Page 18 of Hunted: Season Two

Shoving her face downward.

Holding it there and throatily demanding, “Lick.”

I don’t have to see her completing the action to know that’s what’s happening courtesy of our boyfriend crying out for a second time, “Fuckkkkkkkkkk!”

“Shove that shit back in there, you filthy little slut.” The grin on my face becomes crooked when his back bows off thebed to chase the intoxicating sensation. “Give the birthday brat a good fucking bath.”

For several more minutes, I bob her head between his legs, allowing the little piece of wicked metal to tease and torture and torment our boyfriend’s overly sensitive hole, only granting her permission to slow down when he’s damn near sobbing in overstimulation, “Sirrrrrrrr…please…please…”

An unmistakable instinct convinces me to command, “Say it.”

Regardless of not having declared exactly whatitis, he knows.

Because he knows me.

Because I knowhim.

“Fuckin’ say it to me.”

“I…” his fit frame begins shuddering harder, “I…”

“Now.”

“I love you, Sir.” The Kid’s eyes fly wide open on what appears to be a faint second orgasm. “Fuck, I love you.”

Ripping our woman back up to a sitting position, I make sure to hold her glossy gaze. “Your turn.”

To my surprise, her hesitation is completely absent. “I love you, Sir.”

“I love you too, Rabbit,” leaves me sweetly prior to twisting her face over her shoulder. “Him.”

“I love you, Kid,” she lovingly pants prompting him to propel himself upward to match her posture.

Cup her wet face.

Brush her lips and adoringly repeat the sentiment, “I love you too, baby.”

Their tongues only briefly touch before he’s reaching to remove my touch from her head to his. Our mouths eagerly crash together next, yet our mesh of a mess is slyly infiltrated by a third tongue.

A tongue that we both chase around one another’s, anxious to feel anything possible.

Everything.

Eventually, the three of us wander off the bed, back to the bathroom where they migrate their way into the shower while I simply wash my junk in the sink.

Right as I begin to dry the area, my cell rings again, Garcia’s name unrefutably taking up what feels like the entire screen. Convinced that whatever it is can wait has me answer the call on speaker. “Legal shit is closed on Sundays, Garcia. Whatever it is can wait until fucking tomorrow. It’s The Kid’s birthday,forfuckssake.”

A single beat is all that precedes his bone chilling statement. “That wasn’t McAdams on the plane.”

Chapter 4

Kipp

We went from best birthday ever tosecondworst in record fucking timing.

Even the world’s fastest Bugatti would scoff at this shit.

I carelessly toss another car mag on the floor pile, unable to ignore the small chuckles coming from the kitchen, which is the area my boyfriend and his “friend” are alsosupposedlysearching for micro cameras.

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