Bailey Pachis was so relaxed she was practically a puddle. A warm, smooth, fragrant puddle of soft skin and loose muscles that had become one with the massage table under her. She’d probably need to be peeled off it at some point, like wax left out in the hot sun too long, but that was a problem for future Bailey. Present Bailey was too busy being stroked and rubbed and massaged into bliss by a beautiful woman to worry about such matters.
It was, unfortunately, non-sexual bliss, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Music was playing, Stevie Nicks’ husky, dreamy voice soaring over soft guitars, and the vanilla scent of the candles she’d lit mixed with the almond of the massage oil, making her think of cake. She’d order some later, she promised herself, and grunted when strong hands, slick with oil, stroked firmly down her forearm.
“Too much, honey?” Marissa—the aforementioned beautiful woman, masseuse extraordinaire and Bailey’s new favorite person—asked softly.
Pushing through the thick fog of relaxed pleasure—seriously, it felt like she didn’t have bones anymore—Bailey roused herself enough to respond. “No, it’s good,” she mumbled and tried to sink back into her massage-induced languor.
She was almost there when the clatter of the door opening pierced the dreamy guitars, and voices not nearly as melodic as Stevie’s rang out.
Bailey sighed. “Shit.”
“Everything okay?” Marissa asked, her magic fingers pausing.
“It’s fine,” Bailey said, determined to block out the intrusion. The massage was almost over, and she wanted to savor every last moment of it. “You can keep going.”
The magic fingers resumed, and Bailey tried to get back into the pleasure-fog. But Chloe was talking, and Gwen was laughing, and one of them dropped something that hit the marble floor so loud it could’ve woken the dead, and with a curse Bailey gave up.
“You assholes are ruining my birthday massage,” she called out, and opened one eye to glare past Marissa at her friends standing in the foyer of the hotel suite.
Chloe looked pretty and cool in a pair of pink shorts and a white tank top that showed off a faint tan that added a golden glow to her usually pale skin. She wore her blonde hair in a pixie cut, which needed a trim, and Bailey made a note to get her into the salon in the next week or so. Maybe she could finally convince Chloe to add some color to the blonde. A strong pink, or maybe a summer-sky blue to match the eyes currently wide with surprise.
She stepped forward into the living room of the suite, eyeing the table set up in front of the enormous fireplace where Bailey currently lay face up under a sheet. “We get massages? Cool.”
“I’m getting a massage,” Bailey corrected while Marissa, a smile on her truly stunning face, continued to stroke her arm. “You’re not.”
Chloe’s expression went mulish. “How come?”
“Because you had sex.”
Gwen, a head taller than Chloe with thick chestnut hair pulled back in a neat tail and no tan to speak of, gamely turned a laugh into a cough, brown eyes dancing behind her glasses.
Chloe shot her a glare, then jutted her chin at Bailey. “You don’t know that.”
“You have beard burn on your neck.”
Chloe slapped a hand over her neck. “I do not.”
“Other side,” Gwen advised.
Chloe’s cheeks turned pink under her tan. “What if it was bad sex?”
“It wasn’t bad sex,” Bailey said while Gwen snorted. “You never have bad sex. That’s why, if you weren’t my best friend, I would hate you.”
“It could have been bad sex,” Chloe insisted, stubborn to the last.
“Why don’t I just call Jesse and Knox to verify that,” Gwen offered, and Marissa, who like a true professional had been pretending to be invisible during the exchange, froze.
“Wait.” She held up a hand, shiny with oil, and narrowed her eyes—a lovely hazel that trended toward gold and glowed against her warm brown skin—on Chloe. “Two men?”
Chloe bit her lip, the color in her cheeks deepening. “Um, yeah?”
“She’s in a polyamorous relationship,” Bailey explained with smug relish.
Marissa turned to Bailey, dark curls swinging, lush lips pursed. “Are they hot?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Smokin’ hot,” Gwen chimed in. “Sexy carpenter and a silver fox daddy.”
Chloe grimaced. “What have I told you about the daddy stuff?”
“They’re bisexual,” Bailey went on, ignoring Chloe. “They like to do her and each other all at the same time.”
“You don’t get a massage,” Marissa declared.
“Dammit,” Chloe muttered.
“What about me?” Gwen said, raising her hand like a kid in class. “I haven’t had sex. Do I get a massage?”
“No,” Bailey said before Marissa could answer. “It’s not your birthday. You can have one on your birthday.”
“Sorry,” Marissa said with a shrug and, picking up Bailey’s hand, went back to work.
“Well, this sucks. You get a massage and Chloe had sex. What do I get?” Gwen wondered.
“You can have the bathtub first this time,” Bailey said and closed her eyes, determined to enjoy the time she had left with Marissa’s magic fingers.
When the massage was over, she opened them on a blissful sigh. Gwen and Chloe had disappeared, and she was back in the pleasure-fog. Feeling warm and loose and pretty damn good about turning thirty in a couple of hours, Bailey wrapped herself up in a hotel robe and guzzled a bottle of water while Marissa broke down the table.
“Plenty of water now, so you don’t get sore,” Marissa instructed, and waved her down when she started to stand. “No, you just relax, honey. I know the way out.”
“Thanks.” Digging into the pocket of the robe, Bailey pulled out the cash she’d tucked there earlier for a tip. “This is for you.”
Marissa’s smile warmed. “Thank you, honey. I’m going to give you my card.” She plucked one out of the pocket of the short spa jacket that would’ve looked boxy on any other woman. But there was no way to square off those curves. “Just in case.”
Bailey took the card, intrigued by the smile that accompanied it. She was in a sex slump and her radar was admittedly rusty, but it was beeping now. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Marissa’s laugh was a throaty purr. “You do that, honey. Bye, now.”
“Bye.” Bailey watched her carry the table out and wondered idly if the pendulum-like swing in Marissa’s generous hips was their usual motion, or if it had been added for her benefit.
When the door clicked shut, she tucked the card in her pocket and went to find her friends.
The hotel suite was huge, but having been there before for Chloe’s birthday in January, she wound her way easily through the marble-tiled maze to the main bedroom. As she approached the open double doors, the unmistakable sounds of a baseball game told her Gwen had won the battle for the remote. Well, she’d fix that.
“We are not watching baseball on my birthday,” she announced, walking into the room.
“Told you,” Chloe mumbled smugly from her spot in the middle of the big bed. Well, as smugly as she could with the sheet mask covering her face.
“Your birthday’s tomorrow,” Gwen reminded her and adjusted her glasses carefully on her nose. She wore a mask too, and both of them had changed into robes that matched Bailey’s. “And besides, you weren’t here.”
“Well, I’m here now.” To settle the matter, Bailey plucked the remote off the bed and turned off the television.
“Thank you,” Chloe said.
“You’re welcome. What’s on your face?”
“A mask.” Chloe lifted a finger to poke at it. “I forget what kind.”
“It’s collagen,” Gwen told her. “Hydrating.”
“Right. My skin is having a drink.”
“Cool.” Bailey climbed onto the bed. “I want one.”
Gwen picked up the canvas shopping bag sitting beside her and dumped it out. “Got you covered.”
Bailey’s eyes widened. “What’d you do, buy out the drugstore?”
“Drugstore, hell. This is quality shit.” Sifting through the pile of masks, lotions, serums, creams, and bottles, Gwen held up two packages. “You wanna suck bad stuff out or pump good stuff in?”
“Gimme the good stuff.”
Gwen tossed her a mask, then scooped up the remote. “If we’re not going to watch baseball, then I’m picking a movie.”
“Something fun,” Bailey ordered, reading the instructions on the package. “Nothing dreary or depressing.”
“There’s a documentary—”
“No documentaries,” Chloe and Bailey said at the same time.
“But it’s about an amusement park in New Jersey in the ’80s.”
“No,” Bailey said.
“It’s called Class Action Park because it was completely unregulated and dangerous,” Gwen wheedled.
“No,” Chloe said firmly.
“Fine.” Gwen handed her the remote and flopped back against the pillows in a pout. “You pick, then.”
“I don’t want to watch a movie,” Chloe said. “I want to hear Bailey’s birthday wish.”
Busy smoothing the thin sheet of the mask over her face, Bailey shook her head. “It’s not midnight yet.”
“Technically, you don’t have to wait until midnight,” Gwen pointed out. “Chloe just did that because she was paranoid.”
“I wasn’t paranoid. I was superstitious.”
“What’s the difference?”
Chloe thought for a moment. “Paranoia is irrational. Superstition is quirky.”
Gwen rolled her eyes.
“Shut up,” Chloe said and turned back to Bailey. “Well?”
Bailey continued smoothing. “I want cake first.”
“Cake?” Gwen echoed.
“Yeah. Vanilla cake,” Bailey elaborated. “With lots of frosting. And champagne.”
Gwen looked at Chloe. “Who’s calling room service?”
“Not it,” Chloe said.
“I’m the birthday girl.” Mask in place, Bailey stretched out on the plush king-sized bed to wiggle into the pillows.
“Fine, fine.” Holding her robe together with one hand, Gwen slid off the bed. “Cake and champagne. Anything else?”
“I’ll take a club sandwich and fries,” Chloe said.
“Oysters,” Bailey added from her pile of pillows. “Two dozen, with lemons and hot sauce.”
Gwen wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.”
Well accustomed to Gwen’s opinion on her favorite indulgent treat, Bailey just smiled. “Get an extra side of fries, too.”
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