Bikram bellowed into his Bluetooth. Liam pressed a hot towel onto the angry red welts that appeared each time the tiny Ukrainian woman ripped a piece of cloth from BAM’s wax-covered back. Liam would have gladly traded places with the blond-headed mistress of hair. Oh, to inflict that pain onto BAM would cause euphoria to course through Liam. He loved the ripping sound of the cloth stripping away BAM’s skin and the hair that came up with it. Giddiness tingled through Liam’s limbs with each of BAM’s grunts. The giant, foot-long welts were glorious to behold. “I don’t give a fuck, Lydia, who owns the script.” BAM gurgled. He tried to press himself up, but the tiny Ukrainian woman smacked BAM on the back of his head. Liam nearly wet himself with joy. BAM’s tirade over JP Anderson requiring a meeting alone with Nikki Solange, the infliction of pain upon BAM, the nearly massive coronary BAM had when he discovered the meeting he’d not been invited to, plus his continued lust for Liam’s pistachios—all of these events provided Liam with enough pleasure to endure BAM.
