I redden, "Old habit."
"It’s delightful. You’re delightful. In fact," she scowls, "you are not what I expected."
"Oh?" I meet her gaze, "What did you think I was?"
"Cold," Isla interjects.
"Hard," Amelie adds.
Summer wriggles around and makes herself comfortable, "You know… You turned up unannounced at my wedding as my father’s wife, someone I never knew existed. And you were perfectly turned out, designer clothes and all."
"I prefer to be well-dressed. What’s wrong with that?" I scowl.
"Not a thing." Summer looks me up and down. "Bet, that’s what turns Saint on. Bet he wants to mess you up."
I flush, "Maybe." I glance between them, "What are you guys thinking?"
"I think," Amelie sits up on her knees, "you’re going about this all wrong."
"I am?"
"You went in and asked him outright. Guys don’t respond well to that."
"And what do you know about that?" Isla teases. "You, who haven’t had a steady boyfriend in forever."
Amelie doesn’t miss a beat, "I am not the one in question here… Also, I’ve observed human behavior up close."
"You're a pastry chef," Isla snorts.
"Exactly." Amelie's lips curve. "I've seen humans naked and vulnerable. Not literally," she hastens to add, "but you ever observe people enjoying their dessert? They let their guards down, and tune in to their baser instincts. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he eats his pudding."
Isla makes a gagging sound. "PJ. PJ," she singsongs.
"PJ?" I frown.
"Poor joke," she clarifies.
Amelie reddens. "Uh, that's not what I mean."
Summer chuckles. "Sure, you did."
"Okay so it came out all wrong, but you get me, right?" Amelie waves a hand in the air.
I take in her scarlet features. A smile trembles on my lips.
"Anyway, don’t mock it until you try it." Amelie turns to me, "As I was saying..."
"Yes?"
"I think you should make Saint jealous." Her eyes gleam, "Very jealous."
9
I am an odd number. Take away a letter and I become even. What number am I?
Answer: Seven
Saint
The music reverberates from the walls of the nightclub. The blonde leans in and shoves her ample bosom into my face.
I glance down her neckline, yawn.
She grabs a cushion from the next chair, slaps it to the floor between my legs, then drops to her knees. She lowers the zipper on my pants and my dick springs free.
I shove a hand into the pocket of my slacks. I could do with a fucking cigarette about now.
She bends and takes me into her mouth.
The blood thuds at my temples; my balls shrivel. Hell, I don’t want her. I grip her hair, she moans—the sound too exaggerated, too theatrical... Nothing like the soft breathy cries, the whines, the keening groans from Gigi. Why am I thinking of her again?
I yank the blonde’s head back. She glances up, a frown between her eyebrows.
"Leave."
She scowls.
Guess I owe her an explanation? Not. "It’s not you…" I crack my neck, "it’s me."
Her lips turn down, then she stiffens, springs up. "You’re a jerk, you know that?" She pivots, then flounces off toward the exit.
"What happened?" A male voice snickers. "No lead in the old pencil?"
"Shut the fuck up, Weston." I glance over to where he’s sprawled on a settee—a woman between his legs. Her head bobs as she blows him.
Not a muscle moves in his face. His features are deadpan. He’s not enjoying that so much as tolerating it. Yeah, when you hop from one blow job to the next, it happens. Things leave you bored. Flashing eyes, moist lips, the scent of her arousal in the air. My cock is instantly erect. The hell? Just thinking of her seems to have the most bizarre effect on my libido. Unacceptable. No-one, not even one of the Seven, are allowed to get close. So why is it that I can’t get the images of our encounter out of my head? "Clearly, I don’t like her."
No fucking riddle there to solve.
"Who are you talking to?" Weston peers past me.
The fuck? Did I say that aloud? I scowl, "None of your bloody business."
"The man doth protest too much."
"Focus on your own asinine problems."
"Of which, I’ll have you know, I have none." He taps the head of the woman whose face is stuck to his groin. She obediently increases her pace, raising and lowering her head at double the speed. He glances at the one on his right and she thrusts out her chest, squeezes her breasts, moaning in what is clearly fake desire. He frowns, "Less noise, more action." The woman subsides, her entire body gyrating with the effort of her ministrations on herself.
"I don’t know, from where I am, you seem…"
"Occupied?" He smirks.
"Stupefied."
"At least I am getting some satisfaction… You, however…" he looks me up and down, "...are a sorry state of affairs."
I tense. "Fuck off, douchebag."
"Oh, I intend to." He widens his stance. The blonde between his knees peers up, he frowns, and she goes back to the services she’s providing him.
"So, it’s come down to this, huh? Just two of the Seven trading insults." I tuck myself back in, then jump to my feet, begin to pace.
"Well, Sinner’s too infatuated with his new wife, Edward’s out… Priest and all that, Damian’s off doing whatever it is that rock stars do, Arpad’s island-hopping in the Baltics, and Baron…"
"Fucking Baron." I drum my fingers on my chest, "Bet he’s laughing at us from whichever corner of the world he is in."
"Of all the Seven of us, he took the incident the worst."
I stiffen.
"Not that it hasn’t affected all of us in different ways. It’s a bit much for twelve-year-old boys to have been subjected to what we were—"
"Stop." I grimace.
Weston’s shoulders tense. Then he grips the hair of the woman in between his thigh. He tugs and she moans. He yanks her head back and forth, using her mouth to get himself off. His mouth firms, then he pulls her off of him. He snaps his fingers and all three women in the room rise to their feet. Turning,
