Draegan doesn’t like to do business at his parties. One of the mox demons came over to us and handed the incubus a glass of liquor. He took a sip and smiled. He does serve good brandy, though. Would either of you care for a drink?
They’re both grunting, feet smashing into end tables. The wall.One booted foot kicks. Entire body thrashes.
The guy on the bottom is unsuccessfully trying to untangle himself from whatever hold he’s in now, floundering like a fish out of water. Flopping, too drunk to remove himself but giving it the old college try.Face bright red, he’s sputtering, getting pissed.Steam practically rolls out of his nostrils as he throws his head back, trying to knock it against his opponent’s sweaty forehead.
Fuck you, Kissinger, he slurs. Let me the fuck up.Kissinger laughs, squeezing his arms like a python, wrapping them tighter.
The crowd shifts, girls gasping, people calling out. Cheering. Stumbling around, trying to make room as the boys tussle.
An elbow is released, nailing Kissinger in the gut. It’s not a taut stomach; he clearly hasn’t missed a kegger in months, beer belly pronounced.Uh, no. Teddy laughs. They talk about what it would feel like between their legs.
What? Another laugh from her and I’m ready to fly off the damn bed. You’re lying.Kip, they make T-shirts that say Bearded for her pleasure. You should get one—I’d get you one myself, but I’m broke, ha.
Have you been living under a rock? Beards are so trendy right now. Even I know that, and I’m the untrendiest person I know. That doesn’t mean I like beards, but everyone else does—girls, I mean.That would explain so many things: girls still approaching me at parties, wanting to touch my beard. Touching my mustache at the bar. Making lewd comments. Telling me I should enter contests.