Page 74 of Savage Daddies

And it’s between my legs.

Rain thrashes against the window like needles, threatening to smash the glass. The wind whistles through the one-inch gap in the window, and the floor-to-ceiling curtains lift every time a gale passes through.

Lightning flashes.

Thunder crashes like colliding syllables.

Odds on me screaming louder than Mother Nature herself tonight?

I peel the comforter away from my body and crawl toward Poet, seated on the edge of the mattress. “It’s not very comfy down there, is it?” I pat a space for him. “Join me.”

I catch Wrangler’s hardened jaw in the corner, and extend my arm to him. “What’s the matter?” Bullwhip next. “You’re all awfully tense. Relax. You guys work hard.”

I jump off the bed. Offer them both a hand that connects all three of us together. Being sandwiched between them scorches my internal body temperature, especially when I catch Poet watching. I let go of their hands, and both of their arms flop back to their sides like they’ve lost control.

“I’m hot. Aren’t all of you?” I take a step back. Unbelt the gown. Underneath, I wear a pink lace cami set—not because I telepathically knew they were gonna come over or anything, but because lace makes me feel more like myself. Felix forbids me from wearing it. He says it’s too “sexual.”

Trouble is, I’m sexual by nature.

And I’m bored of dildos.

All six eyes lower straight to my breasts. No wonder. It’s a V-neck, and I must admit—my breasts sit perfectly in the two cups. Boys always used to compliment them in high school, said they were symmetrical, the best pair they’ve ever laid eyes on or whatever, but it hits different when the bikers comment on them.

“Look at her nipples, boys,” says Wrangler. “They could cut glass.”

I move closer to them. Massage one of my breasts. “Put your hands on me.”

“You’re naughty, darlin’,” says Wrangler. “Perhaps you should stand over here.” He gestures to the wall.

So I scurry my way over and press my stomach up against it.

“Punishment is in order, I think,” says Wrangler. “For being a dirty little tease.” He grabs my hips and turns me so I’m fully facing the wall.

I close my eyes. Anticipate something.

What my ass needs is a good slap. I need to be shocked, sexually.

Keeping me pressed against the wall, Bullwhip and Wrangler undress me until I’m butt-naked, baring my entire ass.

Then there’s shuffling. “Here,” says Poet. “Let me do it.”

I draw a breath.

BAM!

Right across the ass cheek.

I arch my back to accentuate the area even more. The other cheek feels left out.

“You like that?” says Bullwhip, mouth against my ear.

“Uh-huh.”

BAM!

Another slap. This one is harder. Pain heats the area, and damn, it feels good. There’s some umph—something that can’t be said about Felix’s slaps. His are feeble. He wields very little strength, and it’s no surprise. Wrists are the only thing he ever conditions, and it’s from typing on computers all day. He threatens to kill Fiona, but how does he expect to do that with flabby biceps and rounded shoulders?

He should scare me.

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