Beast Brothers 2

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1

Catch Fire

Zoe

The women’s restroom at the MMA fight club has a line out the door waiting to use it. The men’s room? No line.

And I’m on the verge of an emergency — or should I say pee-mergency. When things are that dire, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

So I ignore the line of women, hold my head up, and march into the men’s room like I belong there. My luck holds — there’s nobody else in here. Darting into a stall, I lock it and find sweet relief.

Closing my eyes, I let out a long sigh. It’s a moment before I open them again, and when I do they widen in shock. Because just on the other side of my stall door are two pairs of feet in heavy work boots. Men’s feet, judging from their size, their footwear, and … um… their location, here in the men’s room.

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am alarmed. Mine is not the only stall in the place and the men attached to the boots aren’t stepping up to the urinals. They seem to be waiting … for me.

Crap! Just my luck to get bathroom stalkers. What should I do? Ignore them and hope they leave?

That option disappears when the door rattles and a deep voice says, “Step out of the stall, miss.” Well. I probably shouldn’t judge the man too much by his voice, but he doesn’t sound like the creepy assailant type. More like a DJ for a sexy-love-songs radio show.

“Just a second,” I call, and finish taking care of business as quickly as possible. Just in case, I dig my tiny can of mace out of my purse and have it at the ready. The door opens inward, putting me at a disadvantage, so I sling my purse over my other shoulder, ensuring it won’t get in the way of my dominant hand and the can of mace. Grasping the bolt, I slide it back.

As soon as the door is free, it bursts open, so fast I have to jerk away from it before it smacks me in the face. Losing my balance, I start to go over backwards, almost falling into the toilet, but two strong hands grab my arms and yank me forward out of the stall.

The next moment, I’m bent over near a hand dryer, my cheek against the wall. “Hey!” I yell as I’m relieved of my mace and my purse. “Give those back!”

“Hush up,” says that same impossibly sexy voice. But right at the moment I’m not in the mood to appreciate how great it sounds.

“Hush up?” I repeat. “Did you just tell me to hush up?” My voice rises even more on the final words. “What the hell is going on?”

A man comes into the bathroom and stops dead at the sight of us. His eyes go from me, to Mr. Sexy Voice, then back again. “I gotta pee, man,” he says finally.

“Bathroom’s closed,” my captor snaps in a tone of absolute finality. “Find another one.”

The intruder backs away, hands up and out. “Okay, okay, sheesh.” Then he’s gone.

The man on the other side of me bends down. “Name,” he says in my ear.

“Go to hell.” I try to twist away, but he’s got a hand between my shoulder blades, holding me in this awkward position with ridiculous ease. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Unless you want to spend the evening answering questions at the police station, I suggest you lose the attitude.” His voice is slightly different than the other guy’s — but only slightly. How can two different men both sound good enough to eat?

“I was just trying to pee in peace and quiet,” I retort. I know I’m probably not being smart here, but who do they think they are? Since when is using a men’s room a federal offense?

“All right,” he says. “Have it your way. We’re going to frisk you for weapons.”

While he holds me down, the other man runs his hands over me. He starts at my hips, moves up under my arms, and then slowly and thoroughly slides his hands down past my hips again. There’s nothing overtly inappropriate about it — no touching where he shouldn’t be — so why am I chewing my lip, trying not to get turned on? And is it my imagination that his hands linger just a fraction too long on my inner thighs, or is that wishful thinking?

Whatever the truth is, by the time he’s done I’m restless and fighting the urge to squirm. Not to mention that my panties might possibly be a little on the damp side. Okay, more than a little. I know it’s been a while since I’ve been touched, but what is wrong with me?

“Okay,” Sexy Voice 1 says at last, and the pressure of his hand is gone. Slowly, I stand and turn to face the men.

And that’s when my ovaries catch fire.

2

Oh Yeah

Zoe

These are Men with a capital M. Well over six feet, broad shoulders, massive chests, thighs like tree trunks. Their delicious bodies are encased in snug jeans that send my mind straight to the naughty zone. Their shirts strain against their muscles and I try to think of some reason I need to frisk them back, like we’re taking turns. They’re not bodybuilder types, just built.

And it’s not like these are hunky bodies paired with unfortunate faces. That part of them is prime real estate too. Dark hair that begs me to run my fingers through it, straight noses, strong jaws, full, kissable mouths.

And their eyes — oh my god. They’re a stunning silver blue. I could stare at them forever.

If you’re wondering why they sound identical, it’s because they are. Though their hair and clothing styles are a bit different, there’s no question, seeing them side by side, that these two amazing men are twins. And they are every bit as gorgeous as the Beast Brothers.

/>   Who? Okay, back up. Last year, my friend Megan met Brock and Cody Easton, twin brothers who play for the Leopards, the pro football team here in town. They had some drama, to put it mildly, but long story short, they’re together now. As in, the three of them. Together.

And ever since — I’m not too proud to admit it — I’ve been fighting feelings of jealousy. Oh, I’m happy for Megan. Thrilled for her, in fact. I’ve never seen her so happy and content.

But damn. Not just one studly man, but two? All to herself? It hardly seems fair, when some people — cough *me* cough — don’t have even one sex god to warm their bed at night.