Every last one of them. “Mal—what are you doing?” Livvie hissed. Her friend Mallory, a willowy, dark-skinned beauty she’d known longer than anyone, came into the kitchen with an apology on her face. “He’s supposed to be drowning in a sea of eager pussy by now. It sounds like you’re discussing Nietzsche in there.” “That’s because we are discussing Nietzsche.” Mal reached for the coffeemaker and poured herself another cup, careful not to splash on the purple satin robe that was the only thing separating her from the air. One would think that three tall, gorgeous women in various states of undress would make a man at least a tiny bit unsettled, but Ben was standing in the living room, chatting politely with Nicoletta, his eyes not once straying below her neckline, even though she was immodestly covered in a tank top and tap shorts. “He was asking about the quote Megan Fox had tattooed on her rib cage. He said he was thinking about getting one himself.
