Provocative Professions Collection

By: S.E.Hall & Angela Graham


Stirred Up


Handled, Volumes 1 & 2

Stirred Up

S.E. Hall & Angela Graham

Coming together is a beginning;

keeping together is progress;

working together is success


Chapter 1

"Dylan!" I bang louder now, rolling my eyes, half-tempted to add in a few kicks as well.

Every attempt I make to visit, he takes his sweet ass time opening the damn door. I usually don't let it rattle me but it was free spay and neuter day at the vet clinic where I work and I'm exhausted. All I want to do is peel these pinching shoes off my aching feet and sit down with a cold beer and a slice of pizza while catching up with my big brother.

If he'd turn down his incessant video game and come answer the door, that is.

My fist hammers against the wood again and still nothing. Heaving out an exasperated huff, I sling my work bag around my shoulder, balancing our steaming dinner and tall boys in my hands as I dig inside my purse for the spare key he gave me on move in day a year earlier.

"Dylan!" Yelling again, I try to peer through the window. If he's got that headphone thing on that he uses to talk to other gamers, I could be here all night. With no luck on the hunt for his elusive key, I pull out my phone instead. He's so buying next time.

"Addison, dear."

I whirl around, startled, nearly dropping my phone and everything else I'm holding at the sound of the voice. It's sweet Mrs. Murray from the apartment across the way.

"Your brother's gone," she continues. "He and that handsome friend of his were moving things out all day."

Brady. Rescuing my meandering brother again.

I shove my phone back in my purse, struggling to tame my aggravated scowl long enough to give the elderly, helpful woman a smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Murray, and sorry for the noise."

The familiar ache builds in my temples, the one only two guys ever cause, consistently stressing me out with some shenanigan or another.

"Not at all, honey. If I don't see you kids again, you all take care."

My shoulders slump when she closes the door. Unable to contain my frustration, I stomp the entire way out of the building and straight to my car, where I toss the dinner and drinks onto the passenger seat a little too hard. Once I'm buckled up and ready to go, I inhale a deep breath and take my anger out on the steering wheel.

What the hell is wrong with him? With both of them?

I'm livid, and pretty sure most of my fellow drivers take notice as I weave in and out of traffic way too fast, risking my perfect driving record. I don't care and I don't stop, besides at the one red light that I swear is mocking me, all the way to Brady's house, ready to lay into them both. Far too annoyed to be bothered with knocking, I crash through the front door and slam the now-cold pizza and warm beer on the table in the entryway.

"Jackasses, I'm home!" I yell out into the large house, balancing on first one, then the other leg to finally take off my shoes. Heaven forbid I traipse further into the way-too-big-for-one-single-man's house with my shoes on. Brady's by far the more hygienic one of the duo, my brother more of a quick rinse, anything on the floor not stiff enough to stand on its own is still wearable kind of guy. It's the main reason they've never made good roommates and the first point I'll be making if they think they can hole up together again.

"In the living room," Dylan calls back, obviously too busy to walk the ten steps to greet me.

Irritation climbs straight to homicidal rage in seconds when I turn the corner and see them. Seemingly unconcerned with his recent unannounced move, my brother is sprawled out in a beanbag, fingers tapping rapid-fire on his controller…not a care in the world. Brady, the enabler, is relaxed in the armchair with a white blanket spread over his lap, his head dipped back, eyes closed, a wicked curl to his lips. The girly feet peeking out from under the blanket tell me I'm definitely interrupting, not that I care, but I'm appalled that Dylan is so far lost in his game that he hasn't noticed the blowjob happening a few feet to his left.

Brady releases a low grunt, his hips shooting up, hands gripping the blanket, which is actually the head of Casper the Friendly Cocksucker, as she finishes him off. The thought of what just slid down her throat causes some bile to rise in mine; seriously, there's a guy sitting right beside you and your escapade soundtrack is squawking video game birds—talk about hot.

I give the back of his chair a swift kick and move across the room, not wanting a close-up of that show. "Sorry to bust up the frat party," I chirp sarcastically, "but does anybody want to tell me why Dylan's homeless again?"

"Hey, Moe." Brady's hands disappear under the fabric, pushing whoever's done there away and raising his hips to tuck what I can only assume is his dick back in a more appropriate place. Instantly, a busty girl crawls out from between his legs, wiping her thumb across her swollen lips. She stands, pushing the blanket to the floor, and I catch a glimpse of Brady zipping up his fly. He's all smiles when he looks over at me. "Do I smell sausage or pepperoni?"

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