Page 35 of Born To Be Bad

Ivy nods. Yes-yes-yes. As I feel the beginning of my climax, Ivy’s hits hard. She yells through her mouthful, and I join her as my whole body jerks with my orgasm. We hold onto each other as our bodies are racked with wave after wave of pleasure.

CHAPTER 20

Chicken Nugget

IVY

“We should fight more often,” I tell Alistair as we’re getting dressed.

He frowns at me.

“If make-up sex is always going to be that good.”

“It’ll never be that good again,” he says. “It’s science.”

I guffaw. “Science.”

“Yep,” he says confidently. “It’s the law of diminishing returns.”

“Explain it to me as if I’m a toddler.”

“You have great make-up sex the first time, you get ten utils of satisfaction.”

“What now?”

“Utils. As in utilization. We’re talking economics.”

“I’m a toddler,” I remind him.

“Fine. You’re a toddler. You eat a chicken nugget and you experience ten utils of happiness.”

“I’ve always wondered what part of a chicken they make nuggets from.”

“I know toddlers have a concentration span of a gnat, but can we please focus?”

“Okay.”

“By the time you eat the last nugget, which is pretty much identical to the first one, you’re only experiencing half a util.”

“Got it,” I say. “So next time we have make-up sex it’ll be stale. But hopefully still better than a happy meal.”

“You never know,” replies Alistair. “Let’s not tempt fate.”

“Now I’m hungry.”

“Good thing we’re off to dinner then. Hopefully Crêpe Suzette won’t be serving us chicken nuggets.”

I freeze. “Dinner? With your family! Oh my god, I completely forgot about it!”

Alistair walks over to me and kisses me on the top of my head. “I don’t blame you after the morning we’ve had. Do you want to skip it?”

“We can’t,” I reply. “We need to discuss how we’re going to help Ariana.”

“It’s really not your problem,” he says. “I’ll take care of it. You can climb into bed and read. Or watch Netflix. Mildew can bring you pancakes. I’ll join you later.”

I shake my head. As tempting as that sounds, Ariana is also my concern. We didn’t say much in our first short chat alone this morning, but we definitely connected. She thanked me for the tourniquet. I told her how much her family had been torn apart by her apparent murder. We left on good terms, buoyed by the fact that I stood up to Alistair, insisting on her deserving agency. I think we could both sense that we could be close friends. Sisters, even, if you could forgive the whole bullet-inch-from-my-head thing.

“No,” I say. “I want to be involved. I want to help. Did you manage to speak to her again after I left?”

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