I hesitate. “First drafts.”
“I’m tired of this shit.”
“Me too,” Bolan huffs dramatically. He throws himself back to rest his head on the other arm of the couch, then slings an arm over his eyes. Without kicking Sully and Mirth, he only fits lengthwise with one foot on the ground and one leg bent against the back of the couch. Legs splayed, groin pointed toward his soul-bound mate. Presumably with intention.
“There will still be changes,” I say cautiously. “We haven’t discussed everything that needs —”
“Then add … addendums or codicils or whatever,” Sully says. “I want Mirth to know we want her, that we’re doing all of this for her. Now. Not three days from now.”
“Sully,” Mirth murmurs, “I have to make responsible choices. I have to think of —”
Sully covers Mirth’s mouth with his hand, tugging her head back so they’re pressed cheek to cheek. Her eyes go round with indignation. The rest of her protest is muffled in his palm.
Clearly peeved at being silenced, after already being displaced from her seat, she grabs Sully’s forearm, then squirms to get away.
Thus wiggling her delectable ass on Sully’s lap.
He groans, openly and loudly. Then he sucks on Mirth’s earlobe, whispering, “Just like that, Mir.”
She stills, eyes narrowing, both hands still gripping Sully’s forearm.
Bolan, peeking at the two of them from under his arm, grins saucily. The shifter’s emotion and intent are always easy to read, both worn like an epic chip on his shoulder. And his heart beats blatantly, solely, for Mirth. I can see that every time they’re anywhere near each other.
Even having only really known Mirth and the bond I’m convinced we share for a few days, I understand Bolan’s lifestyle choices — all the numbing agents he once needed to continue functioning — far better. At least he had Armin and Sully.
I’ve been adrift since my father died. Since before that, really, but I let all my responsibilities distract me. I understand the rush, though. The need to —
“I want to sign now,” Sully reiterates between planting light kisses on Mirth’s neck. “If I have to be Lord fucking Savoy, I want Mirth. Mirth is my prize whether or not Bolan won the last bet.”
“And what bet was that?” I ask, unable to tear my gaze off Mirth as she twists to try to get a look at Sully.
He grips one of her plush hips and visibly, though slowly, grinds into her ass from below.
Her protest sounds a lot more like a muffled moan this time.
“The bet …” Bolan’s eyes, bright with his wolf, remain fixed to Mirth. “The bet isn’t important. The wager is.”
“And what is the wager?” I know I’m just playing into Bolan and Sully’s game, the power play between them. But I desperately want to see where they think they’re taking it.
Bolan laughs huskily. “Dibs.”
Mirth shrieks indignantly behind Sully’s hand. Then she bites him. Hard.
He shouts, releasing her to shake his hand out.
She’s on her feet, twisting to face them both, hands on her hips. “This is entirely inappropriate. We’re interrupting Lord —”
Bolan practically slides off the couch to kneel before her, head falling back. To her, it likely looks as though he’s groveling, but I know the pose for what it truly is. Prayer.
Ever helpful, I casually lean over and drag the coffee table away a few steps so Mirth doesn’t accidentally stumble over or around it.
Sully meets my gaze around Mirth’s lush hips, smirking. “Lord Hereford doesn’t appear to be minding the interruption, Mir.” His gaze drops to my groin. An impertinent eyebrow rises to match his smirk.
I was interested, even enticed while watching Mirth and him, of course. But not yet erect. Not enough to be obvious. Sully’s look changes that, though. I lounge back in my chair, and I ignore my hardening cock.
I ignore him.
I don’t like being played with.
