The Token 3 by Eros Marata

Author:Eros, Marata [Eros, Marata]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Contemporary, Adult
Goodreads: 36462833
Publisher: Tamara Rose Blodgett
Published: 2014-01-28T08:00:00+00:00

~ 8 ~

“Fuck me,” Mick seethes. He swivels, eyes tagging the door with a death glare.

The bell trills like someone's laying their elbow against it.

My phone vibrates across the glass coffee table.

“Can we ignore this?” I ask, already feeling exposed. The tether of our almost-connection slips away like a rope of vapor.

“McKenna!” a man yells, followed by a heavy fist.

I almost recognize the voice, but I can't place it.

Mick hops off the couch, jerking up his trousers, and I watch him stuff his semi-erect goodness away.

The disappointment is a sucker punch. I feel dazed.

I untwist my smock and notice my bra is hanging on by one strap. I heave it to the floor and tear my shirt over my head, accidentally tugging my hair.

Mick's almost to the door and I hear my voice mail chime alert.

I'm naked from the waist down, my pussy catches a breeze and my wet passion tickles as it cools. I scan the floor and grab my smock pants, kicking my ruined panties off to join the bra. I jerk on the pants as Mick turns around, sees my state of more or less dress, and looks through the peephole.

I know it's bad when he leans his forehead against the door.

“Fuck,” he says with feeling and unbolts the door.

He sucks open the door, wearing no shoes, no shirt... just his pants. Hopefully minus the hard-on.

It's Tagger.

I want to die of embarrassment. Twice.

Tagger does a head to toe sweep of Mick's... general disarray, and smirks. “Catch ya at a bad time?”

Mick holds onto the door, blocking Tagger’s view of my body. “Yeah, kinda sucks. What do you need?”

“I'm surprised you don't have a butler and the whole nine yards.”

I can see Mick's face shut down.

“You said Faren Mitchell would be with you.”

“Yes,” Mick answers, giving him nothing.

“Is she here?” Tagger presses.

“Yeah.”

“May I come in?”

Mick exhales. Moving aside, he sweeps his hand to the right, and Tagger walks in. His casual clothes look out of place in Mick's expensive digs.

Of course, I still have my physical therapy uniform on.

Sans panties and bra.

Oh god. My chin drops when I catch sight of my underwear. I give what I think is a subtle swish of my toes in an attempt to bury them underneath the couch.

“There you are,” Tagger says.

My stomach clenches. He sounds so much like the men who speak to me at the laps.

Horrible condescension and assumption rolled into neat little judgment with a bow on top.

My eyes meet his, my teeth setting together in a pre-grind.

Mick sees my expression over Tagger's shoulder and frowns. “Okay, you've seen her. Now you can go.” Tagger must know he walked in on something, and it’s even more obvious that Mick's pissed about it.

Tagger turns to Mick, his eyes roving over shoulders hardened through grueling work outs. My eyes follow Tagger's and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out he’s jealous. About what? Neither confirms knowing the other, but I don’t think it’s just about male posturing.

Tagger breaks his stare with Mick and moves to where I stand, trapped between the coffee table and couch.

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