The Complete Series Boxed Set by Julia Kent

turning them into a steel vise of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
    The push of her hips against his face and his determination to make her multiply satisfied made her relax completely into his mouth, knowing that he was at the ready for more, her hand reaching down to stroke his thick cock through his pants.
    The gasp of hot air against her folds, the baring of his teeth that rested against her as he reacted, made her smile as she pushed his head away, her orgasms peaked and leaving her panting, something animal inside her wanting to wrap her lips around the base of him and give back at least—if not more—what he’d just given her.
    Squeak.
    Halfway down to his cock, her head tipped toward Dylan’s now-bare, tantalizing navel , the sound made her halt. Dylan’s legs tensed and his sharp inhale this time had nothing to do with her. Following his gaze, which looked…guilty?…she turned toward the doorway, where she found Mike towering over the m , two steps in the cheerful room, his face anything but.
    Before she or Dylan could open their mouths to explain, he held out a palm. Mike said exactly three words before he turned on his heel and left the room.  
    “It's my day.”
    * * *
    Laura had to find a way to fix this. Day two of polite interaction with Mike, no affection, and a tight smile that reminded her of her old Republican congressman being forced to share a lunch table with Dan Savage. And his husband.
    Dylan wasn’t having much luck either.
    “I’ve tried,” he’ d hissed over coffee that morning, both attempting to talk about what Mike wouldn’t.
     So they’d been playful and sponta ne ous and had sex on a plastic giraffe. That whole “assigned days” thing had been a general guideline—not the equivalent of tax policy, right? It wa sn’t like they could be audited and emotionally fined for sexing outside the box.
    Right?
    Mike, though, was acting as if she and Dylan had committed sex fraud. Tongue violations galore. Blatant disregard for orgasm limits. If their sex life had an a lternative m inimum t ax, this would be Mike applying the formula and forcing her to give up a share of her last handful of climaxes.
    She was taking this way too seriously.
    Or personally. Likely both.
    Then again, so was Mike.
    Marching into t h e kitchen, d e termined to get more than three consecutive syllables out of him, she found him blending some ungodly green glop and pouring it into an ice cube tray.
    “What is that?” It looked like something she’d vomited up after ha v ing her wisdom teeth removed after college.
    “Kale/pear sauce. I figured Jillian could give it a try next.” The slow march toward solids was not going as well as planned, as Miss Jillian The Milk Vacuum had decided that warm and directly from the tap was how she liked her nutrition.
    Like an Irishman and his Guinness.
    “Sounds delightful,” she lied. “Now, can we talk about something other than the latest vegan baby trend and get to you let me in? I am so sorry, and I’ve said it a thousand times, but I can’t apologize if you won’t hear me.”
    “I hear you.”
    “No, hear me. Really hear me. Let me understand what’s going on and tell me how you’re feeling and then let me reflect and all that gooey interpersonal interplay that the Mike I thought I knew was into.”
    “I’m sorry I’m not being the person you thought I was.” His voice was pleasant enough, but the words felt like little poison darts aimed right at her soul. That kind of detachment chilled her and made a deep part of her suddenly very, very vulnerable and afraid.  
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means exactly what I said.”
    Oh, this game. She knew what he was doing. Saying words she was supposed to turn around on herself and take on, as if she were the one acting like a different person, as if she were in the wrong here, when all she’d done was had a lovely romp with one of her men. Mike’s head games weren’t going to work.
    Maybe he’s right,