Page 71 of Kitty Season
Hours after the dicking down of a lifetime, I’ve regained enough feeling in my legs to slip from bed and make my way to the shower. Halfway there, about four steps, I decide I’vemassivelyoverestimated the link between feeling an appendage, and it working.
Walking, it seems, is more difficult than I remember.
Rolling seems more my speed. Once again, I make it the equivalent of a few steps when Lotte flings herself through my door. “Quinn, are you okay? I heard a dead body hitting the ground-like thud … why are you lying on the floor?”
“Sex related injury.”
Sliding her glasses up her nose she considers me, not a scrap of judgment on her face. “I don’t want to know, do I?”
“Probably not, no.” We both begin to laugh, but I force myself to stop because as well as needing a shower, I really have to pee. “Little help?” I throw my arms in front of me and flail about.
Okay, now there’s a little judgment. “You want me to help you stand or just drag you?”
“Umm. I think dragging would be best.”
Lotte moves to stand in front of me, bypasses my hands, takes hold of my forearms and tugs. She grunts too. It’s super cute. Not at all embarrassing. “You remember last year whenNoah met us outside Conte to take me to the doctor, and you wished me luck and told me I deserved every good thing?”
Lotte has a memory like an elephant. I have one closer to a chimpanzee. “Yep, sure do,” I lie.
“Well, while I’m not asking for details, or assuming, or drawing any conclusions, I am saying that sometimes, perhaps, one can havetoomuch of every good thing. And that maybe one losing the ability to walk, is a sign that one has reached that point. Also, I like your nightie.”
“That was wise and very diplomatic. Also thanks. I made it.”
Thankfully, we’ve now made it to the tiled floor of the bathroom. Its cool surface is heaven to my freshly carpet-burned skin, though the squelching sound isn’t especially flattering. Looking over at me, Lotte hovers and gives me a sympathetic grin. In reality, I should be the one fussing over her. Noah’s back on the road for another seven days of away games, and she’s as forlorn as she was the first time it happened. She won’t even come to the game tonight, declaring,“hockey is not in my good books right now.”
“You right from here?” she asks, letting my hands fall. “Or do you need help to undress?”
“Nah, I got it covered. Press studs. I designed it for easy tear off.” Her grin morphs into a grimace and yep, there it is. The judgment.
“Have fun at the game, Quinny,” is muttered as she turns to exit. Pausing just outside the door, she looks back and points to my legs. “Maybe not this much, though.”
The boys are alreadyout on the ice, tonight’s game starting any second now, when Claire spots me on my descent down the bustling stairs, and begins frantically waving me over. I’m slightly gutted to see the Bears are shooting the opposite end this period, meaning I’ll only have Brady up close once. But then again, this way I get two glorious periods of Troye skating into the offensive zone in full, attacking flight.
And both your boys are on the same team. Don’t forget that.
My boys.
For the umpteenth time, the image of Brady pushing inside Troye, as he thrusts inside of me, sends chills up and down my spine, and that boneless, legless sensation almost sends me hurtling down the stairs.
I’m relieved when I reach my friends in one flustered piece, and force a smile at Kelly who at least tries to conceal her disappointment to find me alone. Claire makes no such attempt. “It’s just you? Where’s Lot?”
“Hi, I’m great, thanks. As for Lotte, I’d say by now, she’s pining, fretting and eating.”
Synchronized awws come from the two women sitting beside Kelly. They’re clearly sitting with the girls, at least I hope they are since they are leaning over Kelly to steal Doritos from the bag in Claire’s lap. I search my brain for their names, but, nope. Got nothing.
“Poor Lotte.” Kelly sympathizes. “It must be so difficult for her. She’s too young to be alone so often. At least she has you.”
“And you will have her when it’s Troye’s turn,” Claire adds with an evil smirk replacing her frown. “Speaking of raven-haired heathens, Quinn, look who’s here. Fifi and Delphine!” Channeling Vanna White, she waves her hands around her friends as though they’re a new dishwasher I just won.
“Oh, hi.” I smile showing every tooth in my mouth. I have no idea who these women are but I think I’m supposed to. They are wearing Bears jerseys. Both Troye’s number two. Just like me.
Shit, are they … with him? Is this his harem? Have I accidentally stumbled into a Why Choose?
Slowly, my Clueless-ness registers with Claire.
“Troye’s never shown you a photo?”
“Told you our names?” Either Fifi, or Delphinium I think it was, asks.
