Ripped (Real, #5)(69)
Quaking with need, I nod and work him slow. Curling my fingers around the base. Sucking the head. Savoring the drops gathering at the tip, and when he shoots off, he groans. When he’s done I grin, because for this moment, I have him right where I want him.
Until he recovers.
And fast.
And when he slides down on the bed and tells me to sit on his face, he ends up having me right where he wants me.
EIGHTEEN
MEETING UP WITH FRIENDS
Pandora
My morning text two days later isn’t actually from Melanie: it’s from Brooke.
Brooke: Are you in New Orleans? I just heard Crack Bikini’s concert was the night before last.
Me: Yes. We’re leaving today for Jacksonville to stop for the night and then on to the next stop.
Brooke: OMG we’re leaving Miami today! Do you want to meet up?
“Kenna.” I head into the shower and stop when I see him inside the stall, soaping up his beautiful body. I wait for him to turn the water off, and when he steps out, my breath catches.
“Whatcha doing there, Pink?”
“Looking at you,” I say, not even shy about memorizing every wet, delicious inch of the eye candy that is Mackenna Jones.
“Anything you like?”
“Most of it, yes.”
“Most of it?” He scowls. “Well, what don’t you like?”
“That I don’t know what that means.” I motion at his tattoo, and he glances down at it with a scowl.
“I told you. It means I’m a jackass.”
“And a cocky, self-confident man who thinks he’s God would tattoo that on his arm? Pfft! Keep lying to me, Kenna.”
I shake my head in chastisement, but he just smirks and says nothing—like he’d rather die than tell me. Then I sigh and explain, “One of my friends, her husband’s a fighter and they tour all the time, and they just finished in Miami. She asked if we could meet up in Jacksonville.”
“What kind of fighter?”
“I don’t know. But the fights get dirty.”
“What’s his name?”
“Riptide.”
“Whoa. Parents hate him?”
“I think they did, but no, that’s not his name. His real name is Remington Tate.”
“Seriously? Well, who’s your friend?”
“Brooke.”
“He was a boxer, no? Got kicked out when he went Tyson on some dudes at a bar or some shit? I like him.” He grins.
“You like all men who make you feel like you’re a saint next to them.”
He grins. “So, you asking me to double-date with you and your friend?”
“Ugh. It’s not a date. Forget it.”
He laughs. “Where do we meet them?”
I stare at my phone. My stomach tangles because it feels so serious. A date. Double-dating. Me and Mackenna, Brooke and Remy. But I want to see Brooke. I haven’t seen her in months, and she, Melanie, and Kyle are my only true friends.
Me: We’re on! How about dinner?
Brooke: Double date? OH YES! Text me when you get in town and we’ll have a reservation ready.
Me: It’s not a date, so please don’t say that in front of Mackenna.
Brooke: Holy shit, dinner with MJ from Crack Bikini. Remy doesn’t believe me.
Me: Why?
Brooke: He listens to their shit all the time before he fights!
Me: Well Mackenna already confessed his man-crush on Remington going Tyson in the past so if Mackenna wants to date someone, he can date Remy.
Brooke: Sorry, my man’s taken. :)
Me: You’re such a possessive bitch now.
Brooke: He actually loves it! So we’re on. See you tonight!
“We’re on,” I tell Mackenna. “But it’s not a date.”
We talk about them on our drive to Jacksonville. Having returned the bike, Mackenna is now driving a Porsche, and my seat is so sunken I can hardly see the road. It must have been too much to expect him to be monogamous with his car selection.
“And your other friend—Barbie?”
“Barbie lives with, and is marrying, the closest thing to sin that she could find.”
“And this sin likes her?”
“Are you kidding me? He dotes on her. He’d break any one of the ten commandments for her—hell, I’m sure he already has.”
“Wouldn’t any guy do that for their girl? Do whatever it takes to make sure she’s well and happy?”
I look at him in confusion. Because, hello? I used to be his girl. And when he walked away, he couldn’t have been stupid enough to think that it made me “well and happy.”
Unless he truly thought he wasn’t good enough for you. . . .
The thought haunts me as he finds a parking spot a block away from the restaurant, and it isn’t long before we spot Remy and Brooke, right outside. The first thing you see is, of course, him. He’s large and eye-catching, with muscles that make his T-shirt cling to his shoulders and biceps, and his narrow hips encased in low-slung jeans. His hair is spiky and rumpled—like Brooke’s just had her hands in it—and they’re deep in conversation, him nodding with a smile, his finger rubbing her bottom lip while she talks.
“Hey!” I call.