on my butt!
"Yeah," the guy laughs awkwardly. "Anyway, you two have a good night." Then he scurries away to his other frat brothers.
I look up to Greyson with a blasé expression. The poor frat guy didn't deserve that.
"What?" He smirks unapologetically. "It's not my fault you're a hottie with a body."
"Your hand is still on my butt," I complain, as if I don't actually want it to stay there for the rest of eternity.
"Yeah, my hand is stuck in your pocket. Once again, not my fault you've got a sexy ass," he says, and I somehow gain the ability to jump away, whacking his arm in the process.
"Why are you talking to me like that?" I squeak, embarrassed by the ache building between my legs.
He maintains his cocky gaze while tipping his beer back, his eyes never leaving mine. "Because it's true," he admits unceremoniously.
"You're being awfully bold there, buddy."
"Buddy," he scoffs, planting his finished bottle down on a nearby table with a harsh clank.
"You're drunk," I comment, but it's more of a question.
What's going on with him?
Just then, a hot Middle Eastern man walked over, looking intent on approaching me. Are these guys really going to risk the wrath of the two-hundred-and-twenty-pound bodyguard next to me just for some puss? Not smart, guys.
Before he could approach, Greyson's massive body was on mine, backing me predatorily into the bar until my spine hit the sticky wood. In one swift, heart-jumping motion, his head ducked until his mouth was on the shell of my ear.
"I may be drunk," he whispers, his hot breath igniting my skin. He places his hands on either side of my waist, leaning against the bar and trapping me with nowhere to go but into him. "But you're so goddamn stunning, I can't seem to keep the dogs away."
All I hear is his rough, sex-hot voice and the thrum of my pulse in my ears.
"So, what? You think flirting with me will make them take a hint?" I whisper shakily into his strong shoulder.
YOU ARE READING
Sweet as Syn
RomanceShe's heart-meltingly sweet. He's deliciously sinful. Greyson Decker is your typical jock; God in the bedroom, king on the field. His brooding glare and shredded body terrifies as much as it turns on, and that gets him as much attention with women...
