He picks up his sweatpants and pulls them on, then lifts me off the ground, much to my numerous f-bombs for him to put me back down. I growl at him when he fucking spanks me.
“On the contrary.” I tip sideways when he bends over to retrieve my clothes. “Just tell him to close his eyes.”
“You tell him,” I hiss.
I dig two fingers into the pressure point located on his forearm and am able to squirm out of his hold. Landing on my feet, I make a mad dash through the kitchen, flashing everyone in the process.
“Save me the chocolate ones!” I yell as I streak past Aleksander toward the stairs, every bare inch of me as naked as the day I was born.
Fuck it. My dignity is already damned. And I’m hungry.
And screw them for making this awkward as hell. I refuse to do a walk of shame in my own home.
You want Aleksander to look at you.
Shut up, conscience.
Stopping in my tracks, I turn around and march back into the kitchen. Grabbing the entire box of donuts from a stunned and speechless Aleksander, I set it on the counter island, lift the lid, and take out one smothered in chocolate icing.
“Want a blow job in the shower?” I ask Constantine.
Hendrix tosses up his hands, not happy one bit. “But you promised me a blow job!”
“You’re in time out,” I inform him.
“For what?”
Like he doesn’t know. He could have warned me we had an audience, not just stood there, smirking through the window.
“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll be ready for our run,” I tell Aleksander.
His gaze jerks up from my boobs, and I arch an eyebrow when his face flames fire-engine red. Typical male. To be honest, after the stuff the guys and I have done at the Red Room, standing in my “birthday suit” in the kitchen with them is hardly scandalous.
“Uh-huh,” Aleksander chokes out.
Tristan reaches over and snaps his mouth closed. “You’re starting to drool.”
Aleksander scowls. “I was not.”
Snatching a glazed donut from the open box, Tristan makes sure to emphatically pop the p when he replies, “Yep, you were most definitely drooling.”
Aleksander closes the lid. “Fuck you. You don’t get any.”
Hendrix tries a last-ditch effort to sway me with his sexy British accent. “Please. Pretty please. I’ll be good. And I’ll make you feelsodamn good.”
I snort when he bats his baby blues at me. “Tempting. But you’re still in time out.”
He points an accusatory finger at Constantine. “He was standing there, too. Why does he get a pass?”
“Thirty minutes,” Constantine interjects.
Taking a big bite out of my donut, I counter with, “Fifteen.” Constantine flashes his fingers five times for twenty-five, and I roll my eyes because he knows damn well I’ll cave. “Fine.”
Hendrix slides one of the knifes out of the butcher block on the counter. “She can’t give you a BJ if I cut your dick off.”
Backing out of the kitchen, Constantine holds up his middle finger and sends the guys a smug grin as he follows after me.
Thirty-Five
