“Shut up,” Joey spits, grimacing. “How many dicks have you had? There’s no way you aren’t well prepared for a third leg.”
“Joey.”
I hold my hands out, measuring a very, very impressive distance between the two.
My mind becomes flooded with flashbacks, images of Mason working that gorgeous piece of flesh behind a curtain of water and steam.
He was so raw in that moment. Stripped down to the point of depravity as he sought his release. As he pursued it with urgency. Beautiful. God, he was beautiful standing there, the muscles of his back and shoulder working simultaneously. His head bowed as he slowly unraveled. The sound of skin moving over skin.
I wanted to watch him come.
I wanted to feel him come.
I still do. Now, maybe even more. I’m like a child who has been told they can’t have any candy.
Fuck that. I want that candy.
In my mouth.
Joey slowly sits up, mouth falling open, drool pooling on his tongue. He looks from my hands to my face, back to my hands again.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I would never.”
“He’s that big? How is he walking?”
My phone beeps on the dresser. I shrug, turning around and padding across the room.
“How the hell do I know how you boys manage to tuck and move?” I ask, swiping the phone and staring at the unknown number glowing on my screen.
“Shit. You might want to pop some Ibuprofen before you go down that road, or sit on an icepack. Numb it up a little. I’ve heard about cases where you ladies rip something. That can’t be pretty.”
I chuckle at Joey, storing away his advice because I may seriously need to consider some sort of preparation when that time comes. I’ve been with my fair-share of well-equipped men. I’ve had a few surprise me when that zipper comes down. But Mason . . .
He might take the cake on this one.
Oo, cake. I’ll definitely be ordering dessert tonight.
I move my thumb over the screen, bringing up the text message.
Unknown: Hello, gorgeous. Do you want me to come up?
I slowly lift my eyes to Joey.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, giving me a look that tells me exactly who gave Mason my phone number.
Why am I surprised?
He stands, stretching his arms above him. “He was adorable asking for it,” he mumbles before exiting the room.
Adorable. I’m sure. Lots of ‘yeahs’. Numbahh. Even I would’ve given it to him once he started talking.
I program Mason’s number into my phone and quickly type my response.
Me: Stalker. Do you know my blood type yet?
Mason: Working on it. Give me a few more days.
I chuckle softly.
Mason: What’s your condo number? I’ll come up. I feel like a tosser waiting for you out here.
Me: I bet you look sexy. A sexy tosser is better than a regular one, right?
Mason: Either way I’m an arsehole.
Me: Why?
Mason: This is a date. I should come to your door. Walk you out.
I step into my heels, typing with one hand.
Me: Relax. I’ll be out in a second.
Lord, the manners on this guy. Is he always like this?
The last time I was picked up at my door for a date was prom. Most guys are too busy tuning to their favorite Pandora station to bother getting out of their vehicles. Or, I don’t give them the opportunity and insist on meeting them out somewhere.
The end of the night though, that’s a different story.
Men will almost always walk a woman to their door. They want that invite inside. The open door offer of sex.
“I had a lovely evening. Would you like to see my mattress? It’s a feather-top.”
Sticking my phone into my clutch, I grab the gift bag and exit the bedroom.
Joey is standing in the kitchen, watching Billy cook something on the stove-top, his chin resting on Billy’s shoulder, his arms tightly curled around his waist.
Cute. They’re so domestic.
They both turn their heads at the sound of my entrance.
“You look hot, Brooke. Where are you and Mason going? Do you know?” Billy holds a spatula in one hand. His other arm wraps around Joey’s back.
I keep moving toward the door. I feel like I’m on autopilot.
“No idea. Somewhere with food. Hopefully a place that serves up a little under the tablecloth action.”
God, wouldn’t that be fantastic? A repeat of the other night as an appetizer. Mason’s massive cock for dessert.
It’s a wonder I’m not sprinting out of the building.
I wave a hand over my head. “Don’t wait up!”
The door closes behind me. I take the elevator down to the bottom floor and push through the revolving door.
Mason is parked at the curb, his tall frame leaning against his car. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a black fitted shirt with a collar. His hair is wet, a few curls spilling onto his forehead. The rest is haphazardly combed back.
He straightens when he sees me.
As I move closer, I can see that he’s shaven. His smooth, chiseled jaw is free of stubble.
He looks younger.
He looks edible.
He closes the distance between us with two long strides.
I want him to grab me and kiss me. I want him to throw me down and man-handle me in front of anyone and everyone.
Tear my clothes. Take me with desperation. Press those dirty words he likes to spill against the soft skin of my thighs.
Instead, with what has to be the sweetest smile I have ever seen, he bends and lightly brushes his lips against my cheek.