Page 1 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

PROLOGUE

ABI

SIX MONTHS AGO

I’ve killed my fair share of men and women. In my profession, it comes with the territory. Murderers. Rapists. Far-right extremists. For the right price, I wipe out the worst of the worst, and when it’s done, my conscience is clear.

Not this time.

We’ve been searching Scotty Levinson’s apartment all day, trying to find clues to his whereabouts. Finding Scotty means finding Brody, and I’d search Heaven and Earth to locate my best friend. I was on a work trip-turned-romantic getaway with Fiona—Brody’s wife and my girlfriend—when the text message came through telling us he’d fallen in love with the man he’d been hired to kill, and they were going on the run, leaving us to bear the brunt of our hitman-for-hire agency’s wrath. With the bounty Scotty’s father paid to have him killed, our agency will stop at nothing to locate their target. I do not want to think of what will happen to Fiona and me during the agency’s hunt for intel.

Brody and Fiona’s relationship has been on a downward spiral for the last few months, but I never expected him to throwher and—more importantly—me to the wolves for a piece of ass he’s known less than a month.

Brody suggested we follow suit—packing up and running off like cowards—but Fiona’s hell bent on finding Brody’s new boyfriend and killing him. I’m not opposed to the idea, but she’s not thinking of the big picture. Brody isn’t going to allow us to kill Scotty Levinson. It would be a point-of-no-return moment for them, and for us. Either way, we will lose Brody. So, on the journey back to Texas, as she devised murder methods, I took to social media, combing through Scotty’s profiles for clues. While I didn’t find any answers, I did findhim.

Tatum St. James.

The man is a mystery, wrapped in a magenta jockstrap. A small bundle of sassy status updates and shirtless selfies. His uploaded images go on and on, and during the trip home, I memorized each and every one. Tatum is a stunning sight. He’s small in stature; perhaps five-three. Maybe five-four. He’s shirtless in most of his pictures, each of them giving me an unobstructed view of paradise. The creamy skin that seems to go on for days. Blue eyes that stare into my soul from the other side of the screen. There are lifetimes in his eyes. Lifetimes I want to live.

More than his shirtless chest, he has a habit of flashing his ass to the camera. The man knows what he’s working with, and he isn’t ashamed to show it off. It’s ripe and plump, ready to be devoured. My favorite image is one from three months ago. His back is to the camera, and he’s peering over his shoulder, casting me a knowing smirk. In the photo, he’s wearing next to nothing. No shirt. No shorts. Just a pair of trunks, wedged deeply between his cheeks. The smile on his face almost feels as if it’s aimed at me. Like he knows I’ll inevitably find him, and he’s asking what’s taking so long. The image is now my phone’s background, much to Fiona’s annoyance.

After cutting our trip short and returning to Texas, we made a quick stop by Brody and Fiona’s home, unsurprised to find hewas already gone. Right now, we’ve got time on our side, as Brody’s contract to kill Scotty isn’t due for another week. Fiona has access to his email, so she’s been sending failed mission reports on his behalf. When those reports stop coming, they will come for us. Fiona’s home will be the first place they look, and, wanting to give us as much time as possible, we’ve made the decision to stay at Scotty’s apartment until we’ve gotten the information we need.

Before heading out, Fiona collected essentials—her dog, cash she’d hoarded for a rainy day, and clothing—and said goodbye to the suburban life they built like it was the easiest decision in the world. Then, we went to work.

After a fifteen-minute drive, we arrived at Scotty Levinson’s apartment. Fiona insisted I locate Tatum and force him to tell me his friend’s whereabouts by any means necessary. That is how I ended up at Manhole, the closest gay bar to Tallulah, Texas. One of Tatum’s four boyfriends—Benito—owns the place. Tatum works full time as a makeup artist, per social media, but on the weekends, he dances at the bar, wearing nothing more than a jockstrap and a crop top. I’d like to see him wearing the ensemble more often. Perhaps on a permanent basis.

Thanks to a selfie Tatum had uploaded less than an hour earlier, I knew he was working. The images of Tatum at his go-go boy gig are some of my favorites. He wears the same, stunning uniform in each of them. Hot-pink crop top. Magenta jockstrap. A knowing smirk meant for me and me alone.

When I arrived at the bar, Tatum was finishing his routine, seductively rolling his hips while standing on top of a speaker box near the back of the room. His hips moved in dizzying motions, left to right, drawing my attention to them, almost hypnotically so. By the end of the song, my cock was fully erect and I had a wet patch in my jeans.

When the music died down, he’d shouted, “Alright, boys,” his seductive voice drawing their attention like a siren luring drunken homosexuals to their watery graves. He pointed athimself, then at the crowd, and gave the audience a quick nod before lunging forward. He was airborne for only a moment, but in that time, he seemed to come alive, twirling mid-flight until his back was to the men below, and I was given my first in-person introduction to his spectacular ass.

He landed, allowing the men to carry him forward like he was floating in the sea, simply enjoying the ride. Hands touched Tatum in places they had no right touching. None of the men present had spent a two-day journey studying each of his photographs, reading every status update from the last six years, or hacking his email accounts just to get to know him better. They had put in no work, yet their hands were touching him everywhere. An animalistic urge to rip off the hands of all who touched his soft, creamy skin ripped through me, but I resisted, knowing it would make for a poor first impression.

When the men finally placed him on the floor at the other end of the bar, I clung to the walls like a shadow, eyeing him as he approached three men standing behind the bar. They were men I knew, thanks to Tatum’s endless selfies with them. They’ve been dating for months. Touching him. Tasting places I wished to devour. As I crept closer toward them, Tatum’s ass was fully visible, and a growl escaped my throat, startling a nearby butch lesbian, making her drop the drink she’d been holding. She eyed the drink on the floor, then me, her scowl never fading. After shoving a ten-dollar-bill in her hand I pushed past, desperate to see more of Tatum.

The men appeared to be in the midst of a domestic argument. As Tatum lamented the fact he was only meant to dance for an hour, but had somehow ended up there for ninety minutes without a break, the bar’s owner and the newest addition to their polyamorous group, Benito Blankenship, was rinsing a glass behind the bar, barely paying Tatum any mind.

Tatum’s so small in stature. Five foot five at best. I estimated I had at least a solid foot on him, and it brought out my protective instincts. More than anything, I wanted himwrapped around me, safe from whatever hurt he was experiencing.

“And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaking shots from the other go-go boys each time they passed. That’s coming out of your check,” Benito shouted above the music.

“I don’t even get a goddamn check.”

“Tatum,” one of his other boyfriends pleaded while shaking his head. I thought it was Bennet, but he and Benjamin looked so much alike, it was difficult to tell. “Please don’t. You’re gonna make him mad.”

“Fine,” Tatum shouted. “Fucking fine. You’re all welcome to each other.” Though Benito didn’t seem to care about Tatum in the slightest, the two men at his side—Bennet and Benjamin—were shaking like leaves. They eyed each other nervously before giving Tatum pleading expressions.

“Tate?” the man I thought to be Bennet begged.

“No. Absolutely not. Don’t give me those puppy-dog eyes. If he’s who you want, you can fucking have him. I’m done. Maybe I’ll find someone too. Maybe I’ll grab the nearest man, drag him into the bathroom, and fuck him until the sun’s high in the sky and I’m covered in cum.” If the little man planned on his words having an emotional effect on Benito, he clearly misread the situation, because there was no reaction on Benito’s part, and the other two stared at him with a confused expression. “I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t.”

I would make it my life’s mission to be that man.

When it became clear none of the three were going to object, Tatum whirled around and took a step forward, bumping into me. Taking a step back, his eyes traveled up and down my body, and there was a look in his eyes that made my heart flutter. His tongue extended from his mouth and traveled across his lips, making his bubblegum-pink mouth sparkle with saliva. He took a step to the left which I matched with a step to the right. When he moved to the other side, I did the same. His eyes narrowed. As much as I wanted to play with him more, he seemed to begetting flustered, and I didn’t want his hideous-hearted boyfriends to see him upset, so I slid out of his way. He walked a few steps past me before looking over his shoulder. His cheeks flushed red when he caught me staring. Tatum looked as if he wanted to scold me, but he simply scowled and continued his journey, slamming his palm into the bathroom door, launching it open.

If he thought a bathroom door would be deterrent enough for me, he was incorrect in his assumption. When I entered the restroom, he was already at the urinal. I’m still not sure what possessed me to slowly approach, aim my phone at his cock, and film him urinating. Tatum did not seem terribly bothered. He turned his head and stared into my eyes, not saying a word as piss poured out like an unending waterfall. Once he was done, he remained silent. Then his fingers curled around his cock, and he gave it a leisurely stroke.

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