Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
22
JOSH
When I enter the suite, I stop just inside the door, paralyzed by the incomprehensible sight of Kat and Bridgette in the same room together. Talk about two worlds colliding. My brain can’t process what I’m seeing—though, apparently, my body sure can. Hello, instant hard-on.
The women are sitting in side-by-side armchairs, sipping what looks like cranberry-vodkas, giggling happily like they’re longtime friends. Kat looks like a million bucks (appropriately) in the Prada dress and heels I bought her in Las Vegas, her long, toned legs crossed demurely, while Bridgette’s wearing a simple black tank top, jeans, and flip-flops, her blonde hair tied into a knot on top of her gorgeous head, her legs spread like she’s a dude talking football in a sports bar. Talk about two women monopolizing the entire planet’s supply of physical perfection all at once. Holy motherfucking shit. Seeing these two women together would almost certainly make a weaker man stroke-out.
“Kat,” I blurt, my heart leaping out of my chest. I begin crossing the room to greet her, to take her into my arms and kiss the holy motherfucking shit out of her—has it only been a week since I last saw her, because it feels like a year?—but Kat puts up her hand sharply and shoots me a smoldering look that stops me dead in my tracks.
“So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Faraday,” she says smoothly.
Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh? I come to a complete halt.
“You’re even handsomer than in your photos,” she purrs. She sits up straight, arches her back, and folds her hands primly in her lap.
“So are you,” I say. My heart is pounding in my ears.
One side of Kat’s mouth hitches up into a devious smirk, and, suddenly, I feel like a fly in a spider’s web. I thought we were here to fulfill my sick-fuck fantasy—so why do I suddenly feel like I’m merely a pawn in fulfilling hers?
“Let me introduce you to my friend, Frieda Fucks-A-Lot,” Kat says. She motions to Bridgette who takes that as her cue to pop up and waltz toward me.
Frieda Fucks-A-Lot?
“Hey there, Mr. Faraday,” Bridgette coos in her clipped English, outstretching her arms to me as she approaches.
I take a step back, but Bridgette continues advancing on me. She lays her hand on my shoulder and leans forward as if to kiss my cheek and I jerk back like Bridgette’s hair is on fire. I promised Kat I wouldn’t lay a finger on the “window dressing” of our threesome, whoever that turned out to be, and there’s no way in hell I’m gonna risk making my temperamental “window” beeline out of yet another hotel suite and stomp down yet another hallway in a jealous huff.
But my anxiety about Bridgette touching me and bringing out the terrorist in Kat is all in vain, apparently: Kat’s all charm and ease on the far side of the room, throwing her head back and giggling. “Oh, come on, Mr. Faraday,” she says. “You can give Frieda a little kiss on her cheek in greeting. Of course that’s allowed.”
Bridgette turns around to look at Kat and the two women break into peals of laughter.
What the hell? How’d these two become besties so fucking fast? And why the hell is Kat acting like Bridgette’s in on our game? Bridgette’s not a player in our fantasy—she’s nothing but a fucking pawn.
Bridgette hugs me and kisses me on both cheeks, but when she does, I recoil at her touch. I want absolutely nothing to do with her. The only person I wanna touch right now is Kat; specifically, I wanna rip Kat’s clothes off and fuck the shit out of her—it’s what I’ve been fantasizing about doing night and day all week long—not sitting in a chair in a corner, jerking off while watching someone else touch and kiss and lick my girl. In fact, the thought of Bridgette—or anyone—laying a fucking finger on my Party Girl with a Hyphen makes my stomach turn over.
“Hey, asshole,” Bridgette says, swatting my shoulder. “You didn’t tell me your girlfriend was this gorgeous.” She motions to Kat. “I was just telling Kat—Heidi Kumquat”—she giggles and Kat joins her—“if she ever wants to try modeling, she could make an absolute killing. Look at that bone structure! Those legs! That skin! Oh my God, she’s to die for. I can’t wait to take a juicy bite out of her.” She licks her lips.
Kat told Bridgette she’s “Heidi Kumquat” for the night? So does that mean Kat’s told Bridgette everything about our little game? Because when I called Bridgette and invited her to our little party, I certainly didn’t. I merely asked Bridgette if she’d come hang out with me and this gorgeous girl I’m seeing, maybe make out with the girl while I watched and wacked off if things were to go in that direction (something I knew would be right up Bridgette’s alley)—but I certainly didn’t mention Kat being my high-priced call girl. What have these two been talking about for the last few hours before my arrival?