“Earth to, Amber. Did you hear anything I just said?” Pippa questions, breaking me out of my Wesley thoughts.
Amber frowns. “No, sorry. I was thinking about Eddie.”
“I said we have to get to the massage parlor, otherwise we will lose our time.”
She emerges from the shower and covers herself with a robe.
“Did you get clay in your girly bits? I think I’m still plucking some out of mine,” her mother asks, awkwardly picking a wedgy from her robe.
“We didn’t need to know that, Mrs. Collins,” Pippa shouts after her, making fun of Amber’s mom for no reason.
“Be nice, Pippa. You’re the one who invited her,” Amber hisses.
“I know. I know. Sorry for that. She’s barely said two words to you,” Pippa adds that last bit purposely. Doing her best to change Amber’s mood.
It works, you can see the embarrassment taking over. “It is what it is. We haven’t had the greatest relationship since my dad died. So, she’s probably keeping her distance for a reason.” She quickly gets off topic. “You know, I thought the bath was going to be gross, but it was rather relaxing. Thank you. And the showers... muah, chef’s kiss.”
Pippa loves a good compliment and smiles a little too widely. “I thought I might have to pull you out of that shower kicking and screaming, with how lost in thought you were.
The guide leads us down a dark hallway, then drops us in front of a few red doors. She pushes me and Amber into one and forces Pippa into the other with Mallory.
“They are all yours, boys,” the girl exclaims as we awkwardly stop in front of two very handsome men dressed in all black scrubs, standing by a table in the middle of a room of lit candles. Soothing music blasts from the speakers of an old boombox, setting the mood.
“Did we enter a brothel?” I whisper, causing Amber to giggle.
“We will leave the room. Please disrobe and cover your backside with the towels provided,” the man with shaggy dark hair, heavily tanned skin, and a wicked smile instructs.
My eyes instantly snap toward him. He reminds me of Wesley a little too much, and I instantly feel panicked. So, my eyes navigate to the other man, admiring his thick muscular shoulders and very bald head. This man does not look like Wesley at all, which I’m extremely thankful for. The last thingI need is a man who reminds me of Wesley rubbing his oily hands all over me.
“Which one do you want?” Amber asks.
My eyes snap toward the Wesley wannabee, then back at the floor.Nope, I’m definitely not picking him. “I’m not the one getting married. I think you need to take the one you find least attractive. Either one will work for me because I’m still over here looking for Mr. Poppy.”
“I thought you already found that?”
She giggles when I glare in her direction. “I really hope you’re not referring to who I think you’re referring to.”
“Well, he did go to jail for you.”
“That wasn’t my fucking fault. He’s the one that got all alpha crazy and attacked him.” I’m almost stuttering over my words. Talking about Wesley does that to me for some reason.
“And you like that. Don’t deny it, because you read about alpha holes all the time.”
A long sigh escapes my lips. “Shut the fuck up and take off your clothes. We got hot men waiting for us.” The curse words come out so easily. For years, I’ve kept my swear words down to a minimum, but lately, ever since… well… everything, I’ve been a little more vulgar with my wordage lately. I’m not sure how I feel about it. It makes me feel less like myself every day.
My stomach coils as I lie down on the table, waiting for a hot man to come over and massage me.
Everything in me internally relaxes when Baldy steps up behind me, his cute little twirly mustache pulling upwards with a smile.
His hands feel so soft as they oil up my skin, moving soft circles up and down my back and then working their way to my calves and feet. “So, which one of you is getting married?” he asks, paying close attention to a specificallysensitive pressure point on my foot that instantly has my eyes narrowing into euphoric slits.
“Her.” I lazily point to Amber, as a satisfied moan rushes out of me. “God, that feels good.”
“I’m Marco,” he says, moving his hands dangerously up my thighs. “That’s my brother Renaldo.”
“He doesn’t talk much,” Marco informs us.
My moans fill the room as Marco works his way up my thighs, then magically brush against my slit, testing the waters.
