Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
“No.”
“‘Cause I don’t mind being the bad guy.”
“I love you, but no.”
He cracks a crooked smile. Banks is on good terms with just about everyone in SFO, and if Quinn wants to be disgruntled with someone, it should be me.
I abandon the clothes pile and head to the dresser. “And it actually is up to me whether he can return.” I’m the boss.
Sulli interjects, “But I thought Farrow didn’t clear him yet?” She’s been more in-the-know about security drama since Banks and I prattle on about work around her.
“He hasn’t. But Quinn knows I can overturn that.” So the youngest Oliveira brother keeps calling me to check out his progress. I don’t know what I’m walking into—a boxing demonstration? But I do owe him some of my time since he’s been managing Studio 9.
“Don’t nail and bail, Nine,” Banks rephrases.
“I’m not nailing and bailing,” I refute.
“Smashing and bashing,” Sulli banters.
“No bashing.”
“Hit it and quit it,” Banks adds.
“No quitting, Banksy.”
“You’re pouncing and bouncing, and you can’t change my mind, Kits,” she says.
I almost smile.
No, I am smiling.
Banks takes out his toothpick. “At least cuddle her for ten minutes.”
I stand over the dresser and let out a long sigh. I want that.
“Let him go,” Sulli says to Banks. “If he wants to pounce and bounce, he can pounce and bounce. We’ll cuddle-fuck later.”
Slowly, I rotate to face them again and lean back against the wood dresser. I zero in on Sulli. “I sense a heavy dose of reverse psychology coming from this corner of the bed.” I wave my hands toward her.
She splays a hand over her heart. “I’m a shit liar-manipulator.”
“Just great at sexual innuendos and April Fools’ jokes,” I tease.
She breaks into a laugh.
Hearing her laugh just adds another ache, a want, to be closer.
“What do you think, Banks?” Sulli asks him.
“That he can cuddle-fuck you later if he wants and you want.” He shifts his hand down between her legs.
She writhes a little at the touch and nearly turns into him for more. For deeper.
My muscles tighten and blood rushes south at the sight of her lips parting. His fingers disappear inside Sulli, and her eyes lock on me. Unmoving. Everything we do together sends my arousal over the edge. And the longer we’re together, the more we all know how to rope each other in.
At the beginning of every morning and at the end of every night, they’re my joy. The origin of my happiness. Stress is harder to fall into when they’re here.
She twitches in pleasure. Her eyes are still glued to mine.
Banks glances between me and Sulli, amusement brewing across his face. “Nine?”
“Ten minutes,” I say with a rasped voice. Swiftly, I step out of my sweatpants and crawl back into bed beside Sulli. She turns on her side, facing Banks. He pumps his fingers inside her, and I cocoon myself against her back. She lets out a trembling breath.
I skim my hand over the curve of her round ass, and I touch the silicone of a plug. Breath against her ear, I whisper, “This feel okay? You want me to take it out?” We’ve been fucking all morning, and this might be the longest she’s had it in. A few weeks ago, we all agreed to start practicing and prepping for the day we try double penetration.
“Not yet,” she says softly. “I think I can go longer.”
“Listen to your body, Lady Meadows. Not to your fortitude.”
She smiles back at me. “I will, Kits. I promise.”
I scoot closer, her ass tucked against me, and I hold Sulli stronger against my athletic body while Banks gets her off. A pleasured sigh parts her lips. She rocks her hips against him. Her ass against me. Until we pin her so strongly with our builds that she can’t move.
She mumbles against his chest, “This feels so fucking good.”
Yeah, I love being this close too. The three of us. Intimate and uninhibited. Everything feels easier when we shut the world out, but in the same breath, these moments feel like a battery charge. Like we’re all powering each other up to face what’s outside.
Today, I face Quinn.
* * *
“Shut the fridge,” I mutter to myself in shock.
College-aged twenty-somethings in leggings and muscle shirts—all women—snake around the block, the long, twisting line leading into Studio 9. They hold water bottles filled with water and fresh fruit.
I’m more used to fans of the Hales, Meadows, Cobalts loitering outside my gym. Waiting to spot a famous face or a famous Omega bodyguard.
Crowds of people who actually want to work out?
New.
Tipping my red baseball cap down, I slink to the front of the line.
“Hey, you can’t cut,” a girl with pink hair and boxer braids whines.
I ignore her, pushing my way inside. Surprise obliterates every nerve-ending. The gym is crammed. Not with the typical Muay Thai fighter or muscled gym rat ready to hit the boxing bags. It’s packed with more women, who I’d probably peg as yogis. Way more likely to frequent a Center City yoga studio.