by Kent, Julia
Damn tight pants. That helped with one clothing decision for the evening—looser jeans.
Mike had accepted that they should wait, though his reluctance was clear. And now here they were, in her homey, pink apartment, ready to take things to the next step. The second he and Mike had entered her apartment the air had crackled with anticipation, the atmosphere a 180 degree difference from dinner at their place the week before. Laura had shifted a bit, wearing something loose and diaphanous, a little more sultry and open than last week.
They were all ready for more.
But not Mike’s level of more. Not yet. Having luscious sex with her and Mike in the next hour, spread out and spread eagle and licking and laving and loving and touching and thrusting? Sure.
Bare his soul and reveal the money and experience the unsettling feelings he still didn’t know how to cope with?
No way.
“Mmmm, what is that incredible aroma?” he nearly shouted as he came into her tiny kitchen. White tile floor, white formica counters, a cheap kitchen table and vinyl-covered chairs. Red and pink, of course. It looked like any kitchen in any apartment you’d expect a twenty-something corporate worker to live in, especially someone likely still paying off student loans.
You could fix that, a voice whispered. He quashed it.
“I’m no Italian cook,” she joked, pretending to be humble, “so I made chicken satay and pad Thai.”
“From scratch?” he and Mike said simultaneously, both with an incredulous tone.
She shrugged. “Sure. Just have to follow a recipe.”
Could they have found anyone better? She was already the whole package but add in the fact that she made her own Thai food and—wow.
“I, uh—you do like Thai food?” An alarmed look crept over her features.
“We love it,” they said.
Dylan looked at Mike. “Jinx!”
Everyone laughed. The pink shrimp Laura was throwing into the noodle dish matched, exactly, one of the stripes of pink on the dish towels. This was getting to be a bit much. He looked at her and realized she was staring at him, eyebrow cocked.
“What?”
“You keep peering around my apartment as if you were in a museum, surveying it.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”
Shit. Caught. “It’s nice!” he said, a bit too cheery for everyone’s tastes. Mike grabbed a bottle of red wine he’d brought and began to uncork it, pretending not to pay attention to the interaction between the other two.
“Nice.” Uh, oh. There was no way to come out of this one on top, was there? He had to fess up.
“It’s really...pink.”
“Too pink?”
“Just right pink.”
Mike interrupted. “Laura, where are your wine glasses?”
She pointed to an upper cupboard. “Up there. The not pink ones,” she added dryly. Now he knew this was just a game. Two could play...
So could three. “Next time I’ll bring a rosé,” Mike muttered.
Dylan and Laura both did double takes. All three burst into laughter. “It is quite pink. Josie helped me decorate,” Laura explained, her smile so deep it made her cheeks look like apples, dimples forming and her eyes lighting up. Dylan loved that smile. Wanted to make her have it every waking moment.
And in her dreams, too.
As the guys set the table, Laura put the finishing touches on the meal, and the three dug in. “No dessert,” she announced.
You can be our sweet ending, he almost said. The rice noodles were perfect, flavored with the right touch of fish sauce and something spicy, red flakes mingling with crushed peanuts, chicken and shrimp. It was pad Thai like he’d never had—fresh and flavorful, without that bogged-down, MSG feeling. He ate three plates full, giving Mike a run for his money.
“Hungry?” Laura asked, agog at his appetite.
“It’s so good!” he groaned.
Mike nodded, working a bit slower through his food. “It could use a nice white, though,” he pointed out, referring to his wine glass. “I’ll bring some next time.”
She grinned. “Rosé would be fine. I have a feeling you’ll learn to enjoy my pink.”
Whoosh. Dylan felt his eyes go wide. Mike bit his lips. Laura seemed to realize her double entendre and everyone avoided eye contact for a few seconds until Mike let out a little snicker. He poured the last of the wine into their glasses, giving each a few final ounces, before peals of laughter and an uncontrollable folding made Laura slip to the ground in a crouch, her body shaking with mirth and giggles.
Now that was the kind of pink he could get behind. Er...now he lost it, too, until all three huddled on the ground in a cluster of jovial hilarity. Laura wiped her eyes and resumed her gigglefest whenever she looked at either of them. Mike dragged himself to standing and tried to shake it off. Long ago, Dylan had given in, abs aching from laughing so hard.
It was nervous laughter, but from a place of truth. And now, now was the test as he slid his hand up her back to her neck, the touch decidedly sensual and a complete change in tone from where they all were, ensconced in chuckles that belied the underlying tone of sex and hope and desire in her innocent joke. Dylan would be the one to reveal it, because Dylan was the only one in this breath who could cut through the worries and the hesitancy and the what-ifs and get to the heart of what they all really wanted.
The only sound they heard was Mike’s deep breath as he watched, enraptured, his eyes on Dylan’s hand as Laura arched her neck just so, responding to the intensity of this searching caress. Would she? Would she not? Hers to answer, the question hung in the air like a fourth partner, needing to be included and welcomed, answered and accepted.
Like Laura.
Like all of them, really, for this was what spoke to the center of their beings, the need to find someone else who understood, who cared, who could navigate the slippery emotional landscape of want and love and need that was so fraught with confusion. In this space, though, as his hand lingered on her neck, now sliding up to feel her cheek, his torso twisting to face her, open and ready, the negative side of it all washed away, and they were just three people in an apartment, alone, forging their own reality stroke by stroke, caress by caress, look by look and breath by breath.
That the word love was beginning to seep into his subconscious mind when he thought of Laura, when he considered the three of them, made his heart soar. In a few short weeks he had found her, courted her, lost her and won her back—they both had, he and Mike working as the partners they always had been and always would be. Love wasn’t a word they used lightly, and he wasn’t ready, consciously, to use it just yet. Instead, it hovered, watching and observing, taking in their new dance, their interactions and hopes and dreams, and he hoped that soon love would join them and help them, too, to create something new and wondrous, as delicious as her hand on his now, on her open face, searching and warm, asking him questions with her eyes that he and Mike could only answer with their hands, their mouths, and other parts that yearned to be used and included.
Laura had to take the lead now, though—and when she reached over and her lips brushed his, it unleashed a wellspring of, oh, everything that had been pent up these weeks, of wondering and hoping and assuming and thriving. Her lips were soft and eager, testing and nipping, tongue slipping between his lips and prying more out of him. She didn’t need to ask twice; he used his mouth to take more of her, hands embedding themselves in her hair, stroking the soft waves roaming over her shoulders and down her back, palms filling with hot flesh he needed to squeeze to own.
She pulled back, breathless, eyes dark and serious, and stood, walking over to Mike. A tentative smile from her, a contemplative piercing look from him, his hands reaching out to make the first move, hips leaning toward her as he embraced Laura, their waists touching first, hands almost an afterthought. Dylan halted himself, sensing he shouldn’t walk near them just yet, that this was Laura’s sequence, her lips and mouth and hands and body needing to p
ursue, to test both men separately before meshing with them as one.
Just when he thought he would burst in an explosion of craven, overwhelming need, Laura broke away from Mike, reached for both of their hands, and gently led them to her bedroom.
This was it. It was time. She’d been thinking about their hands on her all day, her body making little sighs, imagining the flutter of eyelashes against her belly, thinking of Mike’s blonde hair and Dylan’s thick arms. Before, when they’d surprised her at Mike’s cabin, she’d said yes to a pre-ordained situation, one that caught her by surprise and tapped into so many fantasies—dreams she’d never imagined possible but, when suddenly offered to her, she felt compelled to accept.
Right now was different. Right now she was in control, making decisions long before they were pre-destined, assembling her own ideas and thoughts about how the night would go. Before she’d even started cooking she had let her mind wander to where it needed to go, and she’d known that she would invite them into her bed. It was inevitable, but more than that—it was her choice.
Her choice.
Time for them to enjoy her pink.
When did my bed get so small? she thought, staring at the queen-sized mattress. When Mike and Dylan are both on it, her mind answered as Dylan reclined, lazy and expectant, patting the bed beside him. His smile was impish and open. He was ready for anything. Anything.
And she was about to get anything as she slid on the bed, still clothed, and Mike laid down next to her. Captured perfectly between the two, she paused, enjoying this—the few seconds before anyone would touch her, before they would start what would end in release, before her brain shut down and nerve endings went into autonomous control. This frozen speck in time was still pregnant with possibility and as she—
Oh. Dylan’s hands were so warm as he slipped them under her thin cotton jacket and tank top, the fabric pooling nicely on the bed, like little islands of cloth. Her legs twitched as Mike’s hands rested, warm and soft, on her ankles, both riding up her calves, over her knees to the soft, supple flesh of her thighs, her tender clit beginning to pulse already, so wantonly throbbing for them both. She moistened, her wet womanhood ready for what came next.
All three of them.
Four hands slipped her clothes off, her own hands practically useless, the two men knowing what to do and Laura being catered to with an intensity and focus that she found amusingly seductive. They were a well-oiled (and well-hung) machine, these two, serving her right now. As the chill of the air hit her back, her ribcage, her breasts, her nipples pebbled and she reached for the waistband of Mike’s pants, unbuttoning the pants and reaching behind him, hands slipping under to grab fistfulls of ass, his fingers quickly unclasping her bra and making her shudder with the thrill of it all.
By the time she remembered to look at Dylan he had dispensed with his own clothes, his nude body a welcome and delectable sight. She chuckled and her brow furrowed. “Something wrong?” Mike’s hands slid up and teased her labia, giving her just a hint of what she could come to expect and making her swell and blossom.
“Everything’s perfect,” she murmured, Dylan’s mouth descending on hers again as he pressed the length of his body against hers, abs to belly, breasts to chest, rigid rod to pliant pussy. A quick flash of shower memory, her spray and Bob mimicking what Mike and Dylan were now doing in the flesh, in her bed, very real and warm and wanting. How could she have denied herself this? The scent and taste of Dylan filled her as Mike made sounds of disrobing, the bed shifting as he stood, threw off his clothes, then knelt back on the bed, the smattering of hair on his chest tickling her back, his fingers tantalizing with promise. He sighed into her neck and his hot breath made her belly clench, the tightening leading up to her throat, the body readying for both of them, for all of them, for explosion and release and love.
So much flesh. Her own, ample curves, which the moonlight streaming through the window, between the parted pink curtains, illuminated in a muted relief, the same lush handfuls she’d once found embarrassing now something her men luxuriated in, touching and grasping and caressing and marking with their pinches, their strokes, their licks.
Her men.
And they were, as Mike’s finger slipped up to tease her clitoris, giving it a “hello” and then retreating, his mouth dotting her back with small kisses and sighs, his cock pushing against the cleft of her ass as he journeyed across her flesh. Dylan, now, stretched before her, leaning her onto her back and carefully positioning a pillow under her hips, the two men exchanging a glance as Mike moved up the bed to Laura’s side. Dylan moved down and then went down, his tongue catching her not so much by surprise but by relief, swollen desire clustered so neatly in these nerve endings made real by vulnerable, pink flesh, her clit screaming out for him, for Mike, for any attention.
Mike kissed her, then, his hands on both sides of her jaw, his mouth both brutal and pleasant somehow at the same time, her own tongue rising to a threshold of near violence as she tried to take in as much of his mouth, his lips, his tongue as she could without hurting them. Yes, yes, yes, their mouths screamed, her hips lifting as Dylan slipped two fingers inside her aching emptiness, her wet warmth closing around him as he hooked one finger up to find a pitch-perfect place to call home, tongue zeroing in on her nub and making her tighten, ass clamping down, pussy folding in to a pinprick of pleasure as he slid in and out, finger and tongue fucking her with Mike consuming her mouth, the multitude of sensations making her forget about climax, forget about orgasm, damn near lose all sense of purpose here as she just was—flesh, rolls, curves, tongue, pussy and—ahhhhhhhh.
Mike’s fingers rolled one nipple with just a tad too much force, the nip enough to make her throat bleat with pain, which he took as encouragement, pinching a bit harder. She couldn’t say no—between Dylan’s lapping at her clit and fingers thrusting in and out, the pain took her mind to a new place, and soon she gasped, unable quite to breathe enough, her hips out of control. Reaching for him, she grasped Mike’s cock at the base and he inhaled sharply, the sound whistling through the night and joining her own rasping throat sounds.
He took her hand as an invitation, moving so he straddled her face and she welcomed it, giving her something to do as Dylan’s tongue gave her such devoted attention. He was languid and attentive, giving her body the time to warm up, letting her feel the pleasure and live in the layers that covered each other, each bit of arousal building on the next, a warm, wet blanket of pending orgasm. Her mouth took Mike in all the way to the base, tongue flicking the tip and hardening to give him a concentrated point of muscled focus. Shifting his hips, he started to rotate and move in and out of her mouth slowly. Perfectly pinned to the bed, between Mike on top of her and Dylan below, she couldn’t move.
Even if she wanted to.
She was trapped, and the thrill of the realization clouded her mind, because what if she wanted to get up? Get away from the sensuality of Dylan’s cunnilingus? Move herself from Mike’s blow job? She couldn’t. And, for whatever reason, that fact aroused her even more. She had to give and had to receive right now, knowing there was so much more coming. Whatever Dylan did he did to give her more, and now she could take without guilt, could give without fear, could exchange these acts of love and lust and carnal knowledge on equal ground and know that it was mind-blowingly amazing and hers.
All hers to take and give.
Tall, long, lean Mike seemed to stretch up to the sky as she took her hands and moved up his ass to the small of his back, then maneuvered to get one finger on his taint, pushing up hard on the spot between anus and scrotum. He threw his head back and groaned, the vibration so intense she could feel it in her teeth, which were currently around the base of his cock, a light pressure but held back by tongue and lips that buffered. Slowly, he changed position and slid out of her, her hands fondling his balls now and his hands scooping her breasts as Dylan closed the deal.
And then Mike changed places with him. The sudden shift of men mad
e her lose the rhythm, the near-orgasm retreating now and hiding a bit, though the different technique Mike used quickly coaxed it back into play. Dylan stood by the bed and watched Mike and Laura, one hand lazily stroking himself, waiting for what she knew would be next, the thought sending a shiver down her spine. Mike’s mouth was so different from Dylan’s, faster and more demanding, a personality change. He was aggressive and intense and her body rose to it, Dylan sauntering over to mouth her nipples, biting suddenly as Mike’s tongue pinpointed and began to apply hard, friction-filled strokes just as her entire body clamped and flushed.
Her hands grabbed fistfuls of pink satin bedsheets, flailing and stretching out like a woman impaled by a tongue. “Oh, oh, oh!” she cried out, words long gone, her hips now thrusting up and down, seeking Mike’s face and tongue, a sudden balloon feeling making her inhibited but too late—
She exploded. Gushed. Squirted, the stream flying through the air as Mike followed her gyrations, seeking to keep a steady pace on her clit as she bucked and groaned and thrashed and turned all animal. Basic instinct was it—that was all she could be right now as she was the climax, was the orgasm, was the fluid that poured out of her, evidence of the drama of what these men had wrung from her.
And this was just the appetizer. “Oh, yeah, Laura. Let it all go,” Dylan cheered quietly, his hand no longer on himself but his turgid member at attention and ready for orders. She gently pushed Mike’s head away, the climax still in progress but the touch now almost painful, that post-clit orgasm sensitivity that made her grit her teeth in a not-good way.
He sensed it and pulled back; ah, good, she thought. He knew enough to do that. Learning about new lovers’ bodies was always a game of does he/doesn’t he/will he/won’t he that was new each time, and never reliably easy to guess. Lying on her back, hips still elevated, she felt an enormous wet spot under the cleft of her ass and just panted little breaths, letting her arms go liquid, her legs splay out, her body in some yoga position of complete contentment.
