The Josh and Kat Trilogy: A Bundle of Books 1-3

by Lauren Rowe

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Josh?” Kat blurted at one point during our discussion about spirituality, shocking the hell out of me.

  “What?” I asked, worried I’d offended her with my frank honesty on the topic.

  “You’re not supposed to be the deep-thinking Faraday brother. Pull yourself together, Playboy—you’ve got a shallow rep to live up to.”

  “Sorry,” I replied, laughing. “It won’t happen again.”

  The old-guy-Asian-girlfriend-couple in front of me finally steps away from the front desk, and I step forward.

  “Checking in?” the hotel clerk asks. She looks totally frazzled.

  “Yes. Joshua Faraday. My guests should have already checked into the room.” I hand her my identification and credit card. “I arranged in advance for my guests to access the room before my check-in.”

  The woman clicks her keyboard for a brief moment. “Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Faraday.” She suddenly looks stricken. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting in line. Oh my gosh. Please forgive me.”

  “No problem,” I say smoothly, flashing her a smile.

  “Let me send you a complimentary bottle of champagne to your suite to make up for the delay.”

  “Thank you, but, no, I’d prefer no interruptions tonight.”

  She blushes. “Oh. Of course.” She clears her throat. “Uh, looks like your guests have already checked into the suite with no problem—it’s the penthouse, as you know—and all catering and amenities requested have already been sent up.”

  “Excellent,” I say, my heart clanging with anticipation. “The bar is stocked with Gran Patron, right?”

  “Um, actually, it looks like they brought Roca Patron to the suite. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “Yes, fabulous. Either one. Thank you.”

  The desk clerk smiles at me and, suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with a crazy feeling of déjà fucking vu. How many times have I checked into a hotel while my “guests” awaited me upstairs, an odd mixture of sexual anticipation and self-loathing coursing through my veins? And yet, today feels totally different than all those other times in The Club. Today, for the first time ever, I feel only sexual anticipation pumping through me, not tainted whatsoever by rampant self-loathing. Because today, unlike all the times that have come before, the hottest woman alive is waiting for me upstairs, not some random hooker I don’t know or give a shit about—and not only is she hot, she’s sweet and funny and smart, too. And in a twist of awesomeness I never could have predicted (or even hoped for), the hottest woman alive doesn’t give a shit if I’m a sick fuck. In fact, she actually likes my sick-fuckedness. It’s an incredible feeling.

  The clerk hands me my key-card. “Do you know how to get to the penthouse suite, Mr. Faraday?”

  “I sure do,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I head toward the elevator bank at the far end of the lobby. My heart’s beating wildly. Holy shit, I’m gonna see Kat in a matter of minutes.

  Kat.

  I would have preferred to personally pick Kat up from the airport this afternoon and bring her to my house for our first night together, rather than meeting her here at the hotel—I hate that I haven’t even had a chance to hug her and say hello to her yet, just me and her—and I told Kat as much on the phone last night. But my little terrorist insisted we jump right into fantasy-fulfillment, first thing, before seeing each other in “real life.”

  “First off, we don’t have a choice in the matter,” she said. “Bridgette’s only gonna be in L.A. Thursday night, right?”

  “Yeah, but we don’t have to do the Bridgette thing this trip,” I said. “We can do it during your next trip.”

  “No, we gotta do it,” Kat insisted. “We’re kicking off our fantasy-fulfillment extravaganza with the stuff in your application, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. So that means whenever Bridgette can fit us in, that’s when we gotta do it. Plus,” she continued, “I wouldn’t want to come to your house the first night, anyway, babe. That wouldn’t be very call-girlish, now would it?” I could practically hear her licking her lips at that last statement. “Not seeing you beforehand will make me feel even more like a call girl. It’s perfect.”

  The elevator reaches the top floor and I practically sprint down the long hallway toward the room, grinning from ear to ear. Kat talked a good game about wanting to fulfill my fantasies during this trip, but it wasn’t hard to figure out she was actually chomping at the bit to fulfill her own high-priced-call-girl fantasy. When I texted Kat this afternoon to find out if she’d landed safely and connected with the driver I’d sent, she sent me a reply that made me laugh out loud:

  “How the heck did you get my phone number, sir? My name isn’t Kat, it’s Heidi Kumquat (though, in light of my profession, I never reveal my real name). I’m a world-class call girl, sir, sought after by sheiks, kings, and presidents, working under the code name Party Girl with the Hyphen. I’ve just landed (safely) in Los Angeles to meet a very sexy but incredibly demanding client (whom I’d very much like to thank for flying me first-class, by the way), and, yes, his driver picked me up exactly according to plan (thank you!), and now I’m headed to my client’s ritzy hotel.

  “Please don’t text me again, sir. My client has paid a pretty penny to have my undivided attention for the whole night, starting RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE, and he’d be positively enraged if he found out I was texting with another man during his purchased time. I’ve been bought and paid for tonight, mind, body, and soul—which means I’m duty-bound to think of absolutely nothing but fulfilling my client’s sexual desires all night long, LITERALLY NO MATTER WHAT THEY ARE, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  I must say, that was a sexy goddamned text. If there’s one thing Kat Morgan knows how to do, it’s turn a man on.

  I’ve reached the door to the penthouse suite.

  Oh my God, I’ve got so much adrenaline coursing through me, I’m shaking.

  I take a deep breath and rap twice on the door to signal I’m here and coming in, exactly the way I did before entering each new hotel room during my month in The Club—and just like I said I’d do when I replied to Kat’s awesome email from “The KUM Club.” And then I swipe the key and open the door.

  Sixty-Three

  Josh

  When I enter the suite, I stop just inside the door, paralyzed by the incomprehensible sight of Kat and Bridgette in the same room together. Talk about two worlds colliding. My brain can’t process what I’m seeing—though, apparently, my body sure can. Hello, instant hard-on.

  The women are sitting in side-by-side armchairs, sipping what looks like cranberry-vodkas, giggling happily like they’re longtime friends. Kat looks like a million bucks (appropriately) in the Prada dress and heels I bought her in Las Vegas, her long, toned legs crossed demurely, while Bridgette’s wearing a simple black tank top, jeans, and flip-flops, her blonde hair tied into a knot on top of her gorgeous head, her legs spread like she’s a dude talking football in a sports bar. Talk about two women monopolizing the entire planet’s supply of physical perfection all at once. Holy motherfucking shit. Seeing these two women together would almost certainly make a weaker man stroke-out.

  “Kat,” I blurt, my heart leaping out of my chest. I begin crossing the room to greet her, to take her into my arms and kiss the holy motherfucking shit out of her—has it only been a week since I last saw her, because it feels like a year?—but Kat puts up her hand sharply and shoots me a smoldering look that stops me dead in my tracks.

  “So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Faraday,” she says smoothly.

  Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh? I come to a complete halt.

  “You’re even handsomer than in your photos,” she purrs. She sits up straight, arches her back, and folds her hands primly in her lap.

  “So are you,” I say. My heart is pounding in my ears.

  One side of Kat’s mouth hitches up into a devious smirk, and, suddenly, I feel like a fly in a spider’s web. I thought we were
here to fulfill my sick-fuck fantasy—so why do I suddenly feel like I’m merely a pawn in fulfilling hers?

  “Let me introduce you to my friend, Frieda Fucks-A-Lot,” Kat says. She motions to Bridgette who takes that as her cue to pop up and waltz toward me.

  Frieda Fucks-A-Lot?

  “Hey there, Mr. Faraday,” Bridgette coos in her clipped English, outstretching her arms to me as she approaches.

  I take a step back, but Bridgette continues advancing on me. She lays her hand on my shoulder and leans forward as if to kiss my cheek and I jerk back like Bridgette’s hair is on fire. I promised Kat I wouldn’t lay a finger on the “window dressing” of our threesome, whoever that turned out to be, and there’s no way in hell I’m gonna risk making my temperamental “window” beeline out of yet another hotel suite and stomp down yet another hallway in a jealous huff.

  But my anxiety about Bridgette touching me and bringing out the terrorist in Kat is all in vain, apparently: Kat’s all charm and ease on the far side of the room, throwing her head back and giggling. “Oh, come on, Mr. Faraday,” she says. “You can give Frieda a little kiss on her cheek in greeting. Of course that’s allowed.”

  Bridgette turns around to look at Kat and the two women break into peals of laughter.

  What the hell? How’d these two become besties so fucking fast? And why the hell is Kat acting like Bridgette’s in on our game? Bridgette’s not a player in our fantasy—she’s nothing but a fucking pawn.

  Bridgette hugs me and kisses me on both cheeks, but when she does, I recoil at her touch. I want absolutely nothing to do with her. The only person I wanna touch right now is Kat; specifically, I wanna rip Kat’s clothes off and fuck the shit out of her—it’s what I’ve been fantasizing about doing night and day all week long—not sitting in a chair in a corner, jerking off while watching someone else touch and kiss and lick my girl. In fact, the thought of Bridgette—or anyone—laying a fucking finger on my Party Girl with a Hyphen makes my stomach turn over.

  “Hey, asshole,” Bridgette says, swatting my shoulder. “You didn’t tell me your girlfriend was this gorgeous.” She motions to Kat. “I was just telling Kat—Heidi Kumquat”—she giggles and Kat joins her—“if she ever wants to try modeling, she could make an absolute killing. Look at that bone structure! Those legs! That skin! Oh my God, she’s to die for. I can’t wait to take a juicy bite out of her.” She licks her lips.

  Kat told Bridgette she’s “Heidi Kumquat” for the night? So does that mean Kat’s told Bridgette everything about our little game? Because when I called Bridgette and invited her to our little party, I certainly didn’t. I merely asked Bridgette if she’d come hang out with me and this gorgeous girl I’m seeing, maybe make out with the girl while I watched and wacked off if things were to go in that direction (something I knew would be right up Bridgette’s alley)—but I certainly didn’t mention Kat being my high-priced call girl. What have these two been talking about for the last few hours before my arrival?

  Kat’s looking at me with hard eyes, though her mouth is smiling. Jesus. She looks like she’s plotting my murder. Literally.

  “No, seriously, hon,” Bridgette continues, sounding remarkably sincere, “I’ll hook you up with a photographer-friend of mine so you can get a kick-ass portfolio together. My agent will crap her pants when she sees you—I’m sure she could get you booked solid, if that’s something you’re interested in.”

  “Aw, thanks,” Kat purrs, her smoldering gaze still fixed on me. “You’re a doll, Bridgette.” Her eyes flash. “I mean Frieda.” She smirks. “I’ve got your number—I’ll definitely give you a call. Thanks so much.”

  What the fuck? Why did Kat and Bridgette exchange numbers? What could possibly be the point in that?

  “Why aren’t you sitting, Mr. Faraday?” Kat says, motioning to a chair in the corner. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Frieda and I are both excited to entertain you.”

  I don’t move. My brain and body are at odds. I know my role and what I’m supposed to do—what I should be wanting to do—but all my body yearns to do is kiss Kat. I haven’t seen her in a week and I’m physically aching for her.

  Bridgette claps her hands together. “Okay, lieblinge, let’s start the fun, hmm? You want a drink, Faraday?” She glides toward the bar. “A shot of Patron, I presume?”

  Kat levels me with a smoldering stare as she speaks to Bridgette. “Great idea. Would you be a doll and pour me a shot, too? I could use a little liquid courage.”

  “Aw, of course, häschen. Don’t be nervous. I’ll be gentle.” She flashes Kat a brazenly sexual look. “I won’t bite you too hard.” She grabs a bottle behind the bar and begins pouring.

  I still haven’t moved from my spot just inside the door. I’m leaping out of my skin. Why do I feel like Kat’s doing this to make me jealous, rather than to turn me on? And why the fuck is it working?

  “Why don’t you make those shots doubles?” Kat says to Bridgette. She winks at me and begins gliding toward a couch across the room from my assigned chair, unbuttoning her dress slowly as she goes.

  “You got it,” Bridgette coos.

  Oh shit. I feel like I’m gonna explode. I’m shaking.

  I want her.

  I look at Bridgette behind the bar. I have no desire to touch any part of her—and certainly no desire to watch her kiss and stroke and lick my girl, either. If anyone’s gonna do any of that stuff to Kat right now, it’s sure as hell gonna be me.

  Fuck this shit.

  I march across the room to Kat, thwarting her progress toward the couch, and before she can say or do another goddamned thing, take her into my arms and maul her. My lips are on hers, my hands in her hair, my hard-on pressed into her crotch. Without hesitation, she presses herself into me, throws her arms around my neck, and returns my kiss voraciously.

  “Aw, come on—party foul,” Bridgette shouts from the bar. “It took all my restraint not to make a move on your girl ’til you got here, Josh. Kat said we had to wait and I’ve been—”

  “We’ll be back,” I bark, grabbing Kat’s hand and pulling her forcefully toward the bedroom. “Come on, babe. Fuck this shit.”

  The second Kat and I are alone in the bedroom with the door closed behind us, I fucking attack her. “Oh my God,” I murmur into her lips. Jesus God, I’m drowning in her—losing my equilibrium. The smell of her. The taste of her lips. I’d forgotten how addicting she is. My dick hurts. My heart is racing. I want her so bad, I’m in pain. I’m dying to taste her pussy on my tongue, feel her tight wetness surrounding my cock, hear her make the sound like I’ve pricked her ass with a long needle. “Oh my God, Kat. I’ve missed you, babe.”

  “I’m not Kat—I’m a hooker from The Club,” she breathes into my lips, but it’s clear she’s so turned on, she can barely stand.

  I begin unbuttoning her dress, but my fingers aren’t functioning. “I’ll call you whatever you want, just as long as I’m saying it while fucking you.”

  “What about Bridgette?”

  “Fuck Bridgette. I don’t want her. I want you.”

  “No, I mean—”

  But I devour her lips and she shuts the fuck up.

  I’ve finally got her dress unbuttoned, thank God, and I pull it down past her hips to the floor, sliding my palms along her bare skin as I push the fabric down—and the sexy sight that unexpectedly greets me makes my cock jolt: Kat’s wearing a full get-up of centerfold-worthy, sheer lingerie—a push-up bra, crotchless panties, and a garter belt that skims her flat belly just below her belly ring—all of it the shade of the ocean in Tahiti.

  “Incredible,” I murmur, assessing the fantastical vision in front of me. “Now that’s a high-priced call-girl, baby.”

  She squeals with excitement and snaps her garter belt against her hip. “You like?”

  “Fuck yeah, I do—I...” I clamp my lips together. I was about to say, “Fuck yeah, I love it.” But using that four-letter word in any context, even regarding something as harmless as
Kat’s lingerie, suddenly feels clunky in my mouth. “It’s incredible,” I say.

  I unlatch Kat’s stockings from her garter belt and kneel before her, slowly peeling them down her legs, kissing each inch of newly revealed flesh as I go, swirling my tongue around the smooth skin of her thighs and then working my way up to her hips, her belly, her piercing, each flicker of my tongue and kiss of my lips eliciting moans of pleasure and knee-buckles from her.

  After several minutes, I brush my fingertips over the gap in her crotchless panties, and my fingers come back slick with her wetness.

  “You’re so wet for me,” I breathe.

  “I’ve been wet for you all week,” she whispers. “I’ve been dying for you.”

  I lean in and suck on her clit and her knees buckle sharply. She grips my hair to steady herself, and I take that as my cue to penetrate her deeply with my tongue.

  “Oh my God,” she breathes, running her fingers through my hair. “You’re so really good at this.”

  Her knees buckle again and then again, until she loses complete balance—so I rise, take her by the hand, lead her to the bed, and lay her down on her back. She’s trembling with desire, physically twitching with yearning. Her blues eyes are on fire.

  Slowly, I take off my jacket.

  “Oh God,” she breathes. She reaches down to touch herself for a brief moment but quickly pulls her hand away, her body visibly shaking.

  “Don’t stop,” I order. “Keep touching yourself.”

  “But I’m gonna make myself come. I’m almost there.”

  “Do it.”

  She complies, her eyes like hot coals as her fingers work her clit.

  I slowly remove my tie, watching her.

  “Oh my God,” she breathes, her hand between her legs.

  I peel off my shirt and she gasps at the sight of me.