He’s actually leaving. He’s taking his hard dick and he’s actually leaving.

I take a few steps to follow behind him. “Is this a joke? Is this strictly an Australian thing, because here, in America, we don’t kiss the fuck out of someone and then haul ass in the opposite direction.”

I hear the faint sounds of a laugh echoing down the hall.

Before I can think to speak again, to yell out something else to possibly change his mind and end this madness, Mason steps out onto the stairwell.

“I’ll see you later, gorgeous,” he calls out before the door slams closed, and I know, I just fucking know that gorgeous bastard is smiling as he says it.

“What the hell?” I ask myself, God, if he’s listening. Maybe he can shine some imperial light on this situation.

I snatch my clutch off the floor and fish out my keys, jamming them all too aggressively into the keyhole while I mumble every curse word I know into the deserted hallway. I shove the door open and toss my things onto the table behind the couch, kicking off my heels and moving like a bat out of hell across the room.

With a closed fist, I pound against the bedroom door until my skin grows hot.

“I need you both to put something on and get out here. Now. You will not believe what . . .” I cut myself off, shaking my head as I try and wrap my own mind around what just happened, but I have absolutely no idea what to think. I can’t even begin to make sense of this.

Mason passes on a Brooke style blow-job? NOBODY passes on that. Is he fucking mental?

With a very aggressive grunt, I drop my hand and stare at the door. “Just hurry up and get out here. Please. I need both of you.”

Muffled voices and the creak of a mattress sound before I feel satisfied enough to cross the room again.

I step into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of wine and digging the container of ice cream I keep hidden under bags of frozen vegetables out of the freezer.

Joey likes to eat his feelings also. If I don’t hide my snacks, they go missing.

I fill a glass and grab a spoon just as the bedroom door swings open.

Joey emerges first, his fingers snapping the waistband of his boxers. He looks half-asleep, digging the heel of his hand into his eye. “What the fuck is it? You interrupted cuddle time.”

I shove a spoonful of Neapolitan ice cream into my mouth to prevent myself from stating the obvious response, that every time Joey and Billy are within twenty miles of each other, I run the risk of interrupting cuddle time.

Assholes. Their perfect relationship is a little hard to swallow at the moment. I’m sure neither one of them keep their dicks to themselves.

Billy files out of the bedroom next with his T-shirt in his hand. He eyes me warily once he takes notice of the wine and the container I have a death-grip on.

“Uh oh. What happened?” he asks, slipping his shirt over his head and sliding his arms through. “Bad date?”

I watch him and Joey each grab a stool and sit at the kitchen island across from me. Boosting myself up onto the counter, I place the container on my lap and dip my spoon in, scraping out the rest of the chocolate.

“No. The actual date was fine,” I mumble around the spoon.

Joey drops his chin onto his fist. “Just fine?” He looks doubtful.

I roll my eyes before lowering them to the container. “More than fine,” I confess, jamming my spoon into the vanilla. “He took me to this really nice restaurant where he had to order in Italian, which he fucking did, so just go ahead and tack on a few more ‘how hot can this guy possibly get’ points.”

“Damn,” Billy comments appreciatively. “I bet that sounds amazing with his accent.”

“Mm hmm. Boyfriend is full of surprises,” Joey adds.

I don’t even bother looking up. “Yeah. Tons. So, we had dinner, and he mentioned wanting to stick his head between my legs and taste me in his throat.”

I glance up at the sound of the wine bottle being slid across the counter.

Billy brings it to his lips and tips it back, his eyes round as he swallows a mouthful.

It’s funny how squeamish he gets around any sort of graphic sex talk, when his husband is basically a walking advertisement for it.

I shift my eyes when Joey motions with a quick hand for me to continue on with my story. He suddenly appears wide awake and eager for conversation.

“You want details?”

“Yes,” Joey says at the same time as Billy’s, “Not really.”

I split the difference. “He did more than just taste me, okay? I took him to this photo booth I found a couple months ago, and that man worked me out like his life depended on it. His mouth is fucking ridiculous.”

A shiver runs down my spine as that familiar ache settles between my hips. I press the back of the spoon to my mouth, hoping to conceal the smile I can’t seem to control.

“It was hands-down the best sexual experience of my life,” I admit against the cold silver. “And that includes all the times I’ve actually had sex.”

Straightening on his stool, Billy scratches his jaw, his other hand still clutching the neck of the bottle. “Photo booth? Did you two actually . . .” he pauses, his eyes searching my face.

Joey slaps the counter with exuberance. He looks practically giddy. “You little slut. Did you get pictures of this?”

I glance across the room at my clutch, remembering how reckless and exciting it felt being in that moment with Mason, not knowing who, if anyone, was on the other side of that curtain and if they were listening and waiting for those photos.