Page 32 of The Best Kind of Forever
The second Kit looks at me, a low rumble comes from Hayes’ chest.
“Don’t even think about it,” he growls, eliciting unfettered laughter from the group, and Bristol and Casen seem to share some kind of complicit look with each other.
Kit holds his hands up in surrender. “Your girl is safe, H.”
Your girl.
That doesn’t sound half bad.
Warmth pumps through me at the term of endearment, my breath and heart boxing it out in the ring of my ribs.
“Are all of these dares sexual?” I whisper to Hayes.
Hayes flashes me that trademark grin of his. “God, I hope not.”
The arrogance in his tone isn’t a good sign, but neither is the heat pooling between my legs. Thank you, Hayes’ stupid audiobook narrator voice. Why does he have to be irresistible all the time? And why am I hoping that I get a dare just as sexual as Kit’s?
Look, we’ve kissed, but we haven’t done a lot of sexual stuff with each other yet. It’s not that I don’t want to—trust me, I do—but I only want to initiate it if he makes it clear he’s on board.
“Fully, do you give me consent to give you the best lap dance you’ll ever experience?” Kit asks, glowing with excitement.
Fulton’s laugh is brittle. “Me? Really?”
“Yes, you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re about as virginal as the olive oil we have in the cabinet.”
Fulton grumbles something under his breath, but he doesn’t refute Kit’s statement. “Fine. Yes, I give you consent.”
Kit claps his hands together. “It’s your lucky day. I’ve been practicing my Magic Mike moves, and you won’t even have to pay me anything.”
Everyone retreats from the huddle and sits down on the couch except for Kit, who’s dragging a kitchen chair into the center of the living room. He extends an arm out and bows, and with a sigh, Fulton shuffles over and takes his new throne.
If I had walked into the room right now, with no context, I would’ve thought Fulton was involved in some sort of hostage situation. His hands are gripping the ever-loving life out of his seat, and his face has turned this sickly white color that looks strangely akin to a zombie bite victim.
“Please don’t get any of this on video,” he groans.
“Too late,” Gage says, already holding up his phone camera, flash on and everything.
And with a beat, the ridiculously raunchy music starts playing, and Kit begins to sway his hips from side to side. He sticks one leg out, then slowly rolls up, making an effort to wiggle his ass and push his chest out. Oh my God. It’s like I’ve been transported to a strip club in Las Vegas, but not a good one. A scary one. Averyscary one.
I don’t think we’re a minute through the song—that’s how long and torturous this feels. This would be a good type of psychological torture for governments to employ wherever torture is even legal these days.
“I’m scared,” I mumble to Hayes.
“Really?”
I’m so close to Hayes’ body that I can feel his breath against my skin, can pick up on the exact moment the slow-burning desire in his steel-blue eyes kicks up.
“I don’t know. This is pretty hot,” he jokes, throwing an arm over my shoulder.
The contact alone has somehow launched my thoughts into the ozone layer, and my arousal is up there in orbit with all the secret things I fantasize about Hayes doing to me. He’s so pretty. The kind of pretty you never get tired of looking at. But I think he’d look a lot prettier with his head between my thig—
“Oh, no. He’s taken his shirt off,” I hear Hayes whisper, and my eyes snap up to find Kit, in fact, with his shirt off. Then I’m met with a lot of olive, inked skin. And abs. Abs stacked on abs. He’s whipping his shirt around his head like a lasso, simultaneously grinding on Fulton with an undulation of his hips.
I can’t hold back my laughter anymore.
