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"Uh..."
Tom laughs. His messy brown hair falls over his eyes. "I never thought anyone would trump Pete."
"I do not sound like that," Pete says.
"Oh... Oh... Oh..."
Miles is a singer. It makes sense he's loud. The groans are not all that different from the ones he makes on Sinful Serenade tracks.
I can handle that.
But, dammit, I do not need to hear my best friend in the throes of orgasm.
Especially not with Drew on the other side of the couch.
"Oh... Oh... Oh..."
"Mhmmm..."
I press my eyes closed and open them. Nope. Not a dream. I'm still in Miles's house, listening to him have sex. He and Meg are all the way upstairs. How is it possible the sound is carrying like this?
Tom shoves his way onto the couch. The drummer is not shy about demanding his way. He pushes Drew over, so Drew's pressed up against me. His knee, his outer thigh, his shoulders—they're all pressed up against me.
There's this flutter just below my belly. I ignore it.
The groans run together into this strange mix of oh yes, mhmm, oh, oh, OHHHHHHH.
Tom laughs. "This is such sweet revenge."
Pete shakes his head. "Cindy and I are poetry." "The bassist turns toward the noise with an amused smile. "That's pornographic."
"There's nothing poetic about I'm coming in your mouth." Tom nudges Drew to scoot over. He motions to me. "Give me some room. Sit on his lap or something."
Drew shoots him a death glare as he points to the empty love seat. "There's a couch right there."
MHMM!!!!!! UH!!!!!!!!!!
OH, OH OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
The squeaking and groaning builds to a crescendo and it crashes into a somehow equally loud mix of sighs. I guess they came. Hopefully, Miles has a slow refractory period.
I put on my best happy face. The one everyone expects from me. "I will if you sit on Pete's lap."
"No way." Tom sticks his tongue out like he's disgusted.
Pete plops down on the love seat and pats his groin. "Are you afraid you'll like it?"
Tom jumps off the couch. "Forget it." He reaches for Pete's phone and throws it to him. "Why don't you call Cindy so we can all have a round two, huh?"
"It's two a.m. in New York," Pete says.
"And that's stopped you before?" Tom asks.
There's more space on the couch—the left seat is totally empty—but Drew is still pressed against me.
That flutter shifts lower and lower. It's in full effect. It's ready to throw a tantrum to demand all of my attention.
I push myself off the couch with my best smile. "Excuse me."
