Free 44 Chapters About 4 Men by BB Easton Page A

what I’m trying to say more beautiful.”
    Locking his playful robin’s egg blue eyes on my hunter greens, he quipped, “Unless it’s your name. There’s no way to make you any more beautiful.”
    Gah, Harley! You’re making me blush!
    No one had ever complimented me as sincerely or as often as Harley. I didn’t even know how to respond. Everything he said was so perfect and personalized. He complimented the things he knew I was insecure about or secretly proud of. No generic you’re-so-hot bullshit. Every acknowledgment seemed to be the perfect shape and size to fill whatever void I was feeling at the time. Only, at that particular moment, the only void I could feel was the one throbbing between my legs.
    Our close proximity on the floor was really starting to cloud my judgment. If he had just stayed on the couch with the chastity wall of garbage between us, like I’d begged, maybe I would have actually finished my invitations.
    Instead, I decided to fight flirty with flirty. “We’ll see about that. Give me your hand.”
    Harley gave up his right hand with an arched brow and an achingly coy little smile. I stroked the back of his hand with my thumb while I went to work, penning my best Old English across his knuckles. When I finally released him, he turned his fist around, so he could admire the word LADY I’d scrawled upon it. His expression went from curious to elated to something else…mischievous? He briefly opened his fist before closing it again, this time gripping a handful of my shirt in it as he pulled me up and onto his lap.
    “I’m never washing this hand again,” he teased before stealing a kiss that wouldn’t end until sometime well after dark and well after my curfew.
    I woke up, adrift on a scattered sea of envelopes, sore and sated. Two thick and thoroughly tattooed arms were clamped down around my waist, the only things keeping me from floating away on a foggy cloud of pheromones and bliss. That is, until I realized that the ridiculous Jamaican accent coming from the TV belonged to the one and only Miss Cleo. 1 Miss Cleo’s presence in the room could only mean one thing. It was after midnight. And I was fucked.
    I wriggled out of Harley’s embrace and darted around the room, gathering my belongings and snatching and swatting at the square pieces of paper that were stuck all over my naked body as if I’d been tarred and feathered. Where each envelope had been an intricately penned name or address was left behind, in mirror image, on my skin.
    I felt like I was that guy in the movie Memento . He couldn’t form new memories, so he had all his most pertinent information tattooed on his body backward, so he could bring himself up to speed every morning when he looked in the mirror. Only, my particular affliction wasn’t that I couldn’t remember. It was that I just wouldn’t fucking learn.
    Maybe what I should have had stamped all over my body was, Your parents are going to beat and sterilize you if you break curfew over Harley fucking James one more time, you stupid dick addict!
    I was fucking livid. This was exactly what I’d known was going to happen if I came over because it was exactly what had happened every time I came over. Harley would wait until it was almost time for me to leave, and then he’d get all flirty. If that didn’t work, he would go straight for pouty—wrinkling his brow, puffing out his already full to bursting pierced bottom lip, and blinking his beautiful blue puppy-dog eyes at me—until I was riding his cock.
    I had to roll Harley’s massive, hard snoring body over to snatch up the last of my invitations, but that easygoing motherfucker just snorted and curled up around one of my skull pillows like it was a teddy bear. (During the height of my decorating obsession, I’d figured out how to use my mom’s sewing machine to make a couple of throw pillows for Harley’s couch. They were shaped like skulls and had black fringe Mohawks. I remember being afraid