Faking It - Excerpt One

Faking It by Pam McKenna

“Think about it, Britt,” Garrett said behind her. “There are worse punishments than spending a few days at a swanky Hamptons beach house playing hide the knockwurst with a clean, disease-free, pompous trust-fund pig.”

“Two clean, disease-free pigs,” Jack said. “I want in on this.”

“No way, man,” Garrett said. “I’m not sharing.”

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even know she tried to rip you off.” Jack was adamant. “It’s a three-way or I go to the cops myself.”

“A three-way?” Garrett asked. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Ménage à trois,” Jack said. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Britt turned to face them, her hand still on the doorknob. This conversation was starting to get interesting. The two men faced off like snorting bulls, ignoring her.

“We do her one at a time,” Garrett said, “and I get her first. When the hell did you do a three-way?” He raised two fingers. “Follow-up question–two girls or two guys?”

Jack raised one finger. “College. Duh.” Another finger. “Two girls. It was awesome.”

“Well, I’m not doing a two-guy three-way,” Garrett said. “No way.”

Britt spoke up. “Afraid it’ll turn you on?”

“The hell kinda question is that?” Garrett said. “I’m a hundred percent straight.”

“Because you didn’t seem like a guy who’s insecure about his sexuality,” she said. “You know, when we met at the club.”

“Do not try to play me with that ‘insecure’ crap,” Garrett said. “And speaking of last Saturday, you wanted to do me as badly as I wanted to do you, before we got on to that.” He tossed his hand toward the fake painting. “You going to deny it?”

“No.” Britt released the doorknob. She propped her fists on her hips and regarded the two superlative specimens of manhood who were standing there arguing about who would get to fuck her and in what order. She tried to remember why she was supposed to feel outraged.

“All right,” Britt said. “I’ll stay here with you guys for three days.”

Jack shot his fist.

Garrett said, “Ten days.”

Britt quirked an eyebrow. “Let’s split the difference. One week.”

“Done,” Jack said, and sent his friend a silent command, easily deciphered as Don’t push it, we’re getting a week.

“And if it turns out you’re into some sick shit,” she said, “I walk, prison be damned.”

“No barnyard animals or sharp instruments.” Garrett raised a palm. “Scout’s honor.”

Britt assured them she was on the Pill and, like them, disease-free.

“This is so cool.” Jack stripped off his T-shirt and spun her around, inspecting the back of her form-fitting jersey dress. “No zipper on this thing?”

“Ah, romance,” she said. “Don’t I at least get to go home and pack a few things for my stay?”

“Later.” Jack stepped out of his flip-flops and dropped his jeans. He’d gone commando–no undershorts to block Britt’s view of a proud billy-club hard-on. She pulled the stretchy dress over her head and tossed it onto a chair, leaving her in matching peach-colored lace thong and demi bra. Not to mention the four-inch, pony-patterned stiletto sandals.

“Guys.” Garrett glanced at the open windows. “A little discretion?”

“Jesus, woman.” Jack circled her, staring unashamedly. “You are fucking gorgeous.”

Britt smiled her thanks. Nothing she didn’t already know, but it was always nice to hear it.

“Let’s take it to a bedroom,” Garrett said. “And, Jack, I told you–I go first.”

“No, I’m liking the sound of that three-way thing,” Britt said while Jack pressed close from behind, caressing her bare midriff as his erection nudged her bottom. “I’ve never done that,” she added. “It sounds fun.”

“You’re not calling the shots here,” Garrett told her. “In case you forgot.”

“Lighten up, G.” Jack’s big hands cupped her full breasts, his thumbs teasing the nipples to points under the lace. “And no one’s peeking in the windows. We’re isolated here. Private beach, remember?”

“Yeah, but people still wander through.”

“Don’t be a grump.” Britt gave Garrett her most seductive smile as she stroked a hand down her well-rounded hip. “There’s enough here for both of you.”

“Now, this is a woman!” Jack squeezed her generous butt. “You better hurry, G, or I’ll eat her up all by myself.”

“I like the sound of that.” Britt reached behind her to stroke Jack’s hot, satiny cock.

Garrett wanted to hold out, she could tell, to prove he was the one in charge. To call the shots, as he’d put it. But judging by the tent pole straining the fly of his khakis, she knew it was a losing battle. She was right.

“Aw, fuck it.” Garrett kicked his deck shoes clear across the room and tore at his clothing as he stalked to her. His moss-green eyes flashed with mingled ire and arousal.

Oh yes, Britt thought, as he hauled her away from Jack and ground his mouth against hers, holding her tight to his warm, bare flesh. If anything, her imagination had not done him justice. He was broad-shouldered and athletically built. A light furring of tawny chest hair arrowed southward over his sun-kissed six-pack, pointing the way to an erection of impressive proportions. As if a cock like that needed a road map.