Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  I’m so consumed in the dance and the music, I don’t hear Cole walk in. I don’t feel him until his arm hooks around my waist and rips me from Nikolai’s shoulders. I don’t see him until his fist flies past me and collides with the other man’s nose.

  Blood spurts across Nikolai’s bare chest, and he stumbles back, colliding with the mirror and cupping his face.

  “Cole!” The wind whooshes from my lungs, and my knees lock in horror. “What have you done?”

  Expression tight and eyes aglow with black fire, he rears back for another punch, hellbent on putting my dance partner through the wall.

  My legs propel me forward, and I hurl myself in the path of his strike. I narrowly miss four knuckles in the face as he redirects his fist into the mirror behind Nikolai.

  Glass shatters, and Nikolai’s arms come around me, hauling us away from the detonation of testosterone and fury.

  I slap the power button on the sound system, plunging the room into a haze of panting, wheezing breaths.

  Cole steps toward us, hands flexing at his sides and the cords in his neck stretched taut. “What the fuck—?”

  “Don’t come any closer!” I thrust a finger at him and swivel toward Nikolai.

  Oh God, blood trails from his bent nose, the cartilage twisted and swelling rapidly. I grab a towel and hold it up to catch the bleeding.

  “I’m leaving in two weeks!” Cole shouts behind me. “Is this what you’re going to be doing while I’m gone?”

  “Dancing with my dance partner?” I whirl around, voice rising. “Yes, Cole. You better fucking believe that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.”

  Cole and I fell in love so easily, naturally, perfectly. But I’d be lying if I said our relationship has always been easy. His temper is explosive, his jealousy obnoxious and turbulent on the best days.

  “Where’s your ring?” He glares at my left hand with murderous accusation.

  Shit, I forgot to put it back on. “Bathroom counter. I took it off to wax my—”

  “Don’t ever take it off!” His roar echoes off the walls.

  “Stop yelling at me!” I scream back.

  “I can’t do this.” He paces through the room, threading his fingers through his hair and locking them together on his head. “I can’t be halfway across the world thinking about you rubbing your pussy all over another man.”

  “I warned you. The morning we met, I said no jealousy. This is my job. You told me you could deal with it.”

  “I also said I was hotheaded, and you told me you could handle that.”

  He’s right. I can handle it. But…

  “Nikolai didn’t sign up for this.” I step to the side and place a hand on my friend’s chest. “Un-fuck this up, and I mean, fix it right. I want groveling, Cole.”

  “Danni, don’t.” Nikolai glares at me over the bloody towel against his nose.

  “I want bowing and scraping and heartfelt apologies,” I say to Cole. “If Nik leaves here without forgiving you, you’ll be leaving with him.”

  I walk toward the kitchen and pour a glass of wine as their footsteps trudge into the bathroom. A moment later, Cole’s voice rumbles through the house.

  “I don’t like you.”

  Christ. I pinch the bridge of my nose and release a heavy breath.

  “I get that.” Nikolai’s Trinidadian accent sings through his pained voice. “But just because I fucked your girl in college—Ow! Fuck! You don’t have to press so hard.”

  Cabinets slam. The faucet turns on and off. Then Cole’s hoarse timbre fills the silence. “I’m sorry.”

  More silence.

  “I’m struggling with…” Cole rasps out a sigh, and something thumps against the bathroom wall. “It’s killing me to leave her, and I’m going mad with worry. But there’s no excuse for taking it out on you. I don’t like you, but I do trust you. Because if you put your dick anywhere near—”

  “That’s a threat,” I shout from the kitchen. “Not an apology.”

  “You know,” he shouts back, “I eased up on that punch at the last second. His nose isn’t broken, so there’s nothing to forgive.”

  I roll my eyes and leave them to it. Making my way to the front of the house, I recline on the couch and wait.

  Fifteen minutes later, they emerge from the bathroom, both shirtless and sullen.

  “Well?” I look at Nikolai expectantly.

  “He loves you.” Nikolai prods a finger around his nose, his silver eyes squinting in pain.

  My chest pinches. “Yeah, but—”

  “He’s scared, hoss. Fucking terrified he’s going to lose you while he’s gone.” Nikolai rubs the back of his blond head, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile. “He and I won’t ever be buddies, but I’m gonna cut him some slack. He’s sorry. I forgive him. And my face doesn’t look so bad after he cleaned it up.”

  His nose is swollen but seems a lot straighter in the light.

  I turn my attention to Cole, where he stands a few feet away, hands on his hips and unblinking eyes fixed on my lips. He looks wrecked, desolate, and all I want to do is curl my body around him and give him back his smile.

  “Since Cole won’t be here when we dance at Microfest,” Nikolai says, lugging the strap of his duffel over his shoulder, “we’re going to perform the routine for him tomorrow. A private viewing.”

  “Is that right?” I ask.

  A muscle bounces in Cole’s cheek, his gaze still locked on my mouth.

  With his chest bare, his unease is evident in the bunched ridges of his abs. The tattoos, whiskered jaw, broad shoulders—everything about him is ruggedly intimidating. I should give Nikolai kudos for not cowering.

  “He wants to see how hard we’ve worked.” Nikolai walks backward to the front door. “And how fucking awesome we are, because hot damn, we own that routine.” He holds a fist in the air and opens the door.

  “All right, Nik.” I laugh. “See you tomorrow.”

  When the door shuts behind him, Cole lifts his eyes to mine.

  The fire, the wind, the mystical energy that defines the connection between us sparks, inflames, fueling itself and pulling us together. He gravitates toward me, our gazes consumed with each other.

  Lowering to his knees before me, he wraps his arms around my waist and buries his face in my lap. “I’m so incredibly sorry, baby.”

  I weave my fingers through his unruly brown hair. “I’m sorry, too.”

  He lifts his head. “For what?”

  “This.” I reach down and squeeze his nuts.

  He hisses and jerks backward, but I follow him to the floor, landing atop his chest and tightening my clamp on his balls.

  “That’s the last time you’ll ever hurt one of my friends.” My lips brush against his, softening my words.

  “Got it.” He grunts in discomfort, and his warm Cole-scented breath fans my face.

  Lying on his back with his arms out to the sides, he doesn’t buck me off, doesn’t try to dislodge my grip from between his legs. But he overpowers me in other ways. With his shirtless chest, low-slung jeans, and swelling cock jerking against my hand. Add the five o’clock shadow on his jaw and the heated look in his eyes and I don’t stand a chance.

  My bones turn to dough. My insides tingle, and my fingers loosen around his sac. The anger and regret from moments ago dissipates, replaced by something more fundamental. Stronger. Us.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful.” He lifts his hands, cupping them around my face. “I can’t stand the thought of another man touching you, looking at you, fantasizing about you.”

  “You’re the only one I see, Cole.” I rest my brow against his and speak each word into a languorous kiss. “You’re the only one when you’re here. When you’re not here. For the next year. Forever.”

  Briefly closing his eyes, he slips a hand into his pocket and holds out my ring. “If you never take it off again, I’ll be the happiest man on the planet.”

  “It’ll stay.” I slide on the silv
er band and curl my fingers around it. “I promise.”

  “Good. Now what about that other ring?” He paws through the gauzy layers of my dance skirt, his hands becoming rougher, more urgent in his hunt.

  “You tell me.” I adjust my position on top of him, straddling his hips and gathering the material around my waist.

  He proposed two weeks ago, and the day after, he took me to get my labium pierced. The procedure was done by a beautiful woman, of course. Probably one of his old fuck buddies, but I didn’t ask. The past is what the past is. And the future? I’ll deal with that when it comes.

  It’s the present that I hug close—his wide shoulders, to be exact, as he sits up and takes my mouth.

  His arms are my orbit, encircling my body. His eyes are my center of gravity, righting me in perfect balance. And his fingers are my eight wonders of the world as they sink between my legs and make my vocal chords scream his name in awe.

  Then, with the crotch of my leotard shoved to the side, he slides me down his hard cock.

  “Danni,” he growls, his fingers burrowing into my hip bones. “You feel so damn good.”

  His muscles shake, and I tighten my hold on him, latching our mouths together, our kisses desperate, frenzied, and weighted with torment.

  Enduring a year without him will be a special kind of hell. But it has an expiration date.

  One year.

  It’s just a blip in the span of forever.

  Chapter Eleven

  PRESENT

  “Danni.”

  The growl of Trace’s voice snaps me back to the present, and I swallow around the knot in my throat. Stupid girl. This is neither the time nor the place to get bowled over by the past. Especially not after our strange day of errands and kissing and hanging out in his penthouse.

  I straighten on the couch and stretch my neck. The movie’s paused, and the intensity of his gaze presses against my skin.

  “What’s wrong with you?” His tone is soft, but there’s an edge to it. Concern? Aggravation? Who knows?

  “I should go.”

  “And miss the best movie ever?”

  I swivel to look at him, catching a rare glow of warmth in his blue eyes. “You’re enjoying Dirty Dancing?”

  “I am.” He tips his head down, studying me from beneath blond brows. “It has depth. Like you.”

  My lips part on a stalled breath. Was that a compliment?

  He touches my chin, nudging it upward to close my mouth. Then he presses play on the remote and stretches back on the couch. I mirror his pose, letting my head fall back and tranquility settle in.

  Beyond the windows, the sun has fled, leaving smears of deep purple across the sky. It’s getting late, but no part of me wants to move. My eyelids feel heavy, and the couch is so warm and comfy. The breathing heater beside me makes me want to stay forever.

  Doesn’t take long before I lose the fight against sleep.

  When I wake, the credits roll on the screen, and my cheek rests on soft twill over steel. Not just my cheek. My arms and legs hug a warm pillar of muscle.

  I move only my gaze, following the length of our bodies, down, down, to our feet. His are covered in black socks and propped on the arm of the couch. Mine hook around his calves, so pale and small against his dark slacks.

  My knee is bent over his thigh, inches from the soft bulge between his legs. My arm drapes across his chest, my other tucked beneath his shoulder. My neck goes taut, but it’s not our positions that alarm me. It’s the knuckle running along my side, over my hip, and back up. Down and up, down and up, he’s stroking me.

  And I like it.

  I love it.

  So fucking much.

  I close my eyes and will myself to fall back to sleep. I want to stay here, wrapped in this gorgeous paradox of a man, and pretend he wants that, too.

  “I know you’re awake.” His voice reverberates in his chest.

  Dammit.

  I shift against him, rest my chin on his sternum, and fall into the crystal blue of his gaze. “I missed the end of the movie.”

  He brushes a stray hair from my face. “I know why you like it so much.”

  I beam. “It’s a job requirement.”

  He doesn’t move to untangle us, seemingly waiting for me to climb off. I doubt he does much snuggling with women, not even with the ones he doesn’t want to fuck.

  Rising on my knees, I instantly miss the warmth of his body. So much so my fingernails stab my palms as I slide off the couch.

  Rain spatters the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the black sky rotates with even blacker clouds, veiling the twinkle of the cityscape.

  The rain isn’t ideal since the top is down on the Midget, and it’s a bitch to put up. I groan at the task ahead and scan the floor for my flip-flops. When did I take them off?

  “I have to put the top up on my—”

  “You’re not going anywhere tonight,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “What? Why not?”

  “It’s raining and dark. You’re tired, and I don’t have to be anywhere.”

  But where would I sleep? Turning, I scan the warehouse-sized penthouse. The kitchen and dining area opens into the monstrous sitting room. There’s a hall that leads to… A bedroom? Multiple bedrooms?

  I head in that direction, veer into the dimly lighted corridor, and poke my head in the first doorway.

  A workout room the size of my house stretches toward an exterior glass wall. Beyond the windows is a rooftop pool, the illuminated blue water rippling beneath the rain.

  “Rich people,” I mumble, “have all the things.”

  “Indeed.” His arrogant self-assertion breathes against my nape.

  I continue down the hall, pausing at the only other doorway. His bedroom.

  He slips past me and sets the gift bag on a tall bureau. I want to know what’s in that bag, but it came from Marlo. If their relationship is at a gift-giving level, I’d rather not know.

  Why does it matter? Trace is a job, not a lover or boyfriend or even a friend.

  Except I’m standing on the threshold of his bedroom, thinking about the possibility of sleeping in his huge king-of-the-casino-sized bed.

  The exposed brick walls bring the warehouse ambiance into this space, with large picture windows, a private balcony, and a bird’s-eye view of the Mississippi River. The charcoal bedding plays off the elegant use of red in the pinstriped furniture gathered around a fireplace and wall-mounted TV screen. It’s masculine and industrial. Modern and cozy.

  “Is this the only bedroom?” I lean a shoulder against the door jamb.

  He nods. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “How many women do you say that to?”

  His head drops, and his hands fall to his hips, as if he’s annoyed by my question.

  I can’t figure him out.

  He disappears into a closet and returns a moment later with a white collared shirt. “You can wear this to bed.”

  It’s a beautiful herringbone shirt, with a split yoke between the shoulder blades and perfectly aligned white stripes. I can’t imagine what it cost, and he wants me to sleep in it?

  I pull the buttons through the holes. “I never agreed to stay.”

  He wings up a brow.

  Yeah, it was a stupid thing to say. We both know I’m not going anywhere.

  “You can dress in the bathroom.” He flicks a finger at the double-wide doorway to the en suite.

  “I’m a dancer. We change clothes anywhere and everywhere.”

  “Suit yourself.” He steps back into the closet and closes the door partway, blocking my view.

  Man, he’s a hard nut to crack.

  Speaking of nuts, what am I doing? Should I seduce him? Ignore him? Play with him? Play hard to get with him? I’m so out of practice, I don’t know where to begin. But I do know what I want.

  Him.

  Preferably on top, but I’ll take him behind, beneath, and upside down. I’m flexible like that.

  I strip m
y clothes and undergarments, pull on his shirt, and button the front up to my breasts, leaving the neck wide around my chest. Then I roll up the ten-feet-too-long sleeves and let the collar slide off my shoulder. But not before I sniff the fabric and shiver a little.

  The closet door swings open, and swear to God, the man who emerges transports me into the era of Viking kings and barbarian battles.

  Tall, lean, and bare-chested, he moves with graceful intensity toward the bed. Brawn ripples across his back as he pulls down the bedding. Textured blond hair falls rebelliously over his brow as he picks up the clothes I left on the floor. His navy pajama pants hang so low on his sculpted hips I have to swallow the drool pooling in my mouth.

  “What?” His head cocks.

  He knows what.

  “You…uh…” Good God, I’m stammering. Dizzy. Pulsing between my legs. “Gimme a minute. This is a lot to take in.”

  He gives me the same full-body perusal, his eyes glittering with unguardedness. An air of casualness. All pomp and circumstance discarded with the suit. Yet standing there all chiseled and confident, he looks more formidable than ever.

  “You make use of that workout room, huh?” I circle his strong stance, devouring the cuts of muscle and golden dusting of hair on his forearms and below his navel.

  He pinches the pressed collar that hangs off my shoulder and slides it toward my neck, causing the other side to fall. “I should’ve given you a bigger shirt.”

  A laugh escapes me. “The angry scowler suddenly makes jokes when he puts on pajamas? Is that your superpower?”

  “That’s not a superpower.” His lips twitch for a fraction of a second before they return to their natural downward bow.

  “It could be. Lure unsuspecting women into your bedroom with your cryptic glare. Out come the pajamas and bam! Laughter and mayhem. Like the Joker.”

  “You’re crazy.” He shakes his head, studying me intently.

  “It can’t be helped. So what’s next?” I hop onto the mattress and hang my legs over the side. “What does a slumber party with Trace Savoy entail?”