Page 35 of M.M. Scrooge
“And what good is an apology without actions to back it up?” Drake’s brows are in competition with mine.
“Please, Max?” Ash’s eyes are wide and pleading, his mouth formed to a perfect pout, an art he’s mastered over the years.
Damn it. They’ve got me cornered. I definitely want to get naked and participate. But lying ass up and getting spanked by my ex-boyfriend’s boyfriend isn’t high on my list of sexy fantasies. My cock must agree because it’s softening.
“Do ask nicely.” Drake purrs the words like sweet nothings into a lover’s ear.
I swallow what’s left of my pride and glower at Drake. “Will you spank me so Ash can get what he wants?”
“I’d be glad to. If you’ll ask me like a gentleman rather than a petulant teenager.”
What is it with this guy and his arrogant condescension? I’d like to give him a few good whacks on the ass, but I suck it up. “Please. Do this for Ash?”
“With pleasure.” His lips curl to a predatory smile.
My body jitters with apprehension. Am I making a mistake?
“Say your safe word.”
“Money.”
“Good. You’ll use it if you need to, yes?”
I cross my arms. “I won’t need to.”
“Max.” The way Drake says my name implies his disapproval. For some reason, that bothers me. I’m doing what they asked.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What?”
“Don’t be stubborn. I need to know you’ll use the word.”
“Fine, I’ll use the word. Can we get on with it?”
Drake shakes his head and blows an irritated breath through his nose. He says to Ash, “I don’t see what you saw in him.”
Ash flutters his pretty lashes and grins. “I was young and foolish.”
“Get him ready for me, will you? I need a drink.”
“Mm-hmm, gladly.” Ash stretches his long limbs, shuffles off Drake’s lap, and crawls to mine. The whipcord muscles in his shoulders bunch and flex. His eyes are lust drenched and aimed at my zipper. He smells of red wine, whiskey, and coriander.
And just like that, my cock is back in the game.
14
Daniel
I tossand turn in the rickety twin bed in the guest bedroom. Mom has long since taken over my old room. Her writing desk stands next to an elliptical machine and an ancient box TV that still has an antenna on the top.
The mattress is lumpy. So is the pillow. The sheets carry that musty scent of fabric that’s not unclean, exactly, but that’s been in the same spot since being washed after I slept on them this time last year.
I could go home and sleep in my own bed. I only live about forty minutes away. But it’s tradition for all of us to sleep in this house on Christmas Eve so we can wake up together early Christmas morning, eat cinnamon rolls, and open presents. Tradition is what’s getting us through this holiday. There’s no abandoning it now.
I tell myself it’s worth a bad night’s sleep to be with my family, and it is, but lying awake, staring at the dimpled ceiling in the dark isn’t helping my mood.
I refuse to dwell on Dad. Thinking of him during the day while in the company of others is fine. Thinking of him alone in the middle of the night fills my eyes with tears. They’re already watering. I’ve done my fair share of crying lately. Enough to want to think of something that won’t make me sad.
Usually, I’d conjure up a happy memory, but my go-to memory is that time Dad built Libby and me an igloo in the backyard. We had to army crawl to get inside, but the interior was big enough for a tea party with the neighbor kids. Epic.
