Tied(61)

My hips quicken, needing to feel her contracting around me more than I need air to breathe. “Fuck yes, come, baby. Let me feel you come hard.”

Then she is. Her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, constrict and tighten. Kate’s pussy squeezes my cock in a primal, uncontrollable rhythm that pulls me deeper inside her. I push and surge forward one last time, until I rise into the stratosphere with her. It’s so fucking good, so intense, for several long, exquisite moments the only sound I can hear is the rush of our ecstasy pounding in my ears.

Minutes later, I’m still breathing deep against Kate’s neck, and she continues to tremble with aftershocks. Still inside her, I lift my head and brush her hair from her face.

“That was awesome.”

She smiles wide. “Mind-blowing.”

Carefully, I set her feet back on solid ground. Then I help smooth her dress back into place and tuck myself in and zip up. “And we still have a whole suite waiting for us.”

“Take me to my suite.” Kate holds out her hand.

I take it. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

Literally.

Back out on the sidewalk, the fog of lust clears and Kate puts the hand I’m not holding over her eyes. “I can’t believe we had sex in an alley.”

I snort. “I can’t believe we waited so long to have sex in an alley. What was I thinking?”

That’s an activity that’s definitely going on my repeat list.



Is alley-screwing respectful? Generally . . . no. But in this case, it was just what the doctor ordered.

Now, back to our card game.

Jack turns to Steven. “What do you say, Reinhart—you and me and two of the most flexible ladies in the club?”

“Alexandra would rip my head off if I got a lap dance—private or otherwise,” Steven laments.

Matthew grins. “Delores would be into it—but only if she got to watch.”

Steven shakes his head. “I don’t want to give her another reason to be pissed at me.”

Matthew chuckles. “But that’s the way it works, man. Dee-Dee’s happier when I’m messing up—gives her an excuse to yell at me. She feels needed, and it makes me appreciate how lucky I am to have her. For men and women—that’s the circle of life.”

Steven considers the idea but still tells Jack, “I don’t think married men belong in a private booth. If I want a strip show, I’ll buy my wife pole-dancing lessons.” His face brightens. “In fact—that’s gonna be her Mother’s Day gift. Boom—scratch that off the list.”

At first I frown at the visual imagery . . . but then get over it and smile. Because I know exactly what to get Kate for my birthday.



After Warren emerged from the private booth looking dazed and satisfied—and walking stiffly because he most likely jizzed in his pants—we all sat down front row at the main stage to enjoy another show. This time without my participation. It was a girl-power-themed production, meaning three girls and a variety of battery-powered toys. A show like that is guaranteed to make any man hope for an encore.

I gave it a standing ovation.

Then, the five of us went back to the game room for a dart tournament. See us there? Jack’s taking his turn, Steven’s watching another member of the Stripper Lollipop Guild play peekaboo with the Blow Pop across the room, while Matthew, Warren, and I lean against the wall nursing our drinks.

Warren’s phone pings with an incoming message. He looks down at it for a few seconds and laughs.

For no particular reason, I ask, “What’s funny?”

His reaction piques my interest. He drops the hand holding his phone to his side and wipes the grin off his face. “Nothing.”

I push off the wall and stand in front of him. “Let me see your phone.”

He puts it behind his back. “It’s stupid. Nothing you want to see.”

“Well, now I fucking do.”

Looking like a cornered rat, he calls to Steven, “Reinhart—think fast.” And tosses the phone in the air. Steven catches it, but because he always did love a good game of Monkey in the Middle, when I get close to him, he throws it to Matthew. Matthew gets Jack into the game. I take three steps back to Warren, so I’m right in front of him when he catches his phone.

Then I end the game—with a not-too-hard punch to Warren’s gut.

Ooomph.

He doubles over, holding his midsection. The phone falls from his hands and clatters to the floor. I pick it up and access the main screen. Warren rasps out, “Evans—I’m telling you as a friend—you shouldn’t look at the pictures.”

I ignore him.

With the push of a button, the images pop up in all their disgustingly vivid, high-resolution, multi-megapixel splendor. This is a historic day—mark it on your fucking calendar. For once in his life, Warren was right.