Page 35 of Savage Daddies

Teagan is the one in the long black maxi dress, hair twirled back into a clip, and Zoe wears the distressed denim…

“It can’t be.” Wrangler beats me to it. “It’s not her.”

“No,” I agree. “She didn’t tell us her name.”

“That’s because we refused to tell her ours.”

Time slows to a standstill. I back away from the polaroid on the wall. Comb a hand through my hair. It’s impossible. The girl we hooked up with from the masquerade isn’t Felix Fernando’s wife for one simple reason—they wouldn’t be a good match. The girl from three years ago gave no fucks about dress codes and updone hair. Yes, her hair was red and yes, her eyes were an incredible color of green, but according to Google, there are six to eight million redheads in North America. That’s a lot.

Plus, Zoe might not even have green eyes. Those might just be the colored contacts she chooses to wear.

“It’s not,” argues Wrangler again.

Poet rips the polaroid off the wall and examines it closer. “The nightthreehunky, hot bikers took care of me.” He looks up, eyes switching between the two of us. “How many people there wore denim jeans, hm?” He flicks the polaroid with an agitated finger. “One.”

I steal the image from Poet and survey it myself. If this is really her, a lot has changed. That girl wouldn’t go anywhere near a person like Felix Fernando, and he’d stay clear of her too. He’s a man who prides himself on respect and public image, and Zoe, at that masquerade, couldn’t have cared less about formalities and appearance.

It’s what made her the most beautiful one there.

What is God playing at, throwing the same green-eyed angel in my path?Twice?

Fuck, she did something spectacular to me three years ago, but maybe it was only spectacular because I knew I’d never see her again. Women like her cross paths with men like me very rarely, so we shouldn’t be in her house right now, let alone herbedroom, in case she returns home and we interact with heragain.

“We’re all in shit.” Wrangler scratches his head.

“Do you think she knows?” I turn around to say. “Do you think she recognizes us?”

Wrangler shakes his head. “She didn’t say anything, did she?”

Poet bites his lip. “Maybe she wanted to, but felt too ashamed.”

“Ashamed?” Wrangler frowns. “Why would she be?—?”

“Because she had her legs wide open for us,” I say. “Invited all three of us into her?—”

“Alright!” Poet squints his eyes like he’s trying to eradicate the image. I’m not sure why. He should hold on to it. It’s all he’s getting—we can’t go there again.

She was perfect, and I still remember the tight, pink shell of her pussy oozing out all of our cum. The way she sang for us. The starving way she made me feel as soon as we got into the room, like nothing else mattered. Sure, I fuck other women, but it’s only because Mother Nature gives me the urge. Women don’t do sex like her. I felt primal with her, and my cock still remembers the sensation of her walls closing in around me, bringing me into the tightest hug.

And then there were her breasts. Oh, they were so well-rounded, and pebbled hard in the center of each were two pink nipples that matched the shade of her petals.

“We need to go,” I say. “Stick the polaroid back on the wall, and let’s get out of here.”

“No,” says Poet. “We should wait.”

“Wait?! Why? So we can go round two? Is that what you want? For Wrangler to break his celibacy streak again?”

“She’s in danger.” Poet’s jaw hardens. “There was aburnon her wrist, Bully. You saw it yourself. We have to help her. I don’t think she’s safe here.”

“She’s older now, and she has a husband.”

“Yeah,” argues Poet. “A husband who?—”

“And a daughter! You wanna fuck up a little girl’s life?”

Wrangler’s sigh interrupts mine and Poet’s heated debate. “Bullwhip’s right.”

“Of course, man. I’m always right.”

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