Cried Out (Trophy Doms New York Book 3) by Kate Hawthorne

Author:Kate Hawthorne [Hawthorne, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kate Hawthorne Books
Published: 2024-10-10T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

BROOKS

It was a lot of work getting two drunk twenty-somethings back to my penthouse. The cab ride was a nightmare, but it made the elevator ride look tame. By the time I got them both through the door, I sent Dylan into a guest room on the first floor, then ushered Tate upstairs to my room.

He was annoyingly apologetic, even though he didn’t have a single thing to be sorry for. I let him ramble while I stripped him out of his clothes, shoving any ideas I’d had of dirty back of the bar sex out of my head. I’d definitely headed to Tryst with the hopes of taking him in public…somewhere we were in danger of being caught, where I had to cover his mouth with my hand to smother his noises.

I shook myself out of the fantasy because Tate was far too inebriated to consent to that kind of thing, and his best friend—even with cum still in the back of his throat—wasn’t any better off. Tucking Tate into bed, still in his underwear, I slid my water glass toward the side of the nightstand in case he got thirsty, then grabbed the trash can out of the bathroom and set it right by the edge of the bed. The wood would clean, but better safe than sorry.

After I was confident Tate had mumbled his last apology, I slipped quietly out of the bedroom and headed back downstairs. I’d been halfway through a good book and a better bottle of scotch when he’d texted, but I apparently knew how to sip and savor, whereas Tate was a pound it and hope for the best kind of drinker. It shouldn’t have surprised me because it was a clear mirror of how he approached most other things in his life. At least, as far as I could tell.

Even though the night had already taken two sharp and unexpected left turns, I came face to face with another in my kitchen. The new one was Dylan shaped, hunched over my counter with my scotch cradled between his hands.

“Normally people can’t look away from the view the first time they come over,” I said, taking a fresh glass out of the cabinet and taking the seat beside him. He slid my own bottle of scotch toward me, and I scoffed, filling the new glass with two fingers of amber-colored liquor.

“I think it’ll make me throw up,” he muttered, swishing the scotch around the glass.

“I think that’s whatever you were drinking before now,” I suggested. “Did someone drug your drink, Dylan?”

He reeled back surprisingly fast, like I’d struck him.

“Why would you ask me that?”

There were a thousand reasons the question was a fair one, but if he was intent to ignore all of the red flags that hovered over his head, I knew better than to argue with a drunk man who carried the weight of a chip on his shoulder.

“Just checking.”

“I knew what I was doing.”

I took a sip of my drink, spinning on my seat and propping my elbows up on the counter.

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