"Wish I could tongue you down and eat your yoni."

I shivered, mental images creating soft moans.

"Would you like that?"

Again I shivered, euphoria rising.

"You ever had your yoni eaten while somebody else kissed you?"

I shook my head, licked my lips, his words like cocaine, his words making me high.

"Think you'd like that? To have me kiss you like this...and to have your yoni licked like this...to have your clit sucked...the way I suck your tongue...get finger-fucked...all at once."

"Maybe."

Moans joined with my shivers. His language was direct and barbaric, stimulating. He was Henry Miller, his prose a stream of vulgarities. He kissed me, his kiss brief and poetic, an erotic haiku.

Our energy exchange was disrupted without warning. Someone stopped and stood over us.

Black suit. Black shirt. Nice shoes. Expensive shoes. The type of shoes Logan wore.

In an angered tone he snapped, "You're in a hotel cheating on me?"

SIX.

With reluctance I looked up, nervous, trembling, not knowing what I would do.

He snapped, "Who is this ugly sonofabitch you're snuggled up with?"

It was Karl's brother. The developer. The married twin. It wasn't Logan.

My frown became a smile of surprise, then belly laughter.

Karl said, "Thought the wife wasn't letting you out to play to night."

The hater in Karl came to life. Childhood envy existed in his eyes.

I said, "Well, hello, Mark."

Mark laughed at me, ignored his sibling, did that as if he wasn't in the mood for rivalry.

I scooted over and Mark sat on the other side of me.

As the techno music changed to R&B, I inhaled him. Everything about him was fresh and crisp and sophisticated. His scent was that of a man who had just stepped out of a shower and sprayed AXE Phoenix all over his toned body, his aroma magnetic and stimulating, crisp and green herbal notes with warm undercurrents of sandalwood and spiced rum. I breathed him in, felt heady, an invigorating rush.

Just like that, I was turned on even more.

Was turned on by Karl. And by Mark.

I became so nervous. So nervous I had another drink. Karl drank Hennessy. Mark had Riesling.

So many lines had been crossed, but I was far from the point of no return.

I slowed everything down, removed myself from Karl's heat, again being cordial.

I asked, "Which one of you was born first?"

Karl pointed at Mark.

I asked, "What sign are you guys?"

Mark said, "I'm a Libra."

Karl said, "I'm a Scorpio."

Laughter rose from me as I leaned back, waiting for the punch line to the joke.

Mark said, "I was born at 11:58 P.M."

Karl nodded. "I was born at three minutes after midnight."

I said, "You guys have different birthdays?"

They nodded.

Karl said, "I held out a few minutes so I could get my own friggin' day."

I laughed.

Mark asked, "What's your sign?"

"Gemini."

"The sign of the twins." Karl laughed. "Now that's funny."

The photographer touched me with his Scorpio hands. Tingles spread like a wildfire.

I touched the one born under the sign of balance and invited him into our world.

First we were laughing.

Flirting.

Drinking.

I asked, "Where did you guys go to college?"

Karl told me he went to More house. Mark went to the University of Georgia.

I said, "Surprised you two didn't go to the same college."

Mark said, "We had to get away from each other."

Karl nodded.

I sensed something going on between them, some darkness beyond the playful banter.

I said, "It's hard to tell the difference between you two."

Karl said, "Told you it was easy. He's an ugly version of me."

"You wish. I was born first."

"I'm taller."

"Bullshit."

"I beat your ass around Stone Mountain."

"I can bench-press two-seventy. What you pumping, Karl?"

I jumped in, laughing, "Boys, boys. Take it down a level, can you?"

They laughed, but that brotherly tension remained.

They talked to me, laughed with me, acted like two teenage boys who had a crush on their teacher. They gave me so much attention. I loved it. Absorbed it as I evaluated them. They were the same, yet different. The conversation shifted from us and we began talking about people. A hundred conversations were going on around us. Men who looked like clean-shaven relatives of the Confederate leaders carved in Stone Mountain, old white men who had to be here on business were doing their best to get conversations with the melanin-filled women, blue eyes focused on the ones that had at least a twenty-inch discrepancy between their waists and asses. The astonished looks on their faces said they were in a sizzling hotel and would love to sample forbidden fruit, at least for one night, and would pay what ever it cost just to have it. Most were visitors from other states, from other countries, would never see each other again, so it was on, full speed ahead, only an elevator ride away from a nice bed, an overnight fantasy that might become a regret brighter than tomorrow's sun.

We engaged in light touching, nothing too obscene, started talking dirty after dark.

I said, "Like I said before, I'm trying to be a good girl."

Mark smiled.

Karl sipped his Hennessy. "She wants to kiss, have her yoni eaten at the same time."

"Yoni?"

"Calls her pussy her yoni."

"Is that French?"

"She says it's a Kama Sutra thing."

"Yoni. Sounds like Noni juice."

"Same thing I said."

"So she calls it her yoni."

"Check it out. She wants every lip on her body kissed at once."

"Hypothetical." I laughed, felt exposed. "That was hypothetical."

Mark asked, "Are you a good kisser?"

"Only one way to find out."

His hand came up to my face, to my chin, brought me to him.

Then I was kissing the married twin. Was slow-kissing a married man in a lobby filled with music, colorful lights, and a million conversations. I was deep into a fantasy, moaning and groaning, my heat exposed. His kiss was pure cane sugar. Sweet enough to give me diabetes.

When we stopped, I fanned myself.

My eyes went to Karl, these lips curving upward, gave a picture-perfect smile to the photographer. Karl smiled, his smile telling me he was waiting on the verdict, who was the best kisser.

I said, "What the hell is this, some sibling rivalry issues or what?"

Mark said, "He's hated me since he lost the race out of our mother's womb."

Karl huffed. "You did a Zola Budd and tripped me."

"What ever."

"You tripped me and I went down like Mary Decker Slaney did in the '84 Olympics."

We laughed.

Mark rubbed my leg, rubbed it up and down, thought he was about to ease up my dress and try to stir me with his finger. He took my hand and we stood up. Chills moved up and down my spine.

I asked, "Where are we going?"

He winked at me, then took me out on the floor.

I asked again, "Where are you taking me?"

"To dance."

"Nobody's dancing."

"I'm not a follower."