MB Saucy Side: Not a Boat (Kenna and Talia Version)

Talia slides your pants down your thighs—you shimmy a little to help her get the fabric over your knees, raising your legs up from the bed so he can strip them off completely. Once the task is accomplished, Talia carelessly tosses your clothes to the other side of the bedroom, too absorbed staring at your body revealed form to notice where they land.

“I will touch you with my mind,” she murmurs.

You’re tempted to make a joke about that seeming to be more Gray’s talent until you realize that Talia is quoting a poem.

“Touch you and touch and touch until you . . .”

Contrary to her words, Talia’s hands remain distant from your bared skin, clenched at her side in a frustrating show of restraint. You bite your lower lip and attempt to look tempting, smugly noting Talia’s dry swallow. Alas, she seems determined to finish the poem before fulfilling her promise to touch you.

“Give me suddenly a smile,” Talia quotes, “shyly obscene.”

“E. E. Cummings.”

Your head turns on the pillow to find the second voice. Leaning nonchalantly against the bedroom door, Kenna smirks back at you. She looks exactly as he did the very first morning you two met: which is to say, she’s wearing nothing but a towel.

Oh.

So you’re having one of those dreams again.

“Cummings seemed like the appropriate poet for the moment,” Talia drawls, completely unphased by her best friend’s presence.

Kenna’s lets out a low “hmm” of amused agreement, her eyes remaining fixated on you. She takes a step closer, the towel sliding off her breasts and lean hips then vanishing the way objects do in dreams once they’re no longer necessary. Another step, and your breath hitches with anticipation as she looms over you.

Kenna reaches out, her fingertips caressing the line of your collarbone. She’s hardly touching you, and yet you can feel shockwaves from the contact all the way down to your curling toes.

“Beautiful,” Kenna murmurs. “Perfect.” She leans down and captures your mouth with her own, her tongue sliding in and her teeth dragging your lower lip. The kiss lasts until you begin feeling heady from a lack of oxygen.

“Mine,” Kenna announces with a pointed glare at Talia.

Even in dreams, Kenna doesn’t like sharing her toys.

Talia rolls her eyes. “I was here first,” she points out. Unlike Kenna, she’s still clothed; Talia is always the shy one when you have dreams like this, whereas Kenna wouldn’t know modesty if it kidnapped her dogs.

“Ladies, please!” you exclaim, spreading wide your arms. “My imagination has enough room for you both.”

Unfortunately, your imagination also knows Talia and Kenna well enough that even their dream counterparts are never fully at ease with each other’s presence.

. . . But a little competition isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Kenna dedicates herself your lips, hungry and consuming as she tries to lay claim to all of your attention. She lays down beside you, hands cupping behind your head and her short nails raking over your scalp in rhythm with the demanding push and retreat of her tongue. Her expression—worshipful and greedy—is all you can see.

Kenna isn’t, however, all that you can feel.

Talia is more patient, taking her time to explore the rest of your body. Her lips press first against your inner ankles, light and teasing kisses gradually climbing higher until she becomes fascinated with the inner crook of your knees. You’ve never really paid attention to the area, an oversight which only serves to heighten the soft skin’s sensitivity to touch. Her thumbs rub circles that send a jolt of electricity up your spine and make your back arch. With a pleased laugh, Talia grips behind your lower thighs and props your hips off the mattress.

“Be gentle,” Kenna warns.

“I’m always gentle,” Talia counters.

You glance downwards to see Talia’s expression. Her lips curve in an impish, lopsided smile when your eyes lock, and then—abruptly, without warning—she lifts your legs up further in the air and gives your ass a light smack.

“I’m usually gentle,” Talia amends, chuckling.

You giggle as well, the mood instantly changing from charged to playful. Wanting to tease back, you wiggle against Talia’s hips and elicit an approving groan.

“Have mercy, babe,” Talia pleads.

Kenna’s chest rumbles with a growl, jealous of the easy intimacy between you and Talia, and her lips reclaim yours. Her behavior is a bit cavewoman, but Kenna’s kiss is soft and tender enough to make you forget all needing to divide your attention equally. Kenna props herself up on her elbows above you, her lips and tongue and teeth laying utter claim to your focus.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Talia’s tone is a little testy. “It’s my turn on the top deck, Kenzie.”

“Not a boat,” Kenna grumbles against your lips, but she does reluctantly break away to silently seek your preference.

You gather just enough wherewithal to dazedly nod. Fair’s fair, after all.

* * * *

* * * *

The next morning, Nick eyes you knowingly over the rim of his coffee mug.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

You stiffen. Nick used to overhear your nightmares when you were a child, but only because they were particularly vivid. Most dreams, your brother doesn’t see. He probably didn’t see this one either.

That’s right. Be optimistic! You’re just being paranoid.

“You’re not being paranoid,” Nick says bluntly. “But don’t worry—I headed to Gray’s before witnessing anything that would scar me for life.”

You groan and rest your forehead on the kitchen table, avoiding eye contact.

Nick chuckles. “One of these days, you might actually want to ask one of them out on a date. Seems to me like you at least owe Kenna and Glitch dinner for services rendered.”

“I hate you,” you say without lifting your head.

“But you love . . .” Nick begins before falling silent. “If it helps you feel even, you can look at my internet browsing history?”

“I want nothing less,” you reply. “Let’s just pretend this never happened.”

“Of course,” Nick says, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

You sigh. “One last joke, and then this conversation is over.”

“Deal.” Nick cracks his knuckles as if winding up for a pitch. “Hey, Button?”

“Yes, Nick?” you answer dutifully, hating your life.

“Good luck choosing a captain.”