Provocative Professions Collection
Read Provocative Professions Collection Online
Authors: S. E. Hall,Angela Graham
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #romance. anthology, #Erotica
Boxed Set
Stirred Up
Packaged
Handled, Volumes 1 & 2
S.E. Hall
&
Angela Graham
Contents
Stirred Up
S.E. Hall
&
Angela Graham
Copyright 2014 S.E. Hall & Angela Graham
All rights reserved
This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part,
without permission from the author.
This book is intended for mature audiences only.
Editor: Erin Roth, Wise Owl Editing
Formatter: Joni Wilson
Contents
Coming together is a beginning;
keeping together is progress;
working together is success
—Anonymous
Chapter 1
"Dylan!" I bang louder now, rolling my eyes, half-tempted to add in a few kicks as well.
Every attempt I make to visit, he takes his sweet ass time opening the damn door. I usually don't let it rattle me but it was free spay and neuter day at the vet clinic where I work and I'm exhausted. All I want to do is peel these pinching shoes off my aching feet and sit down with a cold beer and a slice of pizza while catching up with my big brother.
If he'd turn down his incessant video game and come answer the door, that is.
My fist hammers against the wood again and still nothing. Heaving out an exasperated huff, I sling my work bag around my shoulder, balancing our steaming dinner and tall boys in my hands as I dig inside my purse for the spare key he gave me on move in day a year earlier.
"Dylan!" Yelling again, I try to peer through the window. If he's got that headphone thing on that he uses to talk to other gamers, I could be here all night. With no luck on the hunt for his elusive key, I pull out my phone instead.
He's so buying next time.
"Addison, dear."
I whirl around, startled, nearly dropping my phone and everything else I'm holding at the sound of the voice. It's sweet Mrs. Murray from the apartment across the way.
"Your brother's gone," she continues. "He and that handsome friend of his were moving things out all day."
Brady.
Rescuing my meandering brother again.
I shove my phone back in my purse, struggling to tame my aggravated scowl long enough to give the elderly, helpful woman a smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Murray, and sorry for the noise."
The familiar ache builds in my temples, the one only two guys ever cause, consistently stressing me out with some shenanigan or another.
"Not at all, honey. If I don't see you kids again, you all take care."
My shoulders slump when she closes the door. Unable to contain my frustration, I stomp the entire way out of the building and straight to my car, where I toss the dinner and drinks onto the passenger seat a little too hard. Once I'm buckled up and ready to go, I inhale a deep breath and take my anger out on the steering wheel.
What the hell is wrong with him? With both of them?
I'm livid, and pretty sure most of my fellow drivers take notice as I weave in and out of traffic way too fast, risking my perfect driving record. I don't care and I don't stop, besides at the one red light that I swear is mocking me, all the way to Brady's house, ready to lay into them both. Far too annoyed to be bothered with knocking, I crash through the front door and slam the now-cold pizza and warm beer on the table in the entryway.
"Jackasses, I'm home!" I yell out into the large house, balancing on first one, then the other leg to finally take off my shoes. Heaven forbid I traipse further into the way-too-big-for-one-single-man's house with my shoes on. Brady's by far the more hygienic one of the duo, my brother more of a quick rinse, anything on the floor not stiff enough to stand on its own is still wearable kind of guy. It's the main reason they've never made good roommates and the first point I'll be making if they think they can hole up together again.
"In the living room," Dylan calls back, obviously too busy to walk the ten steps to greet me.
Irritation climbs straight to homicidal rage in seconds when I turn the corner and see them. Seemingly unconcerned with his recent unannounced move, my brother is sprawled out in a beanbag, fingers tapping rapid-fire on his controller…not a care in the world. Brady, the enabler, is relaxed in the armchair with a white blanket spread over his lap, his head dipped back, eyes closed, a wicked curl to his lips. The girly feet peeking out from under the blanket tell me I'm definitely interrupting, not that I care, but I'm appalled that Dylan is so far lost in his game that he hasn't noticed the blowjob happening a few feet to his left.
Brady releases a low grunt, his hips shooting up, hands gripping the blanket, which is actually the head of Casper the Friendly Cocksucker, as she finishes him off. The thought of what just slid down her throat causes some bile to rise in mine;
seriously, there's a guy sitting right beside you and your escapade soundtrack is squawking video game birds—talk about hot.
I give the back of his chair a swift kick and move across the room, not wanting a close-up of that show. "Sorry to bust up the frat party," I chirp sarcastically, "but does anybody want to tell me why Dylan's homeless
again
?"
"Hey, Moe." Brady's hands disappear under the fabric, pushing whoever's done there away and raising his hips to tuck what I can only assume is his dick back in a more appropriate place. Instantly, a busty girl crawls out from between his legs, wiping her thumb across her swollen lips. She stands, pushing the blanket to the floor, and I catch a glimpse of Brady zipping up his fly. He's all smiles when he looks over at me. "Do I smell sausage or pepperoni?"
His
guest
attempts to sit on his lap, but is brutally rebuffed as he's already sauntering toward me with that signature cocky gait of his.
Widening my stance defensively, I cross my arms over my rapidly rising and falling chest and narrow my eyes at him. "Why did Dylan move out of his apartment, and
why
the hell
is he staying here?"
He walks right past me, leaving me waiting, which I hate, until he reappears a moment later, beer and pizza in hand.
"You're cute when you're pissy, Moe." He winks at me and taps the end of my nose.
I make to knock his finger away but it's already gone. God knows where it's been today. I grimace at the fleeting thought.
"Thanks for dinner, but the beer…you know I don't drink this girly shit. Although tonight…." He dangles the six pack of Bud Light Lime from his fingers like it's toxic.
I try to grab it but he isn't letting go. I'm well aware they don't drink it, precisely why I brought it. I like to actually enjoy a drink or two, not watch them chug it all down, so I'm shocked when he cracks one open.
"What the—"
"All day in the operating room. Gimme a break. But if you say please, I'll pour one for you myself," Brady says smugly.
"Let go and I won't spit on your slice," I quip back. No way am I saying please.
He thinks it over, still holding the beer in one hand, pointer finger tapping his chin with the other. "Hmm, something tells me I've tasted your spit before and yet I still live so—"
"Not like you never deserved it, Mr. Come On In, the Water's Only Waist Deep!"
His lips curl up into a reminiscent smirk, eyes bright as he releases his death grip on my refreshments. "Poor Dylan almost drowned, holding me up while you debated forever. Fuck, was that funny, though. Three steps and
whoosh
, you were totally under."
"Bring me a slice already," Dylan yells, never breaking his trance on the screen.
"Get your own!" Brady and I yell back in sync.
I roll my eyes, laughing softly with Brady. The ease of our amusement is cut short, though.
"Oh, that's my favorite!" the pouty lipped bimbo squeals, strolling over with a broad, eager beam, eyeing my beer.
Hell no!
"Hi, I'm Candace. You must be Moe."
My scowl is back. "My
name
is Addison," I grit out.
"Only since your hair grew out,
Moe
," Brady tugs on one of my curls playfully.
"I don't get it?" Bimbo says, looking even more confused, if that's possible.
"
The Three Stooges
? Moe used to rock a bowl cut when she was little." He grips his side, laughing.
She still doesn't get it and never will, given her blank stare, and the whole conversation's grating on my nerves. "Let me guess, you go by Candy?" I ask her.
"I do, yeah." She affirms proudly.
Shocker.
I have no words nice enough to respond with so instead I step around her, plopping down on the couch, tossing one of the pillows at Dylan's head.
What grown man hangs out in beanbags, in the early evening of a workday, while his best friend, also grown, mangles a co-ed? Am I the only one (the youngest to boot) in our little trio who ever grew up?
"Here," I look up to find Brady holding out the frozen mug he keeps in the freezer for me, "don't make me eat alone."
I glance at the girl in his kitchen opening and closing cabinets, wondering what the hell she's looking for and when she's leaving.
"Where's your plates?" she finally calls out.
"You're far from alone but feel free to bring me a slice." I grin, then turn my attention back to my brother's game.
