Page 33 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)
“Why don’t we go up to my room and talk?
” she suggests. “I’ve got some snacks already set up.
You can’t have had anything to eat for hours.
” Quinn doesn’t wait for a response. She just grabs my hand, reaches around me to take Troye’s, then leads us up the stairs.
The latter nudges me in the ribs on each step.
“That towel is doing wonders for your ass, Kitty. As in, it’s not covering it at all. Is it Skip?”
“Couldn’t say.” I could, because right before I mentally welded my eyes shut, again, I saw a flash of the roundest ass I’ve ever seen, but I don’t.
Quinn laughs it off, peppers Troye for details about the training schmozzle, and he disputes everything Coach said. I add nothing to the conversation because I’m too busy fighting an internal war and trying to ascend a staircase blind, with a boner.
Why did I think coming here was going to be easier than texting?
Maybe I didn’t.
Maybe I hoped this very thing would happen.
On what I pray is the last step, my elbow brushes against Troye’s hoodie, the waft of locker room soap and green apple shampoo has my heart racing with an overwhelming urge to grab and sniff his head.
To escape it, I lean into Quinn, but she’s so soft and warm and still kinda damp, and smells of vanilla and cinnamon. Together they’re a lethal combination. Sweet and sour. Warm and fresh. A living, breathing, good old-fashioned American apple pie. One I can’t wait to devour.
Quinn said she had snacks in her room. What she has is a buffet.
The perfume bottles, empty soda cans, make-up and other various forms of girl junk normally cluttering her dresser have been cleaned away.
In its place sits a lace doily that looks older than the three of us combined, undoubtedly Lotte’s, and on that is an odd combination of sub sandwiches, antipasto, some kind of Quinoa salad thing, fresh fruit, and soda.
Oh, and a bottle of my favorite kombucha.
My eyes linger on the nondescript brown glass, my stupid heart swelling.
She bought that for me, I think. She knows me.
Noting the direction of my gaze, Quinn leans in to my ear. “Troye asked me to get that. Had to be that specific brand, too. Funny, I’ve never seen him drink it before.”
“But he hates it.” He hates me.
“Maybe.” She shrugs, eyes all naughty and cute. “Or maybe he likes it a lot … more than he’s willing to admit.”
“Oh.” Because I’m thick as a brick, and she’s wearing a towel, it takes a second for that, and her accompanying smile, to compute.
Then does. “Oh,” I repeat, the rush of emotion leaving me a little faint.
Maybe I should sit. I’m just about to when I notice something tucked behind the bottles and lose my freaking mind.
“Holy shit. Quinny, is that fairy bread?”
“It is!” She beams, her big brown eyes glistening with pride. “Lotte found it when she was obsessively researching your birthday song and?—”
“I can’t believe you made that for me.” But to me, it’s more than a thoughtful taste of home, it’s the world. That bread, and the freaking kombucha see any hope of me walking out of here without anything physical happening obliterated.
In two strides I close the distance between us, capture her face in my hands and devour her.
Without hesitation, she melts into it, moaning so softly it’s almost a whimper.
I tilt her head, meaning to deepen the kiss, but it’s awkward and clumsy as fuck.
My cheeks flush with heat when I stupidly run my tongue across what may, or may not be her chin, and my brain goes into overload.
But if her desperate gasp is anything to go by, she doesn’t mind my fumbling.
If anything, it’s spurring her on, prompting her to take the lead.
With her hand on my chin, she opens up, encouraging me to slip my tongue between her lips, then welcoming it with another moan.
“You’ve eaten some,” I whisper, pulling away just enough to keep her mouth ghosting over mine, my thumbs caressing her cheeks. “I can taste them.”
Stretching on to the tips of her toes, she smiles, hands sliding round my neck.
As she writhes against me, she pulls me back onto her mouth and works her tongue over mine again and again.
Between us, I can feel the towel shifting.
The towel slipping. Then falling. Like it, she has me in free fall, tumbling head first into something I have and feel no desire to control.
“You two look incredible,” Troye rumbles, his voice edged with desire cuts through the haze. “So fucking hot.”
“You too,” I manage. “Want you too.” Relinquishing my grip on Quinn’s face, I reach out for him, the white knuckle fear over how much I desire him evaporating alongside my good intentions. “I’m sorry I ran. I was scared that I couldn’t handle it. I still don’t know if I can.”
“I’m scared by this too, Brady,” Quinn says, her voice threadbare at the touch of Troye sliding an arm around each of our waists. “I don’t understand it. But I can’t deny it anymore.”
Troye says nothing, just leans in and kisses me. It’s hard, fast, dirty, and mostly involves my top lip. It’s also over as quick as it began, because he twists and does the same to Quinn. There’s no twinge of jealousy this time. Just want. So much want I could come just watching them.
With that, coming, in mind, it’s me that moves first, nudging them towards the bed that Troye’s standing closest to, it’s the back of his legs that hit the mattress first. His body, all long limbs and lean muscle, that latches on and takes us down with him.
Hands never not touching, lips only parting in search of another, our clothing is discarded with appropriate haste, because there’s no hesitation between us this time.
No talking either. Meaning before I know it I’m naked, my hard cock is weeping against my stomach, an equally naked Troye’s hips rut against me, his dick sliding through our combined mess.
Quinn is by my side, knees by my shoulders, one of her lovely peaked nipples in my mouth, hers glued to Troye’s.
“Fuck, yes. This is happening.” He enthuses when the inconvenient need for air forces them apart. “Kitty, I want you on your back, legs spread. And Skip, on your knees behind me. Enough of this pussy-footing around. I’m fucking Quinn, and you’re fucking me. Go.”