Her name was Amy, and she was a flight attendant. Tall, brunette with wicked bright eyes and a cherry bomb smile. She liked tequila, loud music and apparently, Clint, and the way he looked in a black Henley and dark jeans. And it had only taken a couple of drinks for her to warm up to the idea he was presenting, because he was pretty sure she was looking for a bit more excitement than the average roll in the hay.
So he'd laid it out. Without the details, of course, or the fact that really this was just he and Nat evening out, that he sort of owed it to her because he'd seen her have sex four times now but then he'd never returned the favor, but he'd explained that he had a friend who was interested in watching, maybe giving some commentary, but not touching and would she be into that? It wasn't much longer until Amy's hand was slipping up his thigh and her mouth was on his neck and he groaned, paid for the rest of their drinks and closed the tab.
The taxi ride to the hotel he and Nat were staying at in Chicago for the weekend was a mess of hands and lips and tongue and teeth, but he did manage to pull out his phone and text Tasha:
one new message from clint
ten minutes. my room. bring a chair.