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His thumb goes right to my throat.
"Ready to pump a baby into this baby, Ted?" his rabbit-masked friend asks with a chuckle, but there's a tension between them, something unspoken that sucks the air right from the atmosphere.
"Yes, but I want you to fuck her throat while I do it."
He stares at me as he speaks, but the shadow of his mask hides his eye color. His words are frosty enough to send a chill down my spine even as his thumb burns into my neck.
His fingers wrap around, his hand big enough that they cross my spinal column and curl in. "You like choking on cocks, pet?" he asks, his voice resonant in a way that makes the words seem less rude than they are.
I shrug. I've sucked exactly one dick for all of about five seconds before I spit it out because it tasted gross, but I didn't get paid fifty grand for that. I was told not to fight this weekend, but I was never told I needed to pretend to enjoy it.
The smile given to me by the fox – Ted – is even colder than his frown. He leans in close and whispers, "I see you," like he means more than my body.
And then he grabs the bottom of my crop top and yanks it over my head so hard I nearly fall backwards, saved only by his body as he slides behind me.
Two
When Jane toldme how old the women would be – nineteen to thirty, of good health and not currently in school or married – I knew to expect some to be my daughters' ages. But knowing that and seeing them through the two-way mirror are completely different things.
"Bollocks," I mutter.
Luke chortles. "Tally-ho, guv'nuh?"
I shoot him a withering glare that my children all grew out of a decade ago, even little Sophie.
A sophomore in college, God help me.
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," I grumble, but who am I kidding. Luke's been my best friend for almost twenty years, since my father dragged me to America my first year of sixth form, and I was suddenly a high school junior with only the worst possible concept about what the American education system was.
All of which Luke confirmed for me.
This is nowhere near the dumbest thing Luke has talked me into in that time. That would probably be my bachelor party in Mexico when we were twenty. But he's also had some ideas that turned out to be brilliant. He’s not the business savant that I am, but he’s the one who proposed merging my logistics firm with his family’s fleet of trucks. I turned two million-dollar outfits into a billion-dollar multinational corporation in under a decade. And it was his idea to move in with me when I suddenly found myself a widower with three step-kids long before we were making that kind of money. Uncle Luke ended up being a godsend when I could barely afford rent on a three-bedroom, let alone a nanny.
Also, he was right about how much I would love sharing sexual conquests with him. And I grudgingly have to admit he's probably right that as soon as he can get a chick to pop out a baby for him, I'm going to want one, too, so I may as well just have at it alongside him to get us out of the diaper years more quickly.
"Go on, take your pick," he says, turning me back towards the window. The other men all nod. Apparently I'm the rookie here. Luke's been here once, although he didn't tell me until after the fact. Some of them have been doing this for a decade.
I study the girls. I try to decide who looks like the best lay, but most women surprise me. I have an existential crisis when I start thinking about genetics. None of my kids have my genetics, but the brown hair and brown eyes they have are close enough, and now my son's beard – my son has a beard like a goddamn adult and a freaking Masters degree and a fiancé – is red like mine when I let it grow in. Do I want a baby that looks like me? That doesn't look like me?
Eventually I sigh and point to the blonde in the pink dress. "She's hot."
"No that's a terrible choice," Luke says so quickly I gape at him. "What about her?"
He points to the one who's by herself. The other women are all dressed like they're here and ready for a good time. Short skirts, not a single panty line among them. But this one?
Bollocks.
She could be one of Sophie's friends. Not from high school, her threadbare hoodie and ill-fitting jean shorts say clearly enough that she can't afford private school, but she could totally be a scholarship kid in Sophie's classes or one of the teens that lurk at the D&D tables of Sophie's favorite comic shop.
Yeah, she'd blend in with them, right down to the sullen, anti-social stance she takes, the shit attitude she cops with the women who are trying to welcome her, and the temporary tattoos her legs are covered in.
Definitely temporary because she might be a tad older than Sophie, but I don’t think she’s any older than Taylor. Tattoos aren’t my thing, but Luke's got quite the collection and paid handsomely for them. Pocket change for us, but there's no way she can afford the sort of extensive work she has, not at her age if she’s hurting enough for cash that she’d do something like this.
She's no older than my daughters, and she isn't looking any more mature than them, either. Her black hair is in braided pigtails, and not in a sexy way. More like Wednesday Addams. Her midriff is showing, but I doubt she even realizes she's subconsciously covering that stretch of tawny flesh with a forearm. And Luke wants us to double-team her bareback so we can get a baby out of her.
I fish a ginger cream out of my trouser pocket to settle my stomach, and Luke smirks at me.
I scowl. "She's a brat. I have enough brats at home."
