Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  I struggle and scream, but after a few seconds, it starts to feel forced, like I’m making myself fight it, deny it, hate it. Only I don’t hate it. With every strike, the pain dissolves into languorous curls of heat. It seeps through my pleasure centers, soothing, stroking, and coaxing my inner muscles into a spasm of need.

  In a swift shift of his weight, he rolls on top me, his chest smothering my back and his hand beneath my hips, between my legs, sinking into my soaked pussy.

  A gasp fills my lungs, the stretch of his fingers excruciatingly perfect. I don’t want this. I don’t. I can’t…

  “Goddamn, you’re soaked.” He grips the ring on my labium and tugs it. “Such a kinky, filthy girl.”

  “Not for you.” I kick and writhe, my voice gritty, clawing from the deepest, darkest places inside me. “Never.”

  Except my body betrays me, drenching his plunging fingers, clamping down on the invasion, and quivering for release.

  I buck my hips and arch my spine, knocking him off long enough to escape on hands and knees. Before I make it to my feet, fingers capture my ankle and flip me over. With a powerful yank, he drags me across the floor on my back and wrenches my thighs apart.

  Without panties, I’m wide open and exposed for his greedy gaze. I struggle to get free, but he’s stronger, bigger, his hands impossible to dislodge as he spreads my legs wider.

  His gaze meets mine, and I know the instant something shifts inside him. His anger’s still present, but it’s eclipsed by raw, unhinged hunger.

  “Don’t,” I whisper, trembling.

  Lightning flashes behind his eyes. Then he hoists my lower body off the floor and buries his face between my legs.

  My hands plunge into his hair, pushing, pulling, and ripping at the strands. Desire wars with disgust. Anguish begets pleasure, and I’m lost beneath the diabolical swirl of his tongue, torn between wanting him and hating him, aching for relief and despising myself for it.

  I need him. I want to hurt him. I yank his mouth against my pussy. Then I shove him away, crying, spitting, “I fucking hate you.”

  He licks a path up my slit, breathes deeply against my mound, and looks directly in my eyes. “I love you.”

  Bullshit. He’s sick and twisted, and so am I.

  As he returns to my center, lapping at my clit and sucking on my piercing, I want nothing more than to come on his tongue. I’m crazed in my need for it, and sweet God, it’s gathering, rising, curling my toes, and bowing my back.

  I should tell him to stop, but I can’t. I want—“Oh God, oh fuck, I’m coming.”

  The orgasm crashes through me, shaking my limbs and shredding my voice as I moan and pant, my eyes fixed on his, frozen in shock. His mouth continues to grind against me, forcing me to ride his tongue harder, faster, extending the unendurable pleasure.

  But as the bliss begins to taper and aftershocks twitch through my nerves, regret sinks in. He just fucked Marlo Vogt, and I let him lick me to climax. He’s no good for me, his intent manipulative, his desire poisonous.

  “Get off me.” A sob rips from my throat, and I dig my heels against the floor, attempting to slide away.

  He stays with me, crawling between my legs and covering my mouth with his. As his tongue sweeps the tang of my arousal across my lips, I can’t stop thinking about his betrayal and my need to hurt him as badly as he hurt me.

  I break the kiss, pushing against him as I sneer. “Can you taste his come? When I sucked him off in the car, I swallowed every drop.”

  His agonized roar rattles the walls, and his fist slams against floor beside my head. Arched over me, he holds himself up, his arms shaking with the force of his rage.

  Then breath by breath, he reels it in.

  Stillness settles through his muscles, and his eyes soften into molten blue glass.

  My heart stops and restarts, galloping into a frenzied tempo. He’s so damn gorgeous. So potently masculine and intimidating I sink my teeth into my lip to stifle my plea to be fucked.

  Don’t give in. Don’t give in.

  I swing my fists and kick out a leg, hitting air. But my traitorous body wants, wants, wants. My pussy throbs and heats as he wedges his hips between my thighs and swats away my punching strikes.

  “Say it, Danni.” His hooded gaze dips, taking in the length of my body, the spread of my legs, the heave of my chest, and the pulse in my throat. It’s a slow-burning perusal, full of sin and venom and promise. “Tell me no, if you don’t want this.”

  The room fades away, and my brain malfunctions. Everything narrows to the rugged angles of his face and the intensity sharpening his cheekbones. For a man who can’t be controlled, he’s completely possessed by the grip of his desire.

  I’m right there with him, consumed by the same suffocating fire. There’s only one way to quench this need, and it isn’t the word no.

  I try to say it anyway, attempt to make my lips form the sane response, but that’s not what tumbles out. “I need you.”

  “You have no idea how long I wanted to hear that.” He reaches for his fly, his other hand tangling in my hair and angling my head back to hold my gaze. “I love you so damn much.”

  The sound of his zipper echoes in my ears, and I whimper.

  Why can’t I fight this? I can’t stop my hands from reaching between us, fumbling over his in my urgency to pull him out.

  He fits his cock at my entrance and looks me in the eyes. A swallow sticks in the back of my throat, and I grip his shoulders, trembling, panting. Please.

  He thrusts, and we groan together, trembling as one in our relief. Burying himself as deeply as possible, he stretches me, fills me up, and makes me burn.

  Then he fucks me, grunting like a feral caveman and hissing past clenched teeth. He’s a hurricane of fury and aggression, slamming his cock rapidly, violently, and punishing my mouth with deep bruising kisses.

  God help me, I forgot what this feels like, the exquisite sensation of being taken, dominated, and fucked into mindless oblivion. It’s been three years. Three of the longest years of my life, and what a way to break the fast.

  In that stunned moment, my mind blocks out how I got here, too absorbed by the cock stroking inside me, the tongue in my mouth, and the hands sweeping over my body. We’re longing and lust, sweat and muscle, skin on skin, two beasts in a mating dance, panting, clawing at clothes, and stabbing nails into flesh.

  I rip open his shirt, pinging buttons across the floor. With a labored grunt, he tears it off his arms and flings it. There’s an undershirt beneath, baring bulges of biceps and pumped veins over muscle. I want to see more of him, but he attacks my dress, pounds his hips, and tears my strapless bodice down the center.

  Breathing heavily and gnashing his teeth, he ravages my breast. His lips are firm and forceful, sucking my skin and leaving his mark. Then he starts to bite. Hard.

  Panic rises, shattering my hungry trance. I shove his mouth from my nipple and thrash beneath him.

  His eyes flash to mine, and he growls a low, combative noise.

  “So damn feisty.” His thrusts quicken, hammering with urgency. “God, yes… Yes…” He doesn’t look away, his moans gravelly and hoarse. “You feel unbelievable. Fucking heaven.”

  It shouldn’t feel this good. I should be repulsed and fighting him off. He fucking spanked me! How did I let this happen?

  I grip his ass to stop his movements, but the muscles flex harder against my palms with each drive of his hips.

  He’s a frenzy of testosterone, pounding into me like a lust-fueled piston. His eyes never leave mine, watching me, worshiping me with that ice-blue stare as his long fingers slide between us and clamp onto my clit.

  My spine arches off the floor, and my legs shake against a flood of intoxicating pleasure.

  “That’s it.” He circles and rubs my bundle of nerves, spiraling me toward the crest. “You’re going to come now.”

  His other hand wraps around my throat, and that does it. The heart-pounding pressure against my a
irway ignites fireworks across my vision and shoves me into a climax so explosive I feel like I’m shattering into a million pieces.

  “There’s my girl.” His thrusts lose rhythm, jerking and deepening. “Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  My head falls back as I catch my breath, panting and moaning beneath the erratic stab of his hips. His hand slides from my throat to my face and pulls my mouth to his. Then he kisses me.

  This kiss is different, lacking the usual hostility. It’s affectionate and tender, full of soul-stirring languish. I melt against his lips, feeding, sipping, falling into the gentle slide, the roaming strokes, and the ecstasy of love.

  I love him, but I don’t forgive him. And as he comes, I see it all in his eyes—his pain and pleasure, remorse and devotion, heartache and passion. He said he loves me, too, but he ruined it.

  “Danni.” He chokes, groaning deeply, gutturally, his entire body shaking as he grinds against me and pants through his release.

  As he comes down, his forehead drops to mine, and he holds me, nuzzles my neck, his hands caressing my face.

  The urge to curl in on myself shakes my shoulders. What have I done? What am I going to do now? I can’t be with him. I can’t love him.

  When he lifts his head, his expression’s dazed, shocked, like he can’t believe he’s here, that he did this, with me.

  He looks spooked.

  My chest clenches as he pulls out and tucks himself away. I never saw his cock. He didn’t even take off his slacks, and now he’s avoiding my eyes.

  “Trace?” I pull the ruined dress around my nudity, reaching for something, anything to say. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t…” Can’t be alone right now. “We should talk.”

  With his back to me, he collects his clothes from the floor. Then he stands there, facing away. No chin raised in victory. No whispered apologies. Just a distant man, sullied with the come of two women. And, in the dissonance of my breaking heart, his silence.

  His hand clenches at his side and releases. A jagged breath, and he strides out the door.

  My insides cave in, beaten and bruised. As much as I want to call out to him and beg him to stay, I won’t. I’m not his girl.

  The door shuts behind him, and the hollow sound of desertion ricochets through me. I roll toward the mirrored wall, tucking my knees to my chest. Pressure builds in my head, and the stupid tears spring up with a vengeance.

  I’ve never felt so used, so…thrown away. But I’m just as much to blame. I could’ve said no.

  I wanted sex tonight, and now that I’ve broken that crippling dry spell, I feel worse. Because intimacy is what I desperately crave—intimacy with a man who loves me.

  For a poignant moment, Trace gave me a glimpse of that. Then he took it away.

  I don’t even want to think about our lack of protection. I have an IUD, but what about disease? Did he use a condom with Marlo?

  Nausea roils in my stomach. He fucked her…an hour before he had sex with me. Maybe he’s on his way back to her now. To hold her in his bed. To love her the way I ache to be loved.

  Cole would’ve never done this to me. He was nothing if not faithful and one-hundred-percent devoted.

  Waves of pain smash into my chest, and I slam a fist against the floor, pounding it as I cry ugly, self-loathing sobs. “I miss you, Cole. I miss you so much.”

  Before he died, he ripped out my heart and held it between us, dripping with the blood of dreams. Old anger surges to the surface, cracking my ribs and burning up my skin. He shouldn’t have left me. He put his job first and destroyed everything we had.

  I need a drink. A lot of drinks. It’s the only way to numb the pain and forget.

  Blinking through blurred vision, I find my reflection in the busted hole in the mirror. My splintered, pitiful, broken face stares back, judging me.

  Are you giving up, you pathetic bitch?

  I’m comfortable here, lying on the floor in a pool of regret. I’ve grown addicted to sadness. It’s familiar, reliable, effortless.

  I know that’s resignation talking. Giving up is a whole lot easier than fighting through the scar tissue. There are so many things holding me down, suffocating my will to breathe.

  I need a purpose. A reason to contribute in this unfair world.

  I have that, don’t I? I have passion—dancing, family, neighbors, the homeless shelter. That’s where I’m needed.

  Love isn’t a choice. Nor is life. We connect, or we don’t connect. We live, and we die. There is no forever. The real fight is in making the best of it, making a difference, and appreciating the small glimmers of happiness.

  I stretch out an arm and trace the cracks in the mirror. The last time I stared at my broken reflection was the night I moved my life with Cole into the basement. I just hauled it all down there, left it where it fell, and locked the door. It had been such a big step then.

  Tonight, I need to finish it.

  Forcing myself to stand, I shed the tattered scraps of the dress and remove my phone from the wristlet on the floor. Then I set my playlist to Dancing On My Own by Calum Scott.

  Trembling, I pull on a camisole and boyshorts. Choking, I collect the key and my engagement ring. Weeping, I stand at the basement door as Calum Scott serenades the ruins of my heart.

  With a deep breath, I unlock the door, turn on the lights, and descend into the fumes of damp concrete and Cole Hartman.

  When he moved in, he took over the unfinished basement, filling it with tools, motorcycle parts, weight-lifting equipment, and other manly stuff. The scent of engine oil lingers in the air. Punk rock posters cover the walls. His old futon sits beside multiple workbenches.

  Then there are the things I moved down two years ago. His clothes, cologne, watches, CDs, wedding decor, boxes of photos and keepsakes I collected during our ten months together. But the sight of the white dress crumpled on the floor is what releases the floodgates.

  My eyes drown in tears as I move my feet toward the gown. My fingers travel over the dusty tulle and beaded bodice. It would’ve been a beautiful wedding. Our marriage would’ve been as epic as our love.

  My ribcage quakes with the force of my heartache as I gather the dress and hug it to my chest.

  I don’t know when I finally uncurl my fingers and set the gown aside. I move in a fog of turmoil, opening the empty boxes Bree gave me, digging through piles of Cole’s shirts, sniffing each one, and crying harder.

  Then I start packing.

  Chapter Twenty

  PRESENT

  The next morning, I wake on Cole’s futon in the basement to the sound of footsteps creaking the floorboards overhead. My brain slowly rouses, my eyes swollen and itchy. I shiver and pull the scratchy blanket over my shoulders.

  No, not a blanket. I slept with my fucking wedding dress.

  The intruder breaches the basement door, and the stairs groan beneath the tread of feet. Multiple feet. Maybe it’s Bree and David.

  What time is it? I sit up and grab my phone. 6:05 AM

  Groaning, I rub my head. The only person who would wake me at this hour is my next-door neighbor, which means I left my door unlocked. Again.

  Her feet come into view on the stairs, squeezed into compression hosiery and shuffling in house slippers with the aid of her cane. I move to help her down the steps, but the second pair of shoes freezes me on the edge of the futon.

  Shiny black loafers. Charcoal slacks. Long powerful legs…

  My pulse sprints, and my fingernails dig into my palms. Trace has some nerve showing back up here.

  When they reach the last stair, Virginia lifts her cane and pokes the end into his back, nudging him forward.

  “Does this belong to you?” she asks.

  He’s still wearing the white t-shirt from last night, untucked and wrinkled. Same slacks and shoes. He didn’t go home last night?

  Head down and hands shoved into his pockets, he lifts only his eyes. Bruised eyes. Add to that his drawn expression and unruly blond hair, an
d I struggle to process his appearance.

  He looks terrible.

  “No.” My throat tightens, and I cross my arms. “He doesn’t belong to me.”

  “Well…” Virginia huffs. “I found him sleeping in a car in your driveway.” She lowers the cane and smacks it against the backs of his legs. “He said he knows you. Filled my head with all kinds of nonsense, like how you took his heart and he doesn’t want it back.”

  My jaw sets. “Give me a break.”

  His shoulders heave as he takes a ragged breath, his gaze submersed in regret. “Danni…”

  “Don’t.” My nerves prickle, and I pull the wedding dress tight against my lap.

  Virginia gives him a glowering once-over. “The good Lord has no mercy for lying, skirt-sniffing hounds like yourself.”

  “Danni, please…” He runs a jerky hand through his hair and stuffs it back in his pocket. “I need to—”

  “How dare you bring your sexual urges to Danni’s door.” Virginia whacks him again. “If Cole were here—God bless his soul—he’d run you over with his bike until you stopped breathing.”

  Funny how she snubbed Cole every day he lived here, and now that he’s gone, she can’t stop singing his praises.

  I fidget with the tulle skirt of the dress and look around the basement. I made huge progress last night. Everything is packed in boxes by the stairs. Except the wedding gown. I couldn’t let go of it. But I feel stronger this morning. Grounded. Ready to take on Trace Savoy.

  “It’s fine, Virginia.” I stand and set the dress aside. “I’ll handle him.”

  “I know you will.” She leans against her cane. “When you’re finished, I have a bulb burnt out in the washroom. Can’t reach the damn thing.”

  “I’ll be over a little later.” I walk toward her to assist her up the stairs.

  She waves me off, grunting a perturbed sound. “I can walk just fine by myself.”

  I hold my breath as she hobbles up the steps. Then she shuffles through the kitchen and shuts the back door.

  With a slow exhale, I walk past Trace and perch on the futon. “You’ve been here all night?”