Page 28 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)
B rady kisses just like I knew he would. Tender, caring, timid at first, but so fucking hot. With every broken whimper, I can feel the long denied, raging fire lurking beneath, cracking through his surface.
And I want it. I want to take him. I want to open him up and I want to expose him.
All the three of us have done for the last twenty minutes is kiss, but it’s quite possible that Quinn Josephine Harris and Brady Rudiger Basse, may be the death of me.
Rudiger’s probably not his middle name, I don’t actually know what is. Heck, it could be Wally. But what I do know is that never have I ever had a more satisfying sexual experience and once again, all we have done is kiss.
My lips are chapped beyond recognition. My dick painfully hard, leaking and whatever else dicks can do when left to their own erect devices, and I need this to progress. I need to get these two naked and I need to bury myself inside them.
At the same time, I don’t want it to end. So if that means kissing, in addition to a little dry humping, then so be it. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
Looks like Quinn is too. Extracting herself from Skip’s neck, she runs her hands through and musses together our fair and dark hair, drawing our attention back to her.
“Boys, I want to show you the rest of the room.”
“Now?” Distress has Brady’s voice peaking a few octaves higher than usual. “Can we not do that later?”
“We could, but I think you’ll be happy with what I show you. Do you trust me?”
Blushing all shy and sexy he gulps, then nods, then turns to me. Feeling oddly emotional I think it’s safer for me to stay quiet, so I nod my reply, too.
Satisfied, Quinn exhales softly, presses her hands into her lap and stands. Those damn shorts are so far up her ass I think I could see them if she yawned, and I am eternally grateful. I focus on that, on the pure physicality of the moment, rather than the lump of weakness sitting in my throat.
This is a transaction. I tell myself. A handover from Mr. Wrong to Mr. Right for the woman who deserves no less.
With a smile that could tempt the most pure of heart, she extends her hands, Brady taking the left, me the right, and as a threesome we wander through the open plan space.
“Obviously that’s the kitchen,” Quinn points.
“And over there is a mini laundry room and cellar. Dad keeps all his fancy wine in there, but thinks I don’t know.
Obviously, I do.” She winks. “Then we have the bathroom, out there is a hot tub and outdoor shower, and then, here, behind this door, is the bedroom.”
Quinn turns the silver handle and. “Holy freaking shit.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
Our eloquent reactions are valid as fuck.
This room resembles the set of a Taylor Swift music video.
Should it begin to snow, or the sheets on the fancy four poster bed that dwarfs a king size, spontaneously catch fire, we’ll be there.
There’s a sofa. A dresser. A fully decked out walk-in closet, and behind it, lies what I think is another full sized bathroom.
Running the length of the room are glass doors that overlook the hot tub Quinn just pointed out, and in the same way calling this place a pool house is, referring to it as a hot tub, is a gross underestimation.
The thing is huge, what some lucky families would consider a full-sized pool, and surrounded by a garden full of tropical looking flowers, and plants and tons of other shit I would kill in seconds if left in charge of its care.
It’s further proof that not all of us spent the first seven years of life in a flea-ridden shithole owned by failed carnival workers, and most of all, a timely reminder of the sacrifices Quinn has made to be with me. Me of all people.
“This is obscene,” the giant chip on my shoulder prompts me to utter.
“Nice, huh.” Quinn beams, completely missing the contempt my words are soaked in. “Originally, my nanny, Mia lived in here, but when she retired and moved back to Colorado, Dad fully renovated it. The plan was for me to move in, but then?—“
“Then you met me.” It’s a statement, not a question. One that strikes me with a force equal to a charging Brady in goalie pads slamming into my face.
“Totally worth it. I love living with Lotte, and I love … well.” She blushes, a rarity for Quinn, and I thank fuck she caught herself.
Rather than continue her train of thought, she plonks her cute tush on the edge of the bed, then slides into the middle.
“What do you say, boys? Should we pick up where we left off on the sofa?”
Surprisingly, it’s Skip who moves first, toeing off his shoes before practically tripping over himself to leap onto the bed. He, and Quinn’s boobs, bounce like it’s a fucking trampoline, with him landing inches from her exposed stomach. “Want to join us, Troyeby?”
What I want is to go home, bury myself under my blanket, stare at Superman For All Seasons #1, and not come out till Quinn has forgotten me.
But I need to do this for her, not me, so I will myself forward and force a grin, knowing my libido will kick in the second I smell Quinn’s skin as it slides over mine.
Brady’s presence should help with that, too.
It’s been almost a year since I’ve been with a guy, and while I’ll never claim to have a preference, I also can’t say sex with a guy and a girl feel the same.
Sure, an orgasm is an orgasm. And while I love plowing into a tight, hot pussy, a pretty pink hole feels equally amazing.
And I’m vers, so there’s also the bottoming burn, the stretch, the fullness, and the prostate.
My ass clenches at the thought of Brady’s fat, lubed up cock sliding into me, and ‘nuff said. Just like that, I’m back and ready .
In a much less graceful way than Skip did, I kick off my shoes, hearing them bang against the wall as I stalk towards the bed.
Patting the space to her left, Quinn giggles while her other hand roams over Skip’s chest. “Take his shirt off, Kitty,” I demand.
“Let him feel those magic lips of yours suck on his nipples.”
“Jesus.” All six foot five inches of Brady’s body trembles when she grips the hem of his shirt and rips. Buttons fly everywhere, one hitting my cheek as I climb onto the bed and sit on my knees.
“Kitty might have been calling the shots on the sofa, but our little princess loves a little kinky guidance, so I’m going to tell her what to do.”
“I need it, too.” He sighs, chest heaving. “I wasn’t going to say anything but, I’ve never … you know.”
“Fucked a guy?” I say.
“Been with two people at once?” Quinn adds.
“Or both?”
A shadow of doom slowly descends over Skip’s face. You could hear a pin drop for maybe thirty of the slowest seconds in the history of seconds, and then, “Neither. I’ve not done either. I’ve never been with anyone.”
Holy shit. All those times I made puns, or he did, and he didn’t even realize. I shouldn’t laugh. It’s cruel and insensitive.
But I am me. I am those things. So I do.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re a giant virgin? Holy fucking shit, Skip. What the hell is wrong with Australian girls? Are they blind?”
“Troye,” Quinn scolds in her sexy, bossy tone I can’t get enough of. “Don’t be mean. Maybe Brady has been waiting for the right time. Maybe this is it.”
“It is.” Poor Skip’s head could fall off with its aggressive wobble. Not sure if it’s a nod in the affirmative or a negatory shake. Could be both. “And there’s nothing wrong with the girls at home. I just never … put myself in a situation where anything would happen.”
“Yet here you are, smack bang in the middle of one where anything could.”
Brady’s eyes meet mine, one of the few times they have since we started necking.
“I didn’t trust myself. I knew I was … queer and didn’t …
I guess I felt ashamed. I didn’t understand how I could be so into guys, and chicks at the same time.
I was scared that if I did find someone stupid enough to touch me, I’d choose the wrong gender, not get it up, and end up looking like an even bigger flog than I already did. ”
Blinking slowly, I turn to Quinn, shoot her a wink, then back to Skip. “Dude, you need to chill. Lucky I know the perfect way. Quinny, help the boy out of those pants. We need to blow that fear right out of him.”
Hips raised, back arching off the bed as Quinn slides his fancy pants down his legs. Skippy is a snack I can’t wait to devour.
“This. This was supposed to be about Quinn,” he mutters, eyes clenched together. “Kitty season, remember?”
Quinn presses her hand into the middle of Skip’s chest and gently eases him back down. “Brady, trust me. What I want right now, is to suck you down like a thick shake through a too thin straw. I wanna lick you. Taste you. Swallow you. And then?—”
“Then?”
“And then I want you to fuck me.”
Brady looks as though he may come. Or faint. Or both. It’s a sensation I’m familiar with, having experienced it several times with Quinn. The girl is a fucking rocket.
With one final tug and a little cheer, Brady’s pants are tossed to the side, exposing miles and miles of golden tanned skin, tighty-whitey anaconda-concealing Calvin’s, and calf-high white socks.
Quinn moves to peel them off, and I’m quick to slap my hand over hers, “Leave ‘em. Quinny. I am a fucking slut, for white socks. It’s your turn, Kitty. Let’s peel yourself out of those slutty little shorts, and as much as it’s doing for me, the jersey, too.
I’m sure Brady would like to get acquainted with these.
” I point to the boobs spilling over the V neck, then duck down and suck the swell of them into my mouth.
“Fuck.” The mattress dips as Brady sits up to watch, groaning his appreciation as she smooths her hands over her stomach, slowly, tauntingly raises the jersey up over her boobs, then over her head.
Seconds later, she’s down to a tiny powder blue thong and matching bra, and Brady? Brady is a trembling, mumbling wreck of a man.
And to think. We’ve only just begun.