Twice Taken: An MFM Romance

by Chloe Lane

  “Compared to her, all of this seems like bullshit,” he says quietly, nodding toward the TV.

  “I know.” Finally, an old comedy we used to love when we were in high school appears on the screen. “This good?”

  “Anything to kill the time.”

  He doesn’t have to say until we’re with her again.

  It’s the middle of the night when she makes another appearance, standing by the side of my bed wearing nothing but a tank top that lets her full breasts peek out over the top and a pair of panties that I want to tear off of her and leave in shreds on the carpet. I’m instantly awake at her first whisper. In the moonlight, her eyes are huge and dark. She seems a little shy, a little like the old Grace, when she bites her lip.

  “What do you need, gorgeous?” I pull her onto the bed on top of me, and her breath is silky against my neck.

  “You. I need—I need to be yours, too.”

  “You are mine.” Then the full meaning hits me.

  There’s a shadow at the door—Jett—and he joins us on the bed. I don’t need any more prompting to whip my boxers off. I’m hard as a rock from the dream I was having in the first place, and one more breath of Grace’s scent is all I need to get started.

  I sit up against the headboard and turn her so that her back is toward me, peeling her tank top over her head and freeing her breasts as Jett pulls down her panties. The quiet moan she lets out matches perfectly with the moonlight and makes my cock twitch. Jett leans in and tweaks her nipples, making her back arch against me.

  It takes no effort for me to lift her, dragging the head of my cock through her juices. One touch, and there’s a cascade down the length of my shaft. We don’t need lube. Not this time.

  Jett wraps a hand around the back of her neck and pulls her in for a kiss, working his lips over hers and then down to her collarbone, his fingers tracing a path down the curves of her waist and between her legs. She spreads for him at the same time that I part her ass cheeks and line up the head of my cock with that rosebud.

  It doesn’t seem to matter that Jett took her earlier. She tenses with a gasp. “Relax, gorgeous,” I tell her, soft and low, and the instant I do she responds, letting gravity take her down, letting herself open over my cock.

  I almost go blind. That’s how fucking good it feels when her asshole opens to let me impale her, her muscles so tight it seems impossible until it’s happening. She’s sinking down onto me inch by inch. In the streams of pale moonlight, I can see every movement of her hips as she works to take me in, works to swallow me up until she’s sitting against my hipbones and I’m buried in her completely. There’s only the slightest division between my cock and Jett’s fingers while he fucks her, and I move her hair aside to whisper into her ear. “Is this better?”

  Grace can’t answer except for a moan that stretches on even longer as I brace her in my hands and start to fuck her with hard strokes, sending her rocketing toward another orgasm.

  I’m going to come—I can’t stop myself, she’s that tight, that delicious—but before I do, I try to freeze this moment in my mind, this perfect moment, so I can keep it forever.

  Just in case.

  26

  Grace

  It’s July like I’ve never seen July before when I stride into the shop the next morning, all of me still loosey-goosey and buzzing.

  I belong to Jett and Hunter now. I belong to them completely. Every part of me is theirs.

  There was a lot of myself I didn’t share with Dale. The dark fantasies that came to me in the middle of the night. My real hopes for going to college. The kinds of books I liked to read when I was alone at the library, where he couldn’t peek over my shoulder and look at the screen of my Kindle.

  I never would have shared this kind of experience with him. Not in a million years.

  It has me so at peace, so abundantly happy, that I can’t stop smiling.

  Mr. Porter, who brought in his truck for some minor repairs two days ago, is the first to notice. “What happened, young lady?”

  I let out a little laugh. “What do you mean, Mr. Porter?”

  “Did some fella propose to you?” He leans his eighty-year-old elbow on the counter and grins at me. “Your smile could power the whole city of Baker’s Ridge.”

  I tear the receipt from the payment book—less than a week until we get that new system—and hand it to him with a coy expression. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Porter. I’m just having a great morning, that’s all.” Because I got fucked by two men at the same time, and I’m in love with them both.

  This time, my mind doesn’t have to flinch away from the thought. When I woke up in the middle of last night, moonlight streaming through the window, my heart was beating so quickly that I was sure someone else was in the room.

  But it wasn’t anyone else in the room. It was the certainty that had bubbled up while I was somewhere between dreamland and the real world. I love Hunter Jackson and Jett Michaels. There’s simply no way around it, and I don’t want a way around it. It’s the truth. I love them both, powerfully and equally.

  And it’s not just about the sex, or the fact that their tall, handsome, hard bodies light me up like no other man ever has before. It’s that they’re so completely themselves with me. They laugh along with me at stupid movies. We bicker about who’s going to go pick up our takeout orders. They’re not hiding anything from me, not holding anything back…and they don’t expect me to be anything other than myself.

  All of myself. Not just the parts that are acceptable during a job interview. All of them, dirty desires and all.

  I can be filthy and perfectly happy. I can be dirty and still be loved.

  I’m sure I’m loved. They don’t have to say it out loud for me to know. And I don’t need that confirmation from them—not today. The way things unfolded last night was more than enough to prove it.

  Mr. Porter laughs out loud, tucking the receipt into his pocket. “The guys will have your keys ready to go,” I tell him, and he winks at me and shuffles toward the door.

  I take a deep breath, trying to get my giddy heart under control. That’s about all I do for the next two hours, and almost everyone that stops in for a pickup or drop-off has something to say about it, even Nancy Shaw, who owns Baker’s Ridge’s only taxi service and is constantly bringing in parts of her minivan fleet for fixes. She narrows her eyes when I beam at her across the counter.

  “Nobody’s that happy to see me,” she says gruffly, her graying hair pulled up on top of her head in a tight bun.

  It’s a quiet moment when my heartbeat starts to slow. This much excitement can’t be healthy for anyone, but if that’s the downside, I have no complaints. I write down the last of the morning’s records.

  The bell on the door dings, and I write down one last note, looking up with a smile. It’s got to be one of the guys, coming to see what I want for lunch.

  My heart plummets to the floor.

  The person standing just inside the doorway, gaze hard and black, isn’t Hunter. It’s not Jett.

  It’s Dale.

  And he looks pissed.

  My mouth drops open, the blood draining from my face. Lately, if Dale crosses my mind, it’s only as part of a scenario where I tell him he was a drunken asshole and to never contact me again. Now that he’s standing in the shop, his arms crossed over his chest, black t-shirt clinging tightly on his tall frame, I can hardly catch my breath, much less get any words out.

  The silence in the room is stretched taut, ready to shatter, and I frantically scan the front lot. Hunter and Jett were just out there—where did they go? There’s a strange tingling in my hands. I’m not sure what Dale is here to do, but from the hair standing up on the back of my neck, it’s not anything good.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice cuts through the air toward me, and I flinch. I hate myself for it. I don’t want him to have this power over me. But the guys will be back any second, and this will be over.

  I st
raighten my back and lift my chin, even though it’s quivering. “I’m working here.”

  Dale stalks toward the counter, his eyes narrowing. I stay in my spot. There’s nowhere else to go. I can’t get to the back door of the shop fast enough. I just can’t. I can’t move. “You’re not working here. You ran away like a little bitch, and now it’s time to come back and clean up the mess you left.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Why the fuck did you think you could leave like that?” His voice booms, slamming against my eardrums, and it’s like I’m back in that apartment with him, the stench of bar and alcohol on his breath, pinning me into a corner and shouting—screaming—at me that I was nothing, that I was worthless...

  “I don’t owe you anything.” I manage to choke the words out, sucking in another breath. “I’m done with you, Dale, I’m—”

  In a movement faster than lightning, faster than I ever could have expected, Dale shoots his hand out, clamping his fist around my ponytail, and starts dragging me toward the front door of the shop.

  I can’t get away.

  27

  Jett

  The shout doesn’t register, not at first. Behind the shop is an alley, and across a small lawn there’s a family construction company run by four brothers, and they shout at each other all the time. It doesn’t even occur to me to look.

  Instead, I keep peering down into the guts of one Mrs. Anderson’s Ford Taurus, looking for what could be causing the thing to shit out on her constantly. She made it to the curb, parking it in the exact spot that Grace did a month ago, and then it died.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I whisper it to the car like the car can answer. It doesn’t matter. I’ll get it to reveal its secrets.

  Across the street, Hunter is in the side lot, wiping down one of the pickups from the afternoon in the shade of the building.

  My stomach growls. It’s almost lunch. Is Grace going to want a salad or a stromboli from the pizza place? It’s pizza day at Main Street Auto, and I always order the biggest pizza, because even if Grace orders a salad, she always wants a slice.

  I stand up, flexing my arms to work out the kinks. Last night was fucking incredible. There’s not a cell in my body that doesn’t want more—and in more ways than one. I also want to curl my arm around Grace on the couch and watch a stupid movie, buy her a pint of ice cream, listen to her laugh while Hunter teases her. I want the afterglow.

  I’m not a romantic kind of guy, but with Grace, I want that afterglow.

  I open my mouth to call out to Hunter to come look at the Ford. He’ll notice right away that it’s in that same spot as Grace’s car was and probably make some crack about how that part of the street is cursed. Grace’s Toyota has been fixed for two weeks, but it hardly ever leaves its customary space behind the shop, parked next to our trucks. But no words come out, because the front door of the shop swings open, and out bursts a man—he’s got to be as tall as me, but nowhere near as muscular—and he’s dragging Grace by the hair.

  Dragging Grace by the hair. At first, my mind can’t make sense of what’s happening right there in front of me. What the fuck is he doing? Who is he, even, and what would he want with our sweet Grace? I can’t imagine ever touching her like that, and a white hot anger blooms in my chest, my body jerking into motion.

  “Hunter!” I shout, and then I turn back toward the scene in the parking lot. She’s struggling, fighting, but silently, her hands scrabbling to try and claw at his grip.

  I can see Hunter out of the corner of my eye, following my mad dash across the street. I don’t look for traffic before I jump and something huge and red whips past me, horn blaring. All I care about in the entire fucking world is getting to Grace. That’s all.

  The asshole is shouting at her, words echoing off the front wall of the shop, as I close in. “You bitch,” he spits. “You were supposed to be with me. That was our agreement. Now get in the fucking car, and—”

  I skid to a stop three steps away, my mind racing. If I tackle him, and his hands are in her hair like that, will she get hurt?

  She’s hurting now. I don’t have a choice. I have to move.

  Hunter comes up alongside me, still with all his momentum, and together we fly forward, crashing into whoever this fucking pig is. I go for his hands, wrenching them away from Grace’s hair, and Hunter slams into him with enough force to knock him down a second later.

  They roll to the concrete as I gather Grace into my arms, the guy still shouting, obscenities raining from his mouth. Against me, Grace is shaking, her hands grasping tightly to my coveralls, and I can tell she’s struggling to catch her breath. “It’s all right.” I say it in a voice that’s too loud. Who has control over anything in this moment?

  “Hunter—”

  “He’ll be okay.”

  The guy is fighting, sending punches toward Hunter’s face, but Hunter is bigger by at least forty pounds and lifts car parts all day long. He gets one clean look at the guy and his fist flies down, connecting with a sickening crunch. Then Hunter is hauling him up by the front of his shirt.

  “Call the police!” Hunter’s voice is so harsh that it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me. I slip one hand into the pocket of my coveralls to pull out my phone.

  The guy wrenches himself away from Hunter, both hands on his nose, trying to staunch the stream of blood that’s pouring down the front of his face. “Don’t touch me!” He screams, and the sound of his voice curdles my gut. I tighten my arm around Grace, who jerks backward at the sound.

  “Don’t touch her!” Hunter says, his voice sharp and low and soul-rattling. “Don’t you ever come back here again.” I’m fumbling to dial 9-1-1, but Grace reaches up a hand and stops me.

  “Don’t,” she whispers. “Just let him go…”

  “I’m not fucking letting him go,” I tell her, and punch in the final digit. I can’t understand the operator, but I reel off our address and tell her that a man has just assaulted my girlfriend at our business. Four blocks down, at the police station, a siren starts to wail, echoing over Baker’s Ridge.

  “Fuck,” shouts the guy, and lurches for a piece-of-shit white truck that’s parked crookedly in the front lot. Hunter goes after him, but he throws himself into the truck and starts it, almost taking out a streetlight in his hurry to get the hell away from here. His tires screech against the road as he speeds down the street. The police car goes by a few moments later, siren howling.

  Beside me, Grace takes a deep breath, then starts to sob.

  28

  Grace

  If it weren’t for the tears streaming down my cheeks, blurring my vision and leaving hot, burning trails of shame across my skin, I’d be able to actually see the police car speeding after Dale’s truck. For some reason I can’t fathom, he seems to speed up, trying to get to the highway.

  It doesn’t matter what happens to Dale now. I’m sure, in a town like Baker’s Ridge, he’ll be arrested and taken to the small local precinct that’s two blocks behind the ice cream shop. My mind swirls around the possibilities as I try to wipe the tears away. I might have to testify against him for—what is it called when someone tries to kidnap you? Attempted kidnapping? Assault?—for whatever it is that just happened. I have witnesses, but right now, I can hardly remember anything except the icy fear flooding my veins, the searing pain from Dale yanking on my hair.

  I turn my face into Jett’s side and stop trying to wipe my face. It’s pointless.

  Hunter is with us in the next moment, blocking my vision from the other side. I stand between them and it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I only wish it was in the pleasant, pleasurable way that we normally settle into instead of this aftermath-of-a-nightmare scenario.

  They’re both saying soothing things to me, their voices soft and low and gentle, but I can’t make out any of the words over the echo of my own sobs. Then Hunter reaches for my hair, undoing the elastic and gathering it up again with his hands, stroking h
is fingers through every one of the tangles Dale left. His deft hands against me, painlessly looping the elastic around my hair again, the touch so considerate, so thoughtful, makes my knees buckle.

  Jett catches me before I can slide to the ground, lifting me effortlessly in his arms. “That’s it,” he says. “Flip the sign.”

  “Don’t…” My protest is meant to be stronger, but there’s a hard lump in my throat that makes it almost impossible to speak. Flip the sign means closing the shop, and I don’t want them to lose a single penny because Dale showed up.

  How he discovered that I was here, I have no idea. I’ve barely used my phone since I got here, mainly only powering it up to see if any of the places downtown called me back for an interview—they didn’t—and if he traced it using that, I don’t know. The scarier alternative is that he’s been looking for me for a month, following the highway, and somehow…somehow...

  My head throbs as Jett carries me up the stairs to the apartment. We’re just inside the door when his phone starts to ring in his pocket. He puts me gently on the couch before he answers it.

  “Jett Michaels.” His mouth presses into a hard line. “No, we can’t do that right now.” He turns away, like he’s going to shield me from whatever this phone call is. I lean my head against the armrest and close my eyes. “She’s not in any state to be giving a statement. We’ll come by later in the afternoon, or tomorrow morning.” There’s a pause. “I said, later this afternoon or tomorrow morning.” There’s another tense pause. “No, none of that happened, as far as I know. That won’t be necessary.”

  “Jett—” I want to lie down in bed. I need to shut this out, at least for a few hours.

  He whirls around, green eyes locking on mine. “Thanks for calling, officer. We’ll be in touch.” He ends the call with a stab of his thumb and tosses the phone to the other end of the couch, then he’s kneeling in front of me. “What is it, gorgeous girl?”