Her Billionaires_ Boxed Set(61)

Don’t think about it. After her first threesome, she was touched out. The next thing to touch her lips better be named chocolate. Or coffee. Or Xanax.

Hot tears, though, beat them all to it.



“Her purse? Of all the gestures you could have made, Mike, the one you picked was to put her purse out on the porch for her?” Although he’d stayed in bed while poor Laura had wrapped herself into a knot rushing to put on her clothes, now Dylan leaped out, pacing like a caged animal. His nude form was less appealing than it normally would be as Mike struggled to make sense of the last hour.

“She needed to be able to leave in peace.”

“She’s going to think that was some sort of big old ‘fuck you,’ Mike! Like we were telling her to get out.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Dylan replied savagely. He grabbed his boxer briefs and dragged them on. Mike heard the popping of stitches and bit back a smirk as Dylan untangled himself from having put both legs in the same hole. As Dylan figured it all out Mike calmly put his own underwear and pants on, desperate to go for a long trail run. Where the hell was his shirt?

“Where are you going?” Dylan shouted as Mike wandered out of the room in search of his shirt.

“For a run.” Where was it? He and Laura had been by the bed, and her fingertips had—Oh. Yeah. Turning around, he walked back in to find Dylan shoving his shoes on, glaring at Mike like he’d just ripped his puppy’s head off and eaten it.

“At midnight? Smelling like—uh, us? Are you trying to be bear bait?”

Behind the door he found his shirt in a wrinkled heap. His biceps ached as he stretched his arms and slid them into the sleeves. Sore already? He snorted.

“You think something is funny? At a time like this? Man, you’re cold.” Dylan bounded to his feet, fists curled, itching for a fight. Mike knew he wasn’t mad at him; Dylan was frustrated and hurt, and this was what he did.

He got mad.

Mike, on the other hand, got out. Out on the road, the trail, the running paths—wherever his feet took him. Coming right up to him like a peacock ready to strut, Dylan got in Mike’s face, his bare chest brushing against Mike’s tight-weave cotton.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” he hissed, arm pointing toward the front door. “She’s gone. Your little plan failed.”

“We don’t know that. Quit saying ‘my plan.’ My plan didn’t involve a threesome on the spot.” A deep itch, an urge like a tic, swelled up in him from bones to outer skin; the need to flee. To run. To race.

To get the hell out of there.

His throat started to hurt and Dylan looked like a gremlin, yapping about Laura and how it was all destroyed now and who was crazy enough to run in the woods alone in the dark and why hadn’t he been there more for Dylan after Jill and then his words went into slow motion, like molasses pouring from his gaping maw, until Mike had to look away. Acid trips were less surreal than this.

“Laura thought we were mindfucking her, Mike,” Dylan growled. “That we were laughing at her, like we planned some sort of joke and she was the punch line.” He ripped his hands through his hair and made a keening noise not unlike one he had made when the doctor had come to them after Jill had coded. “And who can blame her? I pop up like I’m stopping by for tea and cookies and BAM! Her first threesome.” Dylan collapsed on the bed, shaking his head and groaning, hands clamped on his temples.

“It would be a bit jarring.” Shit, Dylan was right. He couldn’t run now. What next? His muscles kept tightening, spasming without conscious effort. The urge to move was too great. This was not going to end well.

Dylan sat up and shot Mike a withering look of incredulity. “Jarring? Who are you—the queen’s PR person? Keep calm and carry on is one thing. Keep calm and act like a robot just makes you look like an ass, Mike.”

Blink. Mike didn’t know what to say. Had nothing to say. He needed to run. Lungs felt like they were collapsing in, his spine curling forward, his knees itching and nerves burning.

Run.

“And then there’s the whole billionaire thing!” Maniacal laughter poured out of Dylan’s mouth. Now he was just plain old scaring Mike. So much for that run. He plopped down next to Dylan on the bed and just watched him.

A grotesquely loud gurgle vibrated from Dylan’s gut. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Gotta eat.” Mike shrugged. “Laura and I didn’t really even get dinner going,” he added guiltily. The sight of the unfinished meal made him go cold. Memories of what had transpired a few short hours ago, the promise that held everything— he had to get out of there.