Though I have to say, on the off-chance Glen is up there, trying to make amends by pointing the bottle toward Ashton, he is not keeping sober in heaven, because it does seem like the bottle is pointing smack between Ashton and Mal.
“It’s definitely pointing at Mal,” Callum disagrees, tapping his smooth chin.
What the hell is he doing? I’m not stupid enough to actually ask this when we’re with company.
“Guess it can only mean one thing.” British Bombshell cackles like a hyena, staring at Callum with a look pregnant with lust.
Everyone here has a dog in this fight, and hers seems to be the hungriest, most vicious one.
“And what would that be?” Callum turns to her without patience.
“A three-way kiss,” she purrs, twirling a lock of her hair over her finger.
“Yes!” Ashton pumps his fist in the air. “Fuck yes. Sex Slave and Pouty Poet in the same pot. Sign me up.”
“Sex Slave?!” Callum loses his cool.
“Chillax, it’s a pet name.” Ashton laughs out a curling ribbon of smoke.
I swear I will get stoned just from kissing him.
“Works for me,” Malachy says tonelessly.
I feel Callum giving me a shove toward the center of the circle.
“Go on, then,” he says.
“Wait, I don’t know about this,” I mumble.
“We had this conversation!” the British girl cries. “Don’t pussy out on us.”
“Yeah, don’t be a party pooper, Rory,” Callum presses.
I turn toward him, scowling.
He shrugs, a private, secretive smirk on his lips. “You’re not the only one who’s good at sharing. That’s good news, right?”
I walk toward Mal and Ashton, feeling my palms getting clammy.
“How are we going to do this?” I put my hands on my waist. “Do we want to start kissing just two people, and the third one will join in, or is it going to be…”
Without further ado, Ashton grabs the back of my head, pulls me in, and kisses me silly. He shoves his hot, alcohol-soaked tongue into my mouth, and that’s when I realize we’re all kind of drunk—Callum included for once.
Shitty music aside, Ashton Richards can kiss. I’m starting to enjoy it when I feel a second tongue wrestling its way into the mix, and now I have two tongues in my mouth. One of them is Malachy’s, and I know exactly which one’s which.
I can feel my clit swelling, my lower belly tingling in anticipation as we kiss slowly and passionately, Ashton nibbling at the corner of my mouth and Mal Frenching me to oblivion and back. It becomes clear that this is not a three-way kiss as much as it is two guys kissing one girl. They have minimal contact with each other, and they are here to serve me.
Just when I begin to wonder if I’m the only one getting carried away in the situation, Ashton puts a hand on my waist and plasters me to his body. I feel his thick, throbbing erection against my thigh and let out a groan. Mal is having none of it and pulls at my other side, tugging me close. I’m nestled between them, feeling hot, liquid lust slithering down to my panties.
I should feel ashamed, or self-conscious, or embarrassed, and I do—I feel all three, I swear. But I mostly feel like taking my clothes off and kissing every inch of their bodies until they screw me from both sides. My mouth is full, and my nipples are erect and painfully sensitive.
It occurs to me that this is the shot of a lifetime—the one Ryner wants to see on the cover of Rolling Stone—of his rock star, his songwriter, and his photographer making out fervently. But he can’t have this shot, because all three of his artists have gone rogue, and there’s no one to take the picture.
We kiss for long minutes before I feel someone tugging me back by my shirt. I snap my eyes open and find out it is Ashton. I also realize he’s a step away from us. He’s not a part of the kiss anymore. He hasn’t been a part of the kiss for a while, I notice when my mind adjusts to the fact that there was only one tongue in my mouth for a few good seconds, if not minutes. My legs are clasped around Mal’s thigh. I’ve been riding it. Jesus.
“C’mon,” he whispers to both of us through a mostly closed mouth. “You’ve been soloing for a full minute now. People are