Page 100 of Tickled Pink

Max looks over, his expression tainted with pleasure. Another wild urge strikes me, wanting to grip his face and kiss him, but I stay put. Phoebe is so close to coming again, the bliss on her face oh-so-sweet. I don’t dare interrupt.

So, I’ll just watch.

Phoebe clings to her restraints, the smooth tie still wrapped around her wrists. I realize now that I should have put one over her eyes, too, but there’s still plenty of time left this weekend for that kind of play. One of our favorite games, really. Tie her down, cover her eyes, and make her guess whose tongue it is. Hell, we’ll all take turns.

Gonna be a good birthday weekend.

Nothing is going to stand in the way of that.

Especially not—

Phoebe’s mewling moan brings me back, banishing the thought before it even finishes. She’s coming hard, every muscle of her body tightening at once. Max’s body lurches, but he manages a few more deep thrusts before coming, too. I look down, watching the way his cock twitches with each groan. His cum, my cum. Hers. A beautiful mess.

I roll closer and kiss her. She kisses me back, still moaning softly; little Pinky so adorably spent. I untie her hands and her arms fall. One palm comes to my cheek, a gentle stroke as she kisses me again. The other reaches for Max. He shifts closer, his cock still nestled between her thighs, and kisses her, their lips mere inches away from mine.

With a turn of his head, Max kisses me, too. With a touch of his palm, he pushes me onto my back. I accept the order with a laugh, happy as hell as the two people I love most in the world take turns kissing me, licking my body. They travel lower and lower, torturing and teasing, until my cock is almost ready to burst.

I lie back with closed eyes, playing my own game of Guess the Tongue as they use their mouths on me.

Phoebe.

No, Max.

Definitely Max.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Thad

I step off the golden elevator, nothing but a weird sense of curiosity driving each step forward. It sure as shit isn’t my smarts. Street, book, or otherwise. If they were in charge, I never would have left the warmth of that comically comfortable bed. I would have ignored the text lighting up my phone at 9PM, sent by an unknown number. It could only have come from one person.

At the bar. Come have a drink with me.

One step into the hotel bar, and I know I’ve made a huge mistake. I’d turn around now and go back upstairs, but he had a sight on me the moment I stepped off the elevator.

Rutger Hemsley sits with his back to the bar, his stool turned so he can look out around him. Knowing him, it had more to do with the group of young women half his age in the corner booth, their cocktails as rainbow-colored as their dresses.

He raises his glass to me as I walk in, then rotates his wrist to swish the contents before taking a sip. I head over, silently promising myself that I’ll keep my distance. That I won’t let him sweet-talk me the way he does his clients, his women. That I’ll walk away from him in the end, not the other way around.

“Thad!” he says as I reach the bar. “You got my text. Thanks for coming down.” He waves at the bartender and signals for another drink, ordering for me like a damn child. “Have some of this bourbon. It’s damn good.”

I don’t bother saying no. I thank the bartender as he sets the drink down in front of me and I take a sip.

Dammit. He’s right.

It is damn good.

“Have a seat!” He gestures to the empty stool beside him. “Tell me how ya been.”

I bite my tongue, suppressing an urge to regress to a little teenage snark. “I’m doing well,” I say.

“You like New York?”

“I love New York.”

“So do I,” he says. “But LA is home.”

LA was home for me. Once.

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