“Why?”
“We grew up in this house,” I explain. “My mom left it to us when she moved to the Midwest a few years after our dad died. They were so close,” I stress. “He was Reese’s biggest fan. When Reese started racing in the streets, we could all see he had talent. He was poetry on two wheels. What he could do on a bike was amazing. So our father started taking him to the racetrack by Sutter’s Point.”
“Right. I know it.”
“He was only sixteen, but man, he was sick to watch. He just strolled in like he owned that track. It didn’t take long before the right people started to notice.”
“That’s a nice picture, Dev, but what does that have to do with Reese hating it here?”
I sigh, the pain is as potent today as it was twelve years ago.
“The day before Reese signed on to ride professionally, he found our father dead. He’d had a heart attack right here in this house. Reese came home late that night and found him in his usual spot asleep on the couch. Only he wasn’t asleep.”
“Oh, how terrible.” Kayla covers her mouth.
“It rocked Reese pretty hard.”
I steal the beer from her hand and take a long, hard pull. It’s never easy sharing that story. It was hard enough losing a parent, but what was harder was consoling Reese. I will never forget the way he broke down in his room that night after the coroner bagged and removed our father from his own home. I’ve never seen anyone cry the way my brother did. My eyes water from just the memory. I’m convinced that if Reese could trade all his fame and fortune for one more day with our dad, he would without batting an eyelash.
“Dev?” Kayla smooths over my name.
“Mmm hmm?” I turn my head vacantly to look at her. Her gaze is soft and compassionate.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I sniff, rubbing my eye. “Just not the most fun trip down memory lane.” I laugh at the sappy idiot I am, then down the rest of Kayla’s beer.
“I get it.” She knocks her knee against mine. “I almost lost Sam when I sixteen. She was shot trying to stop a robbery.”
“That’s pretty fucking scary. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Luckily, there’s nothing to be sorry about. But it definitely was one of the worst moments of my life,” Kayla muses, staring with wide eyes straight ahead.
Geez, what a couple of downers we are.
“Hey.” I bump her shoulder with mine. “How about I go grab us two more of these,” I ring the bottle, “and we swap some happy stories? They don’t even have to be fucking real.”
Kayla laughs. “You want to make up fake stories about ourselves?”
“Why not?”
“Seems deceitful,” she jokes.
“Only if you try to pass them off as real.”
Kayla pauses, looking at me quizzically.
“What did I say?” I question her.
“Nothing.” She shakes it off as if she’s being silly. “I could use that beer now.”
“Coming up.” I use her knee as leverage to stand—and as an excuse to touch her—before I creep into the dark house and hear Reese sleeping soundly. I swipe two more bottles from the fridge and sneak back out like Ethan Hunt just stole some highly classified intel.
I sit down next to Kayla, making sure our bodies touch. I pop open her beer first then my own. To my satisfaction, she doesn’t try to shift away or break our physical connection.
I’m still in my scrubs, so the thin material makes it easy for her warmth to seep through. I can’t see much of her face anymore, as the sky has turned black, but the backcountry is dark enough for the moon to illuminate our silhouettes in a silvery-gray shadow. It’s late June, so the temperature will stay comfortable well into the night.
“So you going to tell me a story?” I ask Kayla.
“Mmm, I don’t think I like the idea of fake stories. I think I’ll keep it real instead. I’ll remember what you told me about Reese and try to cut him some more slack.”
“Just Reese?” I tip my beer back, letting the tangy taste wet my taste buds.
“Dev,” she says my name softly, almost fatigued. Maybe I’m weighing on her. Maybe I’m finally wearing her down.
“Kayla,” I respond firmly as I inch closer to her. “Why do you keep fighting it?”
“Because,” is her weak response.
“That’s not a good enough excuse.”
“I know.”
At least she owns up.
“Do you have any idea what I want to do to you? How good I can make you feel?” I rasp in her ear, wanting her irrepressibly. Wanting her to want me irrepressibly. A reel of dirty images runs through my mind. Mainly of me licking her pussy right here on this stoop.
“I have an idea.” She shivers.
“You have no fucking idea.” I go in for the kill, but the second our lips touch, Reese’s groggy voice calls out for her.
She jumps, her work instincts kicking in.
“Fucking Reese,” I mumble irately.
“Coming!” Kayla yells back. Before she bolts into the house, she places one finger to my lips. “Dream about it,” she whispers.
“I’m tired of dreaming.” I look up at her, grabbing my crotch, the pulse in my cock thumping.
Kayla wants me to dream about her?
I already fucking do. Every painful night.
Kayla
The past few weeks have been . . . Adventurous. I’ll admit Reese keeps me on my toes. Especially now that he’s stronger and moving around more freely. In an unforeseen twist, Dev has backed off. I don’t know whether I rejected him one too many times or what, but he hasn’t cornered me in weeks. Don’t get me wrong, he and Reese are still two of the biggest, fattest flirts around, but at least, they’re bearable. What’s unbearable these days are my dreams and the vivid sexual acts played out with not just one Dane, but two. You know that old saying, double the pleasure, double the fun?
Yeah. I’ve woken up drenched in sweat with soaked panties almost every night.
Explicit images that carry over into the daytime and hound me relentlessly. Dev’s lips on my skin… Reese’s hands around my waist. Sometimes, I can literally feel them sandwiching me between their bodies. The two of them simultaneously fingering, fondling, and fucking me. Pulling my hair and pushing my desires straight into the red.
But how insane? Two men? Brothers, no less, sharing one woman? That isn’t reality, that’s a porno. A wet dream, a filthy fantasy.
My filthy fantasy. One I plan to keep to myself. Buried deep in the recesses of my subconscious. Where it’s safe.
The doorbell rings, snapping me out of my daydream. I know exactly who it is. He stops by several times a week. I open the door to a grinning Gary.
“Morning, Kayla” The UPS man knows me by name.
“Morning.” I pull the box into the house.
I didn’t realize the level of celebrity Reese was until the outpouring of gifts started to arrive. Dev’s house is overflowing with food, fan mail, flowers, and . . . panties. Boxes and boxes of them from his fan club.
One night, while I was alone, bored, and curious, I Googled him and tumbled down a Reese Dane rabbit hole. He’s beloved. Hundreds of thousands of Twitter and Instagram followers, pages and pages of articles written about him and his career. A flashy website with bells and whistles, live interviews, and even international TV commercials. Hot ones of him advertising sports drinks and motorcycles in street clothes, leathers, and even a suit.
I’ll give it to him, Reese can clean up nicely.
Over time, I’ve come to realize the worldwide phenomenon that motorcycle racing is.
The culture, the fandom, the cult following.
Every race has more spectators than the Super Bowl. That’s insane. And at the center of that universe is Reese. I sort of understand the snobbish attitude now. Not that I condone it, but when you’ve traveled the world and experienced things most people only dream about, rural Maryland doesn’t hold much of an appeal.
> “So what do you think it is?” I carry the good-sized brown box into the kitchen. Reese’s cast has been downsized to under his knee so he is moving around on crutches much more easily. So well actually, he barely ever sits down until I force him. Sometimes it feels like I’m babysitting a toddler with unlimited amounts of energy. If he’s this wired injured, I can’t even imagine what he’s like at one hundred percent. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” I toy with him. I love this game. Guess what the deliveryman dropped off today? Last week, a fan sent him chocolate from Belgium, and I think I ate half the box. Have you ever had chocolate from Belgium? Yeah, me neither, until that day. Reese did nothing but tease me as I moaned through the velvety goodness. I don’t know when, but one day, I’m traveling to Belgium and eating my way through every chocolatier in the country. I’ll backpack to keep the pounds off.
“How heavy is it?” Reese asks.
“Not very.” I shake it easily. We exchange a knowing look.
“Dear Lord, not another one.” I rip open the box, and low and behold, it’s filled with provocative panties. “Don’t these women have anything better to do than stuff boxes upon boxes with what I hope is brand new underwear?”
“Ah . . .” Reese picks up a purple lace pair and sling shots it at me. “There are all different ways to show love.”
“I can tell you, it doesn’t matter how much I love someone, I don’t think I’ll ever UPS him my panties.”
“To each their own.” He shrugs. “You have to at least let someone get at your panties before you take the overnight delivery step.”
I pause, placing my hands on my hips. “What is that supposed to mean? I let people get at my panties.”
“Who?” he ridicules doubtfully.
“People,” I reply defensively, closing the box.
“If that were true, you would have been riding me weeks ago.”
“I’m highly selective but have occasional lapses in judgment.” I don’t want him bringing up the hand job incident.
“Do I intimidate you?”
“Intimidate me?” I scoff. “Intimidate me how?”
“Think there’s too much power under this hood?” He thrusts his pelvis.
“Spare me. More like too many miles and not enough gas.”
“Oh, I can drive.” He hobbles over to me. “All night, baby,” he hisses in my ear.
I hide how much the mere thought of that turns me on.
“We’ll keep you garaged, so you’re well rested for all your adoringly slutty fans.”
“Hey now. Daisy Mae, a sweet grandmother from Ohio, would take offense to you stereotyping my fans that way.”
“I’ll write a personal apology,” I respond dryly.
Reese flashes me his signature cocky smile. “God, would I love to see you on a bike.”
“Dream about it.” I walk past him and open the fridge.
“Baby, I do.”
The thought of getting on a bike hits me right in the stomach for so many reasons. I hide behind the door, catching my breath, hoping Reese doesn’t notice the change in my demeanor. Unfortunately for me, he does.
“Kayla?” He pokes his head around the stainless steel door.
“I’m good. Just looking for the lettuce.” I grab the head out of the crisper drawer. “Here.” I slam it into his chest. “Start the salad.”
He looks down curiously at the ball of green then back up to me. “Okay.”
I mutely pull out a slab of steak and begin to marinate it while Reese chops the lettuce. I concentrate solely on what I’m doing, grinding down the simmering feelings and painful memories.
“Kayla. Kayla?” Reese waves his hand in front of my face.
“Huh?” I snap my head up.
“Where the hell did you go? I just had a five-minute conversation with myself.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Must have been daydreaming.”
“About what? Me? My butt? Were you mesmerized by my Adonis-like physique?”
“Holy cow.” I gape at him. “Your ego needs its own area code. I was thinking about running.”
“For real?” He doesn’t buy my bull for a second. “No one thinks that in-depth about running.”
“I do. And I missed my last two workouts. You and Dev are eating up all my time.”
“There are worse things that could eat you out.”
“I didn’t say eat me out, Reese!”
“I’d love to eat you out.”
“Please stop talking.”
“I can’t. It’s compulsive.”
“This is why your fans send you underwear. You’re lewd.”
“And fucking horny.” He grabs his crotch. “I think this is a record.”
“Maybe we can submit an application to Guinness World Records.”
“Ya think?” he asks, dead serious.
“Get the fucking tomatoes.” I ignore him and turn on the oven.
Fuck my life.
By the time dinner is done, Dev is walking through the door. I don’t know how I end up cooking every time I’m here, but I’ve learned it keeps Reese busy and out of my hair.
“Smells good in here.” Dev appears in the kitchen entryway and inhales.
“Steak and salad,” I announce. “All-American meal.”
“I thought that was steak and potatoes?” Reese tosses in his two cents just to be a pest.
“Not in this house,” I set him straight.
“Looking a little thick, bro. Been upping your weight?” Dev slaps Reese’s arm as he goes for a bottle of red wine on the counter. I’ve learned this is his unwind glass after a long day.
Reese flexes his bicep, and I almost pass out; he’s wearing a tight, white muscle shirt that accentuates every effing bulge and ripple. I turn away and pretend to fiddle with anything within reaching distance.
I hear chuckling and sneering behind me and can only look up at the ceiling for salvation. These two. These fucking two.
“Okay,” I announce, flustered. “Everything is ready. All you have to do is eat.” I turn and look at them. They both pin me with the same wicked stare. Time to go. Now.
“Aren’t you going to stay?” Dev stalks me on one side while Reese blocks me on the other.
“I’d love to, but I really need to get a run in.”
“After we eat,” Reese pushes. By no means does he mean eat dinner. He means eat me.
“Not tonight.” Usually, I stay. But red flags are waving.
“C’mon. Dinner is no fun without you.” Reese brushes up against me.
Fuck.
“It’s not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be sustenance. Which you clearly need.” I motion to his cast. “You’re still healing.”
“I’m fine. We go back to the doctor next week for the aircast. I’m practically healed.”
“You’re not practically healed,” I argue. “You have another four weeks in the aircast. Then you will be healed.”
“Go inside and sit down,” Reese orders. “I say when I’m healed.”
Dev laughs.
“Do you think Mr. Bossy is being funny?” I ask, cross.
“I do. Because you always seem to listen to him. Makes me wonder about you.”
“Makes you wonder what?” I question.
“If you like to be dominated in bed,” Reese answers bluntly for Dev.
My jaw drops slightly. “Do you like to dominate?” I fire back inquisitively at Dev.
“Sometimes,” he answers candidly.
“Nice to know.” I push past them. “That is about all the information I need tonight. See you tomorrow.” I hightail it outta there, my hormones running on high octane. I swear my pussy aches more and more every time I leave that house. I know what’s in store for me when I go to bed tonight. A vision of Dev in leather pants wielding a whip, commanding me to come.
I know I should just quit. Rid myself of the lecherous Dane brothers and never look back. But if I’m honest, I’m a glutton for punishment. I’m both a sadist
who denies herself of her desires and a masochist who revels in the depriving pain.
And those two are my biggest sexual temptation to date.
Kayla
Reese nearly clicked his heels together in the air when the short plaster cast was removed. He was all but running when it was replaced with the aircast.
He’s been going hardcore in hydrotherapy ever since. I’m finally seeing the athlete emerge. The drive, the dedication, the obsession. I’m usually the one pulling him out of the water, stressing he’s had enough. Which is ironic, considering I’m the exact same way when it comes to running. I love to push my body, and clearly, so does Reese.
It’s a strange little dynamic Reese, Dev, and I have. Besides the two of them constantly trying to get in my pants, we have become a peculiar three’s company. I find myself spending more time at Dev’s house than I do my own. I still refuse to give in to either one of them, so it’s an odd dependency that’s formed. At the end of the day, I just can’t bring myself to choose one or the other. Almost as if it wouldn’t be fair. So I keep a safe distance from both, only indulging in them in my dreams.
It’s nearly seven by the time Reese and I get back to Dev’s. He’s picked up an overnight shift in the ER, so he won’t be back until early in the morning, which leaves Reese and me to our own devices. We decided on leftover pizza, beer, and a movie. Don’t get the wrong idea—this isn’t a Netflix and chill kind of situation. It’s two friends hanging out on opposite sides of the couch. I heat up the pizza while Reese cleans up. He’s fully functional now, which means no more oddly taken baths or legs wrapped in plastic bags to shower.
I pushed off bathing duty on Dev since we all know what happened the last time I took a sponge to Reese’s body. Speaking of. My breath catches as he walks into the kitchen freshly showered, with damp hair and no shirt. My eyes immediately dart to his chest and the detailed mechanical tattoo that stretches over his right arm, pec, and all of his side.
He’s too damn hot for his own fucking good and, what makes matters worse, he knows it. He also knows I’m watching. Following him with my eyes as he opens the refrigerator and pulls out a beer.
Keep This Promise Page 149
