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I shiver. It’s scandalous making love to twins, and I’ve done a lot of naughty things in my life. I mean, I was working as a lawyer while taking escort jobs on the side, so that’s probably grounds for being disbarred. But it hardly seems to matter now.

Suddenly, my stomach turns and a foul taste rises in my throat. Clapping my hands over my mouth, I rush into the bathroom and heave into the toilet, barely managing to bend over the porcelain before the puking begins.

After my stomach empties of last night’s dinner, I collapse to the ground, shaking and panting. I lean against the cool tile wall and close my eyes as the nausea abates.

“What was that about?” I whisper aloud to the empty bathroom. My body feels damp, sticky, and altogether disgusting. It takes me a few minutes to summon the strength to stand and I look in the mirror while bracing my hands on the counter. The same girl looks back at me. Yes, I’m glowing a bit but it’s because I’ve been making love non-stop, and supposedly the endorphins from sex are good for you. But then, I drop the toothbrush in my hand, staring at my reflection with wide eyes.

Glowing? OMG. Could I be pregnant?

I shake my head immediately. No, that’s not possible. Clay, Casper, and I always use protection and we’re very careful about it. But then my eyes widen because always isn’t exactly accurate. There have been some nights – or mornings, honestly – when the three of us got caught up in our love-making and the condoms didn’t make an appearance.

OMG. I slap a hand to my forehead and moan low in my throat. As a lawyer, I should know that ‘most of the time’ is never enough because that’s what gets people into trouble.

But am I in trouble now? My hands fall to my poochy stomach and I pat it experimentally. It’s impossible to tell because honestly, I’m always a little poochy there. At least if I am pregnant, I can’t be very far along. My mind spins furiously as I try to remember my last period. Okay. At a maximum, I would be three months pregnant, but my guess would be more like two months.

But the bigger question is: how will Clay and Casper react? We’ve never talked about children or families before because the time wasn’t ripe. Hell, we only just started dating, even if our relationship has taken off at light speed. But then, a secret smile creeps over my face. I think they would be happy to be daddies, and besides, the Richmonds are forty-five. How much longer are they going to wait?

My phone rings and my heart races. Maybe it’s Clay and Casper now, but then my stomach falls. It’s just Clarissa from City Girls calling me via video chat.

I quickly brush my hair and try to look normal.

“Hi Clarissa,” I say with a smile. “What’s up?”

I expect some nonsense about taking new clients, or making sure to keep fit, but instead, Clarissa launches into a screaming rage-filled rant that I don’t understand for the first few seconds.

“You slut!” she shrieks. “Can’t you see what’s happening?”

What in the world? She’s talking so fast that she’s practically spitting out every word in an incomprehensible garble.

“Whoa, whoa,” I say. “What’s going on, Clarissa? Slow down. Why are you so upset?”

She shuts up for a moment, although her ears are still steaming with smoke.

“Don’t you see what’s happening?” she hisses, her eyes venomous. At the moment, the older woman resembles Cruella de Ville with her red lips turned up in a sneer.

“No, because I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s going on?”

“Clay and Casper Richmond!” Clarissa shrieks. “That’s what’s going on. Those two fucking scumbags are going to ruin the business.”

I squint at her.

“I’m sorry? Come again?”

Clarissa sneers again.

“Don’t tell me you believe their bullshit, Mara. Or maybe you do. Let me guess: they’ve been fucking you so much that you can’t think, right? Your brain’s literally dripping out of your ears now?”

I’m offended and make to hang up, but Clarissa holds up a hand.

“Don’t go yet, little girl,” she hisses. “Because your so-called boyfriends are perverts, did you know that?”

I sit up straight.

“No, they aren’t!”

Clarissa merely lets out a sound like a slithering snake.

“Yes, they are. Clay and Casper Richmond own Club Z, did you know? You know, the group that puts on those dirty play parties? Fuck them! It’s fucking illegal and I should call the cops on them.”

I hesitate, my heart pounding because I’ve accompanied the twins to several Club Z events now, and they’ve never mentioned anything about owning the event company. What the hell?

“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Clarissa,” I say in a slow tone. “Clay and Casper would have told me if they were involved with Club Z.”