That’s why we do this. Because we know what this kind of attention can do to a woman when done right.
Because we know what kind of earth-shattering, mind-blowing pleasure we can bring to a gorgeous, curious woman who maybe, possibly, has never been kissed like this.
That’s what’s so thrilling about our game—it’s not the money.
Fuck the money.
It’s the possibility of what she might feel as we take her to new heights, make her soar in brand-new ways from double the pleasure, two times the bliss.
As my best friend trails his mouth along the back of her neck, I lower my face to her chest, dropping kisses along the exposed skin above those luscious breasts. I dust my lips along her sweet flesh, savoring that first honey taste of her as it swirls in my nose, goes to my head, makes my cock pound.
But tonight isn’t about my cock at all.
This is about the chance to bring incandescent pleasure to a woman who appears to covet it.
That is my greatest turn-on. To make a woman go wild, to make her pant, moan, and scream. To make her knees weak, her heart hammer, and her panties so damn damp that they’re utterly useless.
And then, to multiply her lust. Because bliss can be better when there are two men giving it to one woman.
When she can feel us everywhere.
I roam my lips over the delicious skin of her chest, kissing along her sternum, moving up to the hollow of her throat. I lick her there as Daniel’s hands rope in her blonde strands, as he brushes kisses along the edge of her shoulders. She gasps and sighs. Shivers too.
We are both adoring her with our lips and hands and bodies.
That’s what I want—for her to feel worshipped. Like a queen of her own pleasure.
I kiss her neck with that goal in mind—to make her writhe, to make her moan. She gasps and pants, and I haven’t even reached her lips yet. I journey up her neck to her chin, kissing her there, sucking.
Then I break that kiss, cup her jaw, and slide my thumb along her face. Daniel bends lower, kissing the back of her neck as her lips part in an oh. She grinds against me, sounds falling from her mouth that are so damn dangerous and delicious. I want to swallow them down, drink them up, devour them.
I can’t wait any longer. Closing my eyes, I drop my lips to hers, and I savor the taste of her kiss.
The second I touch her, she shudders, a sigh falling between our lips, a sigh that tells me she’ll be coming from my hand very soon.
I’ll win the bet.
But I’ve already won it, for all intents and purposes.
We already know who’s leading, only I don’t actually care about the bet. I’d lose that money double times over for another taste of her.
I have plenty of green. This game is never about the money. It’s about the chase, the thrill, the high of bringing this type of bliss to a woman, often for the first time. Of introducing something to her that she may never have experienced before but that might make her lose her mind with lust. And I’ve become addicted to making the woman I’m with come, come hard, then come harder than she ever has before, whatever it takes. Pleasure is the cure. Pleasure is always the goal.
I slide my hand lower along her skirt, cupping her through her clothes, letting her know where I’m headed. The catch in her breath tells me she wants me there, wants me to keep going.
My lips devour hers; my tongue strokes inside her mouth. We are hungry, greedily sucking on each other.
Every single second of kissing her is a sensual feast, especially when she breaks the kiss to utter one enticing word.
That makes me want her even more.
6
Sage
I’m a good girl.
At least I was. Once upon a time, maybe in another lifetime, I was vanilla.
I’d never thought about being in a triple scoop though. Never had this chance. I didn’t even know I’d want two men.
The only thing I was truly aware of when tonight began, back in my suite with the makeup, the hair, the jewels, and the clothes, was that I needed something.
Contact.
Connection.
Touch.
That feeling of being alive in my body.
Of being sensual.
I didn’t know that would mean two men.
But now, at the masquerade, I’m a new woman, a naughty woman, a kinky woman.
And if this is bad, bring it on.
Because I want more.
I want more of these sensations colliding inside of me, smashing, banging, crashing. Coming from all over me, from behind me, from in front of me. From all around me.
I never knew that pleasure could feel this way. That two men not only meant pleasure would be doubled, but amplified, played in surround sound, broadcast in high definition.
I feel so much. I feel everywhere—in my bones, in my cells, on my skin.
I am ravenous. I crave their hands all over me. Their lips everywhere. Breaking the kiss, I make my plea. “More.”
That’s all I can say, so I say it again, so needy. “More.”
I beg for it.
And they heed the call.
“We’ll give you everything you want,” the man behind me says in his delicious accent.
They somehow come closer, crowding me, the Englishman with his hands on my ass, gripping and squeezing, the American in front of me, pressing his pelvis against mine, grinding, letting me feel the full outline of his thick, hard cock as his hand travels along my dress.
As his lips crush mine.
Behind me, the blue-eyed stranger slides his lips along my neck against my hair, kissing me in the most sensual way, sliding his nose along my skin, inhaling me. “You smell so fucking good. I want to lick you, kiss you, eat you,” the Brit whispers while the American consumes my mouth with hard, hungry, demanding kisses.
One makes me swoon; the other makes me burn.
I am theirs to play with, and do I ever want to be played.
More than I ever expected.
My first stranger slides his lips over mine, nips and bites, heating me up, then kissing me so damn hard. He covers my waist with his hands as the kiss turns hotter, deeper.
And soon it is a lavish kiss.
It is rich with heat, colored with desire.
Tongues and need.
Breath and want.
The want is everywhere, radiating through each cell in my body, pulsing to every corner of my being as they seduce me in an alcove tucked away from the rest of the fete.
The faint strains of music from the dance floor float past my ears.
Pleasure coils in my belly, tightening and growing hotter between my legs. The man behind me slides his hands to the edge of my cheeks and then slams his pelvis against my ass.
I yelp in pleasure. He grinds against my ass while squeezing my cheeks at the same time, and I love what he’s doing with those big hands while the man in front consumes my lips.
I’m trapped between them, caught deliciously between two men who arouse me, two men who turn me on.
Two men who know exactly what to do to me.
Who know precisely how to make me feel like magic.
The American slides a hand down my legs on a fast track for the hem of my skirt again, then it’s going straight under, up along my thighs, and right to my wet, hot center. His hand glides across the panel of my panties, between my legs, and he groans. “Oh, lovely bird, you are soaked.”
Somehow I manage to form words. “I’m aching. Can you please do something about this sweet ache between my legs?”
“Yes. Yes, I can.” In a heartbeat, the American dips his fingers underneath the panel of my panties, and I cry out. Louder than I’ve been before, and for a flicker of a second, I imagine someone hears me.
Someone finds us.
The wicked thrill of discovery ignites a riot of sparks in my body. I don’t want to be caught, yet I can’t deny the possibility is electrifying.
That’s why I’m too loud.
/> The Englishman knows it. He pushes the outline of his cock against my ass while he moves a hand along my neck, over my chin, toward my mouth. “Love, you’ve got to be quiet. We don’t want anyone hearing what he’s about to do to you. Let me cover your mouth so no one else can hear you come.”
I shiver from his commanding words, from the way the two of them are conductors, my body the instrument.
“Yes, but first,” I say to the man whose hand is between my legs, “tell your English friend how it feels to touch me. Tell him what it’s like to play with my pussy.”
As I say those daring words, I feel bold, decadent.
And so damn powerful too.
Because they both groan. Savagely. As if they’re surprised to be given such a lusty directive.
“She feels so silky, so damn slippery,” the American rasps out as the Brit presses his palm to my mouth, covering my moans. “And her clit is aching for my touch.”
The Brit moans near my ear, nibbling on my earlobe. “Is she going to come for us soon?”
Gasping against his palm, I answer him with a nod, while my first Prince Wicked strokes my clit faster.
“Her pussy is so wet. So fucking slick. I bet she tastes spectacular,” he rasps out.
I feel spectacular, trembling everywhere, my knees quaking.
My sex aches so deliciously.
The American slides a finger inside me, then brings that same finger to his lips, sucking off the taste of me. He moans. “Like honey, like salt.”
His hand travels back to where I want him. Where I need him to fuck me with his fingers, to take me over the edge, but I can’t deny the Englishman behind me.
So I decide to be helpful.
I dip my hand between my legs, coating my fingers, then I lift my right hand behind me, offering it to that man.
“Oh, love, you read my mind,” he whispers all hot and dirty in my ear as he draws my finger into his mouth, and the suction from his wicked tongue makes the desire inside me crackle higher, burn hotter.
Pleasure coils between my legs, pulsing in hot waves as one stranger sucks off my taste, and the other one fucks me with his finger.
Hitting that spot inside me.
Crooking it.
Sending me into another world of bliss.
Ecstasy slams into me, consuming my entire body, taking over my mind, my cells, my sense of reason.
The Englishman’s hand clamps tighter over my mouth.
I come with a muffled cry.
My orgasm crashes over me in wave after wave, like I’m coming from both directions.
My climax lives everywhere.
On my skin.
In my bones.
Far into my mind.
And it lasts for ages, for blissful, wondrous ages of white-hot pleasure.
A pleasure that spreads so deep all I can think is I want this again.
No. I need it again.
Maybe even like this. With both of them. All of us. Hidden away from crowds, but not all the way. Not entirely.
But before I can say a word to my two masquerade men, a voice calls out from down the hall.
“Cinderella, where are you? Time to go.”
I tense. It’s Eliza, using her nickname for me. And that means it really is time to go.
I straighten my spine, run a hand over my skirt, and try to compose myself, to form words. “Maybe I’ll see you . . .”
I’m not sure where to go next. How to tread. This is all so new.
“You will, lovely bird,” the American says. “You will. In two weeks. The weekend after next. In the executive ballroom. There’s a party at The Invitation that Saturday.”
“You must come again,” the Brit adds, and the double entendre isn’t lost on me.
“I must. And perhaps you two must as well,” I say.
It’s a promise I’m not sure any one of us can keep, but the sound in Eliza’s voice made it clear my coach is about to turn into a pumpkin.
I leave as the clock strikes midnight.
Part II
After The Masquerade
7
Sage
I’m still in a daze.
On a post-climactic cloud nine.
I’m not sure I ever want to stop floating.
I want to savor the afterglow even as Eliza and I dart away from the party, head down the hall, swing around the corner to grab our phones, then reach the elevator.
Once we’re inside, I raise a hand and clasp my cheek, feeling the heat there. I brush that hand over my hair next, the ends mussed up, and I can recall how the Englishman played with my hair, curled it around his fist. I slide my hand down my satin skirt, remembering my American and how his strong hands explored me.
A shudder speeds through my body.
I check my mask, trying to focus on the practical, not on the sense memories that are still turning me on. My mask is the slightest bit askew. Not enough to reveal my face, but enough that I slide it back, adjusting it.
The telltale signs of tonight.
Of that most unexpected tryst in an alcove.
I draw a deep breath.
Was that real?
Did that truly happen?
And am I the worst friend ever?
I blink away the searing memories, shove off the lingering sensations. I focus on Eliza, on the urgency in her voice moments ago when she fetched me. “Is everything okay? You didn’t run into an ex or your father, did you?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Neither, thankfully.”
My brow knits. “Oh. Did you just need to go because of your early meetings?”
Another shake of her head. “Friend, I would not tug you away from whatever exploit had you tucked out of sight in an alcove because of a meeting. Or because of my beauty sleep. I can get myself home on my own just fine if I need to, thank you very much.” She takes a beat as the elevator whooshes down. “I went looking for you,” she says, giving me an inquisitive once-over, her tone more serious, “because Beverly showed up at the party.”
I cringe at the mention of my ex’s new woman—the woman I stumbled upon him with at the Wynn Hotel several months ago. I’d been out of town, visiting one of the Carmichael Hotels properties in Kauai, and my flight had returned early. I’d planned to surprise my beau, since he’d been so busy handling an auction for Expressionist art held at the Wynn. I was going to show up, take him out to dinner, and whisk him away to a penthouse suite after the auction.
That had been the plan.
But he surprised me instead when I ran into him and the woman who was keeping him busy at a bar in the Wynn.
Very publicly canoodling.
Very publicly kissing.
And then very publicly denying there was anything more to it.
He’d been spending all his time with his coworker. The fellow art lover, who handled the Expressionist art, had also been handling him.
To make matters worse, I’d helped her land the job with him. She’d been my curator at The Extravagant, working on the collections we showcase in our gallery.
And yet he denied it all, rushing after me and publicly declaring he hadn’t been cheating on me in front of all the patrons at the roulette tables, the dealers, the casino manager.
The liar embarrassed me publicly, with one of my former employees, at a hotel run by one of my colleagues.
Such a cad. And she earned her stripes as a backstabber.
I’m over it. So over it, but even so, I can still recall with crystal clarity how it felt to see him with her, her long red hair spilling down her back, his hands threaded in it.
“I wish Beverly could be banned from any event I attend,” I say with a heavy sigh. “And Derek too.” But he’s one of those men about town. One of those people you run into. “Was she with him?”
Eliza shakes her head. “I only saw her. She had on an itty-bitty mask, barely covering her eyes, so she was easy to recognize with all that hair. She was with a friend, it looked like. So I went looking for
you, so you wouldn’t have to run into her inadvertently.”
“You’re an angel,” I say, gratitude in my tone, lucky to have a friend like her having my back.
But another thought flicks into my brain too. Should I have been more careful? Caution was the furthest thing from my mind when I left the party. I was intoxicated. High on their voices, their words, the way the men had touched me. I was lured by the opium fix of pleasure, heeding the siren call of seduction, following the filthy wishes offered from a genie’s lamp.
And I had been, admittedly, a little thrilled by the chance I might be discovered.
What does that say about me?
I don’t even want to excavate the meaning behind what I did tonight.
I groan, frustrated with myself. “What did I do? I was caught up in a tryst in the corner of a party. At the Aria. I know the owners of the Aria.”
“No,” Eliza speaks sharply. “Just no.”
I look up, raising my chin. “No, what?” I ask as we reach the ground floor and I text Carlos that we’re here and ready.
“There will be no ‘What did I do?’ No shame. No guilt.”
“But what if Beverly had seen me?”
“Who cares? She should still be groveling. She should be ashamed for using you to snag a job, then messing around with your boyfriend. Not the other way around,” she says as we weave through the late-night crowds, past the lobby’s library display. “I only went to find you so you wouldn’t be caught unawares again. I know you hate that.”
“I do,” I say softly as we walk. “I truly do.”
“First, you had a mask on. No one recognized you. Second, you were off in a corner. Third, you’re allowed to feel good.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that seems to last for an eon. She’s right. She’s so right. There was nothing wrong with my choice tonight.
Nothing wrong at all with a private tryst in an alcove with two strangers.
Two delicious strangers who want to see me again.
A pulse beats between my legs, and a rush of tingles shoots down my spine.
Taunting me.
Teasing me.
Reminding me how it felt.
One Exquisite Touch: Book One in The Extravagant Series Page 5
