by JA Huss
Three. He liked to play games.
If I had to make a list of three things I know about Bric now, none of those things even come close to mattering.
I didn’t even know who Quin was until Bric took me to dinner at the Club the day after we met. He was sitting up in Smith’s bar—both of them were—when Bric brought me upstairs for a chat. That’s what he called it. A chat. That chat ended up being an offer to play the game. Which was the whole reason I was there.
I’d heard about this game they played from a girl named Lindsey up in Salt Lake. I was just passing through Utah on my way to Colorado, but my car broke down and I ended up staying for a few months, trying to get the money together to fix it. Lindsey was just a roommate I had at the time. She was a law student at the University of Utah. And since I was on a very tight budget, I was looking on campus for temporary housing, and got a room in her house for fifty dollars a week. She liked me, she said. And when she found out I was heading towards Denver, she got chatty. It turned out that Lindsey had played a game in Denver with three men. She told me all about it. Told me about the money, the sex, and, of course, the Club.
So Bric was my goal when I came to town. And there I was, twenty-four years old, sitting in a private sex club in Denver, talking to three men about sharing.
Not cheating. Sharing.
It was such an interesting idea for me. And Lindsey made it out to be a pretty sweet deal.
Looking back, I decide it was a sweet deal. Still is.
Bric can be summed up in three words. Self-absorbed, self-obsessed, and self-serving. They almost mean the same thing, but Bric is so egomaniacal, he deserves all three, even if it’s just for poetic reasons.
Add in a dark Machiavellian psyche that likes to twist people’s perception, and you get one messed-up man.
But most people don’t see that side. I’m not even sure Quin and Smith see that side. If they do, they just go along with it. But I see it. I have always seen it. You have to be a certain kind of person to make an offer like that.
I think he’s so likable because you see him coming a mile away. He’s like a bulldozer with a blinking neon sign that says, me, me, me. And he’s set his life up in such a way that he never has to hide that from anyone.
Or maybe people are just pretending? He’s rich, powerful, handsome—and isn’t that all you need to be liked in this world? It’s only what’s on the outside that counts in society.
There are no women in his life except for the game players and the wives the members of his club share with him downstairs.
And the game players are managed using Quin. He’s the one who keeps them together. I realize that now. Bric is too selfish. Smith was never invested enough. But Quin… everything about Quin is the real deal. If he’s in, he’s all in.
When I saw Quin at the first meeting he was sitting across from Smith looking like the perfect contradiction. That same night I was inside that top-floor apartment making myself at home.
One week into the little Taking Turns game and I was falling for Quin Foster. For them, really. Not Smith. Never, ever. But Quin is like a kinky perfect gentleman. He opens doors, he likes to buy me gifts, he’s never late, and he’s fun. We hit it off immediately and even though the rules of the game were challenging, we got around them. Eventually we ignored them, but that was much later. We played by most of the rules for more than a year. Hell, even Smith played along for a while.
But Bric was another matter altogether. Yes, he was the first of them I was with. But I didn’t fall for Bric until this past weekend. Four years after we met, he showed me something real. And I can’t even say I was waiting for it, because I wasn’t. I wasn’t looking for any kind of gesture from him. And never in a million years did I ever imagine that Elias Bricman cared enough to try for a second chance at a first impression.
The car pulls up in front of Turning Point and a valet rushes up to my door to open it. I’d forgotten how nice it was to have a driver take me places, but I still have to take a moment to unlatch Adley’s car seat, and he waits patiently.
“Good morning, miss. Are you having breakfast with—” But another valet is there, whispering in his ear. “Ooohhh,” he says, smiling. “Come this way, Ms. Bastille. Mr. Bricman and Mr. Foster are waiting for you.”
I wrapped my arms and legs around Quin so tight this morning to try to make him stand up Smith for their stupid Monday morning breakfast date, he had to pry me off him. I lost, obviously. But we laughed, so it was worth it.
An hour later Bric woke me with the sound of the shower going. He said I could go into the Club with him, but who the hell wants to get up at six AM if they don’t have to?
Of course, Adley woke up two minutes after he left, so joke’s on me.
But the clothes from my Saturday shopping spree were delivered promptly at eight-thirty, so I’m glad I stuck to my lazy schedule. Because I look fantastic right now.
I’m wearing a cream-colored, oversized, cable-knit sweater dress that hits me at the knee, cream-colored knee-high socks, and some brown leather chunky-heel, below-the-knee boots. None of which were purchased at a thrift store or in the t-shirt department of a Pagosa Springs tourist trap. I even have a matching cable-knit scarf that is so long, it hangs down to my hips after it’s wrapped.
Adley is trying to show me up, because we match in color and knitted textures—except she’s got on a sweater coat, tights, and little furry booties—and she’s cuter than me by miles.
Mondays are always busy in the White Room. These damn rich people can’t wait to get back to work, and what better way to start your week than Monday morning bacon with your business bros?
Quin and Bric are both at the table—laughing at something—as I walk up, lugging Adley in her seat. Bric gets up to take her, and she smiles brightly at him as he wedges the carrier into the booth.
I lean down and kiss Quin, who is looking me over like he might throw me down on the table and fuck me right here.
“I approve,” he says, finally finding my eyes.
“Thank you.” I curtsey, holding my sweater dress out with fancy fingertips. “And you’ll be happy to know, Mr. Bricman, everything was purchased new.”
“Love it,” Bric says. “And love the pumpkin’s outfit too.” He doesn’t look at me. My little girl really is showing me up in the eyes of Elias Bricman.
The waiter comes and I order a plain pancake for Adley, and a bacon and cheese omelet for me.
“I’m glad you got new clothes,” Bric says, still making stupid faces at Adley so she’ll giggle. “Because you and Quin are going out on a date tomorrow night.”
“We are?” I ask, looking at Quin.
“He’s got an ulterior motive,” Quin says. “Needs you to be his date for a party on Thursday night, so he’s going to babysit and we get to have a nice dinner. Or… dancing. Or anything you want.”
“Babysit, huh?” I eye Bric cautiously. “I’m not sure you’re ready to be promoted to babysitter, Mr. Bricman. You just became babysitter assistant four days ago.”
“Five,” Bric counters. “And I got this. I have like seventy-five nieces and nephews.”
“You do not.” Quin laughs.
“Why do you think I hate kids? My family reunion is like three hundred people.”
“I don’t know,” I say, picturing him alone with my daughter.
“It’s fine, Rochelle. I swear to God, I know what I’m doing. And anyway, the hospital is only three blocks from the loft.”
“That’s not a good selling point!” I laugh.
“I tell you what. I promise to call if there’s any problem. But I’m picturing a nice quiet evening in front of the TV and then a nice warm bath before I put her to bed in that fabulous nursery. We’ll be fine.”
I look at Quin for his opinion. He shrugs. “He’s not as stupid as he looks. Med school, remember?”
I actually did forget about that. It’s weird how much my thoughts about Bric have changed in the past week. He is
capable. He’s highly educated, he’s calm, he’s caring. He’s considerate. It’s stupid to assume he can’t take care of Adley simply because he’s a man.
“Fine.” I sigh. “You’re right.” I wrap my hands around Quin’s arm and lean into him. “And anyway, it will be really great to go out with a grown-up.” I lean up and kiss him. “Especially when I get you all to myself for one whole evening.”
Chapter Eighteen - Bric
Monday night is like the last year never happened.
Rochelle never walked out. Quin never got hurt. I never gave a baby called Adley the nickname ‘pumpkin.’
One week ago, I thought Jordan Wells was my new partner, Quin was never going to talk to me again, and I was happy—or, at the very least, relieved—that Rochelle had pulled off such an amazing disappearing act.
I don’t even recognize that life when the elevator doors open and I step into the loft. Music is playing. Not loud, but just loud enough. I instinctively know that Adley is asleep just by the atmosphere. The smell of good food lingers in the air, the lights are dim, and I can hear the soft sounds of Rochelle and Quin talking in the kitchen.
I’m late getting home because of work, but I’m so ready to be here with them.
I slip out of my coat, throw it on a chair, and loosen my tie as I turn towards their low voices. They are happy voices. Content. The way they used to be. There was never any tension in our relationship with Rochelle before she got pregnant. Looking back, I can see that I missed the change from easy, to strained, to unbearable after she confided in me and asked for advice. I won’t make that mistake again.
They are drinking wine. Rochelle always did like wine. I see the bottle—something French and expensive—on the counter, and just… enjoy them for these few moments before they see me.
I spy on them. Like a voyeur.
Quin is leaning against the countertop. Rochelle’s legs are pressed up against his, so their hips touch. He has one hand on her waist, she has one hand on his forearm. They both hold wine glasses as they talk, and smile, and look into each other’s eyes, like they are the only thing that matters.
It’s erotic, I think. The position they’re in.
It’s easy again. Like it used to be before.
One week and we are caught in her web. She is a spider wrapping us up in silk. We are the food that feeds her.
I’d lost sight of that last year when Chella appeared in her bed. It all happened so fast. Smith was there to persuade me that things had gone on too long. Remind me of the game and hint that we needed a new player.
And I went along because that’s what I do. I like same and I’m not afraid to admit it. I liked same with Rochelle more than I ever cared to admit.
She was—is—the perfect player in the game of Elias Bricman. She knows all the rules, all the shortcuts, all the perils, all the ways to win and lose, and win again. And I never had to teach her these things. She never asked questions like Chella did. She never questioned anything at all. She just played to the best of her ability and along the way we discovered she’s a fucking gold-medal Olympic athlete in this game. She is breaking record after record. First to stay so long. First to walk out. First to come back. First to have our baby. First to make me want…
It’s the last one that’s starting to bother me a little. Just a little. Just a tiny bit.
I won’t admit to it. If I admit to it, things will not be easy anymore. Things will be strained and then things might become unbearable. She’s not walking out, I know this. I feel this. No, she’s here, and she’s here to stay.
But Quin and I are another matter.
His trust might not be back but he’s forgiven her. He’s OK with the setup so far. He’s OK with the share. But it’s tenuous. Like one wrong move could set him back.
I refuse to be that one wrong move.
“Hey,” I say, stopping to lean against the quartz island. “Did I miss dinner?”
They both look at me, smile bigger, and some of the uneasiness melts away.
“I saved you a plate,” Rochelle says, breaking contact with Quin to motion to the microwave. I can just barely make out a plate through the mesh pattern of the door.
“I’ll eat later,” I say, so I don’t become the reason this moment breaks. Food can come later. I’m not hungry for food right now.
Quin sets down his wine glass, grabs a cut-crystal rocks glass on the counter next to him, and uses a pair of silver tongs to drop in three ice cubes with a series of clinks. The bottle of brandy is expensive, just like the wine, and it’s sitting on the counter, waiting for me. He pours, offers the glass to me, and I walk over and take it from him, our fingers touching—just slightly—in the process.
He’s been waiting for me.
No. Correction.
He’s ready for me.
“Busy day?” Quin asks, sipping from his glass.
I take a long drink of brandy, almost finish it, and exhale. “Not busy enough to make me forget where I was coming home to tonight.”
Rochelle pulls me into them like I belong there. Rises up on her toes and kisses me on the mouth. Our tongues tangle together, the sweetness of her wine mixing with the citrus of my brandy.
Quin joins in. No hesitation.
I have missed his mouth, I realize. I have missed these moments. And Chella just wasn’t the same. Chella was new and inexperienced. A novice in the game of Bric and Quin. Rochelle is a professional. The three of us together are the definition of team.
The music is perfect. Ray LaMontagne, Be Here Now. So very, very Rochelle.
She smiles at us, her hands on the waist of our pants. Like an expert, wise to the ways of unbuckling the belts of two men at the same time, she unbuckles us. Unbuttons us. Unzips us. Her hands slip inside and pull us out. Thick, and long, and hard. We kiss again. It’s slow, but the kind of slow that precedes something hard and fast.
It’s a kind of savoring, I realize.
Rochelle drops to her knees. Her mouth is eager. Hungry. I am so close to Quin, our arms press against each other. Still, Rochelle has us draw closer, his chest pressing against mine as she opens her mouth and the tips of our cocks slip inside and disappear.
I have to close my eyes when his hand rests on my hip. His fingers gripping into my skin, pulling me close, so we change position slightly. I know what he wants, but this standing position isn’t the way he’ll get it. Three people fucking at the same time requires careful maneuvering.
Stop thinking, Elias. Just enjoy.
Quin settles for less than perfect and places his hand over Rochelle’s. They fist my cock together. I join in, my hand over hers, on him. This is how we connect when Rochelle is on her knees in front of us.
Quin’s other hand is in Rochelle’s hair, holding tightly. I imagine how that pulls on her scalp, and groan.
We’ve done this dozens of times and each experience is better than the last. This time is no different. This is the best it’s ever been. This is the pinnacle of perfection of what we have.
We let Rochelle have her way for a little longer, but I can tell that Quin is as eager as me to move things along to the next wave of pleasure. He grabs her arm, signaling for her to stand. And we begin to undress her. I work on her pants. Unbuttoning, unzipping, then a forceful tug. She helps me from there, maneuvering her jeans over her hips until they fall to the floor.
She and I both start undressing me as Quin unbuttons her blouse, opens it up, and then pulls her bra down so the underwire will push her tits up. He sucks on her nipple as my shirt comes off. Fingers slip between her legs, making her moan as my pants drop to the floor and I step out, kicking them aside.
Then it’s Quin’s turn. She takes off his t-shirt as I wrap my hand around his shaft and slowly pump it up and down. Quin closes his eyes. He’s missed me just as much as I’ve missed him, I can tell.
I make her kneel again, push her head towards his cock, and she opens. I guide her as she sucks. Encourage her to take him deeper. I glance up at Q
uin and find him staring at me.
We smile.
Rochelle yanks his pants down his legs and then he too has kicked aside the rest of his clothes.
Rochelle rises to her feet and we stand there naked for a few moments. All three of us picturing what comes next. We don’t need to talk. Explanations and instructions aren’t necessary. Rochelle backs away until she bumps up against the kitchen island. She places both of her hands on the edge, palms down, and lifts herself up so she’s sitting on it.
I walk towards her, place both of my hands on her knees, and open her legs. Her pussy is pink and wet. Ready for us. I lean in and lick her. Swipe my tongue across her folds and then tickle her clit.
Quin pushes her backwards and she obeys without comment or protest. When her skin comes in contact with the cold, hard quartz, she bucks a little, arching her back. But Quin is there, fingers between her legs, joining my tongue, as we make it all better. He leans down to kiss her lips as I watch, staring across her flat belly. His other hand is squeezing her breast. I reach up, both hands sliding across her abdomen at once, still licking her pussy and making it wetter, to squeeze her breasts too.
I want to do so many, many things to Rochelle right now. But we are constrained by the kitchen island she’s lying on. I know Quin is thinking the same thing. He wants to lift her up, carry her to the bed, or the floor, or the couch—or wherever—so we can fuck her right.
But he waits. We wait.
We worship her just a little longer.
I make a bet with myself as I lift her knees up towards her chest. Open her legs wider so I can lick her deeper. I think he’ll take her to the bed.
But he doesn’t. When he pulls Rochelle up to a sitting position, signaling me to back away, he slides in between her legs and picks her up. She instinctively wraps her limbs all around him. Her legs around his waist. Her arms around his neck. And he carries her to the couch. He sets her down on the floor and spins her around, pressing her chest down on the arm of the couch.
This is one of our favorite ways to fuck her, and she knows just what to do when I sit down on the couch. Her hand is on my dick, her body leaning over into my lap as she takes me in her mouth and begins to suck.
