by Nia Farrell
“Noted.” J.T. doesn’t dwell on it. He distracts himself and me by working the hurt out of my sore spot, digging his thumb into the trigger point and refusing to let up even when I beg him. Amazingly, the soreness eases rather than worsens.
Lucky me, I can see that Nico’s hands have some serious competition.
“Mmmm.” I groan, wanting nothing more than to wrap my arms around Nico, melt back into J.T., and merge with them both on the astral plane in tantric union. Nico might be open to the suggestion, but I sense that J.T.’s earth energy requires physicality, and his preferred path to fulfillment is the joining of flesh to flesh. Just because I’m sore doesn’t mean the two of them can’t create some better karma.
That’s something else to be explored. If not today, then soon.
It’s time to start lunch if we’re going to cook. Anything fresh in the fridge sounds better than leftover burgers. The guys insist that I rest with my feet up and throw another log on the fire to eliminate my need for clothing. They want me naked, fine, but I’m not going to freeze my assets off while they strut their stuff in sweatpants that show exactly how low they hang and cotton knit tees that celebrate the perfection of the male form.
Nico makes a skillet dinner that we call “confetti,” with diced potatoes, veggies, and meat. A pinch of ground ginger seasons the carrots, and sweet peppers are added near the end, along with some corned beef that needs used up. Posey is barely big enough for a bookstore, but it’s got two kickass diners that do things right, from plate lunches and daily specials to flaky homemade pies. They share the all-you-can-eat fish crowds, who flock on Wednesdays to Wink’s and Fridays to Chuck’s. Corned beef is a rare beast, and I just happened to hit it the last day I worked.
Score one for intuition. I was supposed to meet my friend Anna at Wink’s. When she canceled, I went to Chuck’s instead.
Confetti isn’t fancy, but it’s filling and surprisingly tasty, receiving J.T.’s stamp of approval. There’s not a lot of cleanup, and soon the three of us are back in front of the television, watching Joss Whedon’s futuristic vision unfold onscreen. I’m in my skin, keeping warm between my two men when I find myself silently apologizing to Karma for calling her a bitch. Hey, when I’m wrong, I admit it. Clearly, we all had to be at a place, in our heads and in our lives, for us to be like this, to have fallen in so seamlessly together and come so far, so fast.
I won’t kid myself. There are rough spots in the road ahead, but we’ll take things as they come. We can work through anything and everything we need to and emerge better and stronger for it.
As long as we’re together.
Chapter Five
Twenty-four hours. So goddamn little time. But after a night and a day of fantasies fulfilled, life intrudes and it’s back to reality and the work-day world. J.T. is leaving. I can’t believe the hole that’s here, that only he can fill.
Before he pulls out Sunday evening, we get everything in sync. Email addresses are added to our accounts. Social network profiles are befriended. Phone numbers are programmed into the landline and our cells. Although most of my readings are done by webcam, I keep the old number for clients on dial-up or without internet altogether.
You’d be surprised how many there are.
A long bath Monday morning helps start the day on a better note than the self-pity I wallowed in Sunday night. I slept with Nico. Yes, slept. That is, after an hour of dirty talk, foreplay, and mutual masturbation. J.T. gave orders that we were not to screw each other’s brains out. He wants me healed enough to play hard when he comes next Saturday afternoon.
He promised to bring toys.
The thought gives me gooseflesh. Mona, my boss, catches me smiling at nothing.
“Good weekend?” she asks. She looks like someone’s favorite aunt but she’s got a naughty streak a mile wide. The nonpublic room in the back houses her internet sales stash of porn and erotica, and no one but me knows that her brother-in-law’s visits are conjugal.
“The best ever,” I tell her. “We met someone. He’s coming out again next weekend.”
I don’t have a fair date, so I’m scheduled to work. Thankfully, Saturdays are our short days, and THE Bookstore is closed on Sundays to placate the churchgoers in town, who can bring themselves to buy Fifty Shades off the shelf but will boycott a store that stays open on the Sabbath.
Go figure.
Mona insists on details. By the time I’m done, her nipples are hard and she’s practically drooling. Perv.
“Do you need me to cover for you?” she asks, pulling herself back and grounding herself in reality, where she’s sensitive to my needs. She can’t pay what I’m worth, and I’m limited on the hours I can work, with events scheduled more weekends than not. Together, Nico and I manage okay, sharing house expenses, but neither of us has a 401K or retirement fund, just ten thousand in a CD that will likely go toward a new roof or furnace, whichever needs to be replaced first.
“You’re so sweet,” I tell her, meaning it. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. J.T. has a private training session Saturday morning. If he beats me home, I’ll be surprised. Anyway, Nico will be there.”
It turns out, J.T.’s client canceled. He comes ahead of schedule, pulling in Friday night in a shiny black pickup truck, loaded with chrome and so many upgrades, it’s fancier than any car I’ve ever owned. I tell my little Grand Am not to be jealous, but with nearly two hundred thousand miles on her, she’s a little the worse for wear. Fortunately, Nico has a Jeep that he can loan me whenever repairs are needed, and we have our low-mileage van to take us to events. There’s enough room to sleep in it if the weather’s decent and we don’t want to splurge on a hotel.
As promised, J.T. brings toys. However, since I have to work Saturday, I vote that they stay in the gym bag Friday night and ask for a rain check. After a week spent recovering, I’m leery of fucking them, with or without sexual aids. The men decide to play with my tits, but when breasts and nipples aren’t enough, I offer the use of my mouth and hands to get them off, unless they want to take care of each other while I watch.
Nico again looks at J.T. for him to make the call. “Well,” he says finally. “Since she asked….”
The men come together, mouths crashing like the Cyanean Rocks, their big bodies meeting, molding, rubbing each other. J.T. rips off Nico’s shirt and tortures his nipples, eliciting hisses and moans that make my weeping pussy clench. He strips off his tee, baring his chiseled torso to Nico’s talented mouth and hands.
Dear lord in heaven, this is so much better than porn.
Seeing me drool, J.T. lets me choose: couch, bed, or shower, with or without handcuffs, with or without a crop.
Yeah, he came prepared to play. Seriously.
“Bed, cuffs, crop,” I tell him, relieved when Nico smiles at me. It might come back to bite me, but for now, we’re both up for what’s coming.
I follow them down the hall. J.T. hasn’t mentioned it, but he’s sporting a new tattoo in the center of his back, a tribal version of a Celtic triskelion, three swirling arms representing life, death, and rebirth, but also the three of us. I like it. Very much. Not just for the aesthetic appeal, but because I know it symbolizes his commitment to this relationship that we’re building.
J.T. eschews a pair of leather cuffs for old-fashioned hardware. He has Nico strip and lie on his stomach, fastening his outstretched arms to the wrought iron headboard we bought with just this kind of thing in mind. I lie on the edge of the bed, petting the black silk of Nico’s hair as J.T. bites and licks his way from Nico’s shoulders to his buttocks. He gives him a rimjob, tongue-fucking his asshole until Nico is begging for more. The crop comes out and stripes bloom across his sienna skin, a masterpiece of flesh and force just shy of drawing blood but certain to leave bruises.
J.T. lubes Nico’s ass then orders him to roll over, onto his tender backside. He slides a pillow under Nico’s hips, shoves his knees up and apart, and enters him in an erotic dance that almost makes me orgasm. The
way that he’s bound, the way that he’s held, Nico is totally at his mercy.
Our mercy.
After fucking the hell out of him, J.T. gives me permission to join in. Taking Nico’s erection in hand, I stroke him in time with J.T.’s thrusts until J.T. comes. Two pumps more and Nico’s climax shoots past my fingers, landing on his belly. I lick him clean, then climb up his chest to kiss him, letting him taste himself on my tongue.
J.T. frees his wrists. He checks for proper circulation and shows me how to apply ointment after impact play. I’m guessing that there’s more of this in our future. Nico rotates his shoulders, and I rub them for him. It’s the least I can do after requesting the cuffs.
“How are you holding up?” I ask when J.T. goes to wash his hands. “It didn’t seem like he was holding back much with you.”
Nico’s smile confirms what I suspected. He liked it just fine. “He pulled his punches enough to make it good. I didn’t safeword, anyway.”
I almost shudder. If that was pulling punches, what would J.T. be like unleashed?
Tonight, we go to bed with Nico between us, buffering me from J.T.’s movements when he slips out of bed and lays claim to the couch. He’s watching sparks fly in the fireplace when I join him at two in the morning.
“Are you okay?” I ask him. “I mean, with Nico? I’m guessing he’s your first. Just don’t try to label it, or yourself. If it feels right, that’s all that matters.”
“What?” he drawls, drawing me against him until my cheek is pressed against his heart. “You psychic or something?”
“Or something.” I sigh and thread my fingers through his chest hair, delighting in our differences. Nothing more is said. He’s not ready to ask, and I won’t say anything until that happens. We stare at the fire, his earth energy feeding my flame, my heat forging his steel. At some point, I fall asleep, and I’m surprised as hell when I awaken at six, still in J.T.’s arms. My slight jerk brings him instantly alert, hearkening back to his military training and matters of life and death.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, feeling the scruff on his face. I have yet to learn how the man keeps it this perfect pussy-eating length, but I’m so very glad that he does. “I fell asleep on you. I’ll need to get in the bathtub soon. Gotta leave at eight-thirty or Mr. Harrelson will be beating down the door for the first crack at the morning paper.”
We get one subscription for our reading nook. We’re not licensed to serve food or drink, but the locals know they can bring in their own, spend some time with us, and hopefully walk out with the latest bestseller or one of our many used books.
The biggest part of our business these days is internet sales. My first task this morning will be checking the latest orders, pulling stock, prepping shipments, and creating invoices once the freight weight is confirmed. Right now, my focus is on keeping J.T. in his comfort zone and cleansing my body/mind/spirit, getting ready for the day.
I brush a kiss across his lips, aware of the puzzlement in his eyes. How long has it been since he’s let someone this close? How many months—years—since he’s held someone through the night? Fuck, when was the last time he actually slept with another human being? It’s still not a bed, and still not the three of us, but I’m feeling pretty damned good right now.
“Go back to sleep if you can,” I tell him. “If you can’t, Nico could use a tender touch this morning, or I’ll leave the door unlocked if you want to come in and watch my bathwater defy the laws of physics.”
He stiffens, almost imperceptibly, when I mention Nico. “If it’s too soon, that’s okay,” I tell him. “If you need it to be the three of us, then that’s what we’ll do. When the time comes… well, I don’t expect you two to wait on me. Again, do whatever feels right.”
He exhales the breath he’s been holding and crooks a reluctant smile. “Baby girl, you are something else.”
“Told ya.”
Having given him options and permission, I slip away and head for the guest bathroom, newly stocked with duplicate items so that my needs are met, wherever I end up. The door stays unlocked but J.T. doesn’t come. Instead, he checks his emails on the laptop he brought, then migrates to the kitchen to brew coffee and cook breakfast.
He fries sausage, potatoes, apples, and onions together. The smell tempts Nico out of bed and coincides nicely with the end of my ninety-minute bath. The two of us meet in the hall, with me wrapped in a towel and Nico wearing just a pair of sweatpants.
The sight of him makes me sigh. Really, how fair is it that his hair is prettier than mine?
Dividing it in two, I pull it forward to hang like a breastplate over his sculpted pecs, have him turn his back toward the hall light, and pull down the fleeced fabric so I can check his bruised bottom.
“Oh, dear. That looks like it hurts.” Seeing his welts, I wonder if I should make the cane one of my hard limits.
“I’m sore, yeah, but I’ll live. And if this is something he needs, Grace, at least I can give it to him. I don’t want him to make mincemeat of your candy ass.”
Fuck.
Nico’s smile tells me his secret. He offered himself in my place. He submitted to J.T. to spare me, not because he’s a painslut.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. What else can I say? I was blind but now I see? Some psychic friend I am.
“Hey, it’s okay. He’s got all day to make it up to me. I figure I’ll put him to chopping wood. Take off the edge and work out some of the kinks so he’ll play nice with us tonight.”
Fuck, yeah.
Over breakfast, we decide to meet at Wink’s after work. We want to share the local tradition with J.T., plus eating out will leave more play time for us.
Just ahead of five o’clock, J.T. drives to town with Nico. Dinner does not disappoint, and Rae’s tip reflects her excellent service.
J.T. wants to take me home. It’s a challenge for Nico to fit in my little car, but he manages, adjusting the mirrors to suit.
Compared to my Grand Am, J.T.’s truck is ginormous. Seriously, I think I need a stepladder to get in. J.T. comes to my rescue. Opening the passenger door, he lifts me into the cab and buckles me in. Music plays from the console as soon as he turns the key.
I hear Nico’s flute and smile.
“Your truck is very nice,” I tell him. Like, really nice. It’s surprisingly quiet, incredibly comfortable, and loaded with options. I won’t tell my Am, but I think I’m getting spoiled.
Nico leads the way. He parks my car next to his Jeep, saving the spot closest to the door for J.T. and me.
There’s enough light to see that the wood pile has exploded. The wild cherry tree killed by lightning is down, and the bushes rubbing against the house have been trimmed or pulled.
Fuck. It will be a miracle if they have testosterone left for me.
J.T. helps me dismount from his truck and guides me toward the house. “Tonight, we’re going to do something different,” he tells me. “When you get inside, you will take off your shoes and clothes and kneel in a submissive’s pose, knees apart, head up, eyes down, hands clasped behind your back so that your breasts are presented to us. Once that happens, you will not move or speak unless we give you permission. If we ask you a question, you will answer promptly and honestly. If we give you an order, you will obey it immediately and without question or have a damn good reason why you didn’t. I top Nico. Nico tops you. He is Sir. I am Master. Safe words are red to stop, yellow to slow down. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say, pushing the words past the sudden stricture in my throat. He wants to dominate me, and Nico is still hurting from last night.
“And you’re willing to submit?” he asks me. “If not, we can do vanilla.”
The dark promise in his voice caresses me, and I shiver with anticipation. “I’m yours, Master.”
We both know it, but J.T. needs the words. Smiling, he accepts my submission with a kiss. The whispered brush of firm lips, followed by the nip of teeth on my bot
tom lip, foreshadows the pleasures and the pain that will surely come.
“Then let’s do this.”
Nico unlocks the door. We follow him inside. Both men disappear while I toe off my ballerina flats and strip down to nothing. Folding my clothes. I set them beside my shoes and kneel. Sitting on my heels in the position that J.T. demands, my breasts thrust out and my pussy is on display when the men come back into the room.
Both of them are bare-chested and barefooted, deliciously clad only in matching leather pants. “I brought you a present, baby girl,” J.T. says, approaching with a leather collar in his hand. It is exquisite, green to match my eyes and embossed with Celtic knotwork. There’s a D-ring attached to the front. “Lena made this for our playtime, but Nico and I are designing the next one. Something extra special for our baby girl. What do you say, chica?”
Choked by emotion, I clear my throat and blink the tears from my eyes. “Thank you, Master. It’s beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful.” When J.T. strokes my head, I want to rub against him and purr. “Nico, lift her hair. Let’s collar our girl.”
He gathers my hair and wraps it around one hand, giving access to my neck. J.T. slips the leather around my throat, checking the fit before snapping the lock. “We both have keys,” he tells me. “Hands down, chica.”
I return to my former pose, hands behind me, breasts presented, knees apart, pussy exposed.
“What do you think, Nico? Do you think she’s ready for us?”
Of course, I’m ready. If I stay here much longer, there’ll be a puddle on the floor.
The guys have been busier than I thought. My old bedroom has been turned into a playroom. The bed has been shoved to the far wall to make room for a spanking bench and a St. Andrew’s cross. They’ve cleared my desk. Its top displays an assortment of toys, including cuffs, ropes, a ball gag, vibrators, dildos, anal plugs, floggers, whips, and canes. J.T. lifts a pair of what can only be nipple clamps. He pinches mine erect before fastening them on.
