Power Play - A MFMMM Reverse Harem Billionaire Romance (You Can't Resist a Bad Boy Book 6)

by Layla Valentine

  “That’s it, baby,” Zach whispers in my ear as he massages my breast. “Come for Ethan.”

  The words are all that’s needed to send me over the edge. I come with a yell, bucking my hips against Ethan.

  I gasp for air as the pleasure winds down and bury my face in Zach’s neck once more.

  “Good girl,” he tells me with a kiss on my head.

  Ethan stands, dropping his boxers in the process. His dick protrudes aggressively, fully hard and ready. He strokes its base, his determined eyes on me. “The bed,” he says simply.

  Zach stands as well and picks me up. Ethan follows us through the open double doors and into the bedroom, where Zach gently lays me down on the edge of the massive bed.

  I prop myself up on my elbows, legs hanging over the side of the bed as Zach drops his boxers. Ethan is already pulling off my heels. He unrolls my ripped pantyhose before climbing on the bed next to me and unhooking me bra.

  The air is delicious against my skin, the sensation made even better thanks to the knowledge that all three of us are naked now. Ethan leans over, covering my mouth with his. I press my hand against the back of his head as we kiss, a fresh wave of desire washing over me.

  “Lie back,” I tell him, taking over the domineering role I know he loves.

  With a smile, he scoots back on the bed and props his head up with his arms. I shuffle forward and seize the base of his length. Its heat shoots through my palm and into my core, making the muscles of my channel twitch in anticipation.

  Gently stroking Ethan’s length, I lower my head and take a taste. The bed creaks as Zach joins us. There’s a touch against my shoulder, and then he’s taking my hair and holding it loosely as I lick long paths up Ethan’s shaft.

  Ethan jerks against my tongue. Wanting to feel him do that over and over again, I bob my head quickly, working him with what I hope is the right amount of speed. He groans, bucking his hips against my mouth.

  I can’t take it anymore. I need to have him inside of me before I burst. Sitting up straight, I look at Zach. He knows what’s on my mind, and gives me his assurance with a simple nod.

  Tossing one leg over Ethan, I straddle him and lower myself slowly down. He clings to my hips as I pierce myself with his head. His whole length slides in, perfect and pulsing.

  Ethan bites his lip, tossing his head back in pleasure as I rock against him. Zach’s on me once more, teasing my clit as we kiss. The stimulation of so many pleasure points has me gasping for air. I bounce against Ethan, my mouth breaking off from Zach’s with each thrust. I always find his lips again, though, taking my kiss back to where it belongs.

  Exhaustion gets to me, and I have to slow down, my frantic rocks turning into lethargic ones. Zach lets go of me and lies down next to Ethan. Seeing his tight body stretched out, muscles and dick both hard, has me licking my lips.

  Easing off of Ethan, I climb onto Zach, nestling against his chest. He wraps his arms around my back as he pushes into me, my entrance already throbbing and waiting for him. I groan against him, pushing my body down until there’s nothing left to take in.

  Leaving a kiss on Zach’s lips, I lean back up, riding him the same way that I did Ethan. Everything is reversed this time, with Ethan’s lips sucking on my neck and Zach running his hands across my legs and thighs.

  “Do you want us both?” Ethan asks in between quick exhales.

  My eyes find Zach’s. “Whatever you want,” he says.

  Both of them. At once.

  Can I handle that?

  Zach’s finger pressing against my mound, giving me double stimulation, tells me I can. I’ll take everything these two have to give me. How many times have I wished to be in this very situation?

  “Yes,” I gasp.

  Zach growls happily and kisses me hard. “Lean forward,” he says.

  I do as instructed, going flat against Zach’s chest once more. The man under me kisses me tenderly as Ethan stretches my ass cheeks.

  “Fuck her good,” Ethan instructs. “Make her hungry for it.”

  Zach rolls his hips up and into me, giving me a strong hit of sweetness. Ethan’s wet fingers press against my tight ring, testing and probing. The sensation makes me tense up.

  “It’s all right,” Ethan coos. “Just relax.”

  His words comfort me, and I let myself relax against Zach. He’s still pushing into me, his thrusts slow and easy.

  Ethan stretches my cheeks wider, and pressure hits my hole there. He drives in, and I yelp from the piercing sensation. A second later, though, and he’s deep in.

  I’m stretched to the brim, so full I think I might burst. The guys both rock into me, push after push bringing me happiness. The soreness from Ethan’s entry eases, and ecstasy like none I’ve ever known builds.

  Zach’s breath kisses my lips, and his hands run all over my torso. I push slightly up and down, riding the both of them.

  An arm loops around my waist and tugs slightly. Ethan is guiding me up, pulling me into a sitting position. His dick goes even deeper into me, and I cry out. It’s too intense. There’s too much of them.

  But I never want it to stop.

  I rock on and on, both of the guys nudging gently into me, meeting me halfway. Without any warning, an orgasm barrels through me. I press my back against Ethan’s chest and yell my way through it as he kisses my jaw. I feel his dick getting larger, his balls slapping against me. With his own cry, he explodes deep in me.

  I’m whimpering from the pleasure, from the exhaustion, from the overload of it all. Ethan pulls gingerly out of me and I collapse onto Zach once more. This time, instead of having me stay on top, he seizes my hips and rolls over.

  Buried in me to the hilt, Zach drives fast and hard into me. I cling to his shoulders and wrap my legs around his waist, my whole body shaking from his efforts. Gasping, he pulls out and bursts across the comforter before collapsing on my left.

  On my other side, Ethan wears a giant grin. “God, Noelle…”

  “I know,” Zach murmurs, turning on his side and kissing my neck.

  I giggle and turn on my own side, my back against Zach and my front facing Ethan. The man behind me wraps his arms around me and snuggles me close as I trail my fingers across Ethan’s chest.

  “How do you feel?” Ethan asks.

  “Amazing,” I sigh.

  “Me too,” Zach chimes in.

  Across me, Ethan looks at Zach. “Did you ever think this is where we’d be six years after graduation?”

  The warm breath from Zach’s chuckle hits my neck. “Not at all.”

  Ethan takes my hand and intertwines our fingers. “Thank you. I know I was hard on you. I just… I was resistant to this whole thing.”

  I press two lips against his mouth, gently silencing him. “It’s all right. I understand. And thank you for not firing me throughout this whole thing.”

  Ethan laughs and brings my hand to his mouth for a kiss. “You’re a fireball, Noelle. That’s what’s so great about you.”

  “Among other things,” Zach says, lightly nipping my shoulder.

  “Hey!” I yelp, wiggling against him. He’s got me locked in hard, though, and I’m not going anywhere.

  Not that I would ever want to.

  The End

  It’s not over yet for Noelle and her billionaire lovers…

  Subscribers to my mailing list can download a FREE bonus epilogue to find out what happens next

  CLICK HERE TO GET IT

  Wanna Puck?

  Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks

  How about an all-star ménage a trois?

  Wanna Puck? is up next, in full!

  Copyright 2018 by Layla Valentine and Ana Sparks

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the aut
hor.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  When the morning sun glowed red through my eyelids, I awoke in a panic. My alarm hadn’t gone off. Why didn’t my alarm go off? I had been dreaming about a dwindling bank account, angry editors in my inbox, something about a fire…?

  I shook my head. The dream was gone, but the panic remained. I pushed a thick mass of wavy chestnut hair out of my face and scrambled through my thoughts, trying to locate the source of my anxiety. Had I missed a deadline? No, everything had been turned in on time. Was something due?

  That was when it hit me. There was nothing due, because I had nothing in my queue. For the first time in nine weeks, I had no papers to write and no projects to complete.

  “Well, let’s fix that, shall we?”

  I jumped out of bed and tossed my blankets haphazardly over the pillows. Good enough. A shower and a steaming cup of coffee later, I was curled up on my oversized desk chair, sorting through messages.

  “Payment processed, payment processed… Come on, doesn’t anyone have some new work for me?”

  I scowled as I scrolled, willing my inbox to burst forth an invitation to write. The last thing I wanted to do was go begging for work; at this point in the game, the work came to me. As one of the top-rated freelance journalists in Portland, I felt a bit offended when I had to scramble for work. Sometimes, though, there was no way around it.

  With a sigh, I got out of my chair to refill my coffee, unwinding my hair from the terrycloth turban I had wrapped it in.

  Walking around my apartment helped me relax. I had worked hard over the last few years to afford something like this, and it was every bit as wonderful as I had imagined it would be.

  The high vaulted ceilings brazenly displayed their naked beams, arching high over tall windows that overlooked the city. Thick, rose-colored carpet cradled my toes as I padded through my green-papered hallway to the bathroom.

  This room had been the selling point for me all those months ago—the deep claw-foot tub with its wide shower head, the shell-shaped sink drizzled in sparkling shades of pink, the tiles on the wall depicting vintage art in miniature. Utterly feminine.

  “Oh, do we have a bite?” I asked the air as I wandered back into my room just in time to hear my computer chime.

  We did! Or, rather, I did. My heart jumped just a little as I read the sender’s name—The Portland Crier, a news outlet notorious for catapulting small-time freelancers into big-time careers.

  I had written an article for them the previous month, a fluff piece about how fandom culture was the lifeblood of the city, which had only received lukewarm feedback from the editors and had only appeared on the back page of the local distribution. I had not expected them to seek me out for anything else so soon, and excitement trickled through my veins as I opened the message.

  “Hockey?” I said, wrinkling my nose as the excitement melted away. “They want me to write a piece on hockey? Damn it, Jim, I’m an investigative journalist, not a sports writer!”

  Jim DeLeary apparently knew that.

  Ms. Ramos,

  This assignment is unique to your particular talents. The Portland Harriers have been making headlines for years, and we at the Crier are not in the habit of regurgitating old news. However, there appears to be a wrinkle in the team itself, in the relationship between two players by name of Dante Drake and Joel Palmer.

  Drake has been the team’s star player for over a decade, and has been the number one hockey athlete chosen for advertising campaigns over that same period. Palmer is a newcomer to the game, but looks to be replacing Drake as the fan favorite. Advertisers have taken notice, and Palmer has recently received more contracts than anyone on the team apart from Drake.

  Rumor has it that Drake and Palmer are at each other’s throats in private. I ask that you get to the bottom of it, to confirm or deny the rumor in as much gripping detail as you are able. The piece need not be technical to the sport; we are far more interested in the interpersonal relationship between the two players…

  To sweeten the pot, Jim was sure to mention—twice—that this article would have a title spot on the front page. It would also be featured on the website, which had over three million subscribers. I was pretty sure that would be my largest audience to date, and the thought nearly made me accept the offer before I had finished reading it.

  He went on to describe the two men’s individual histories and clues into their personal lives; both were single and neither had children. Dante was married to the game. Joel was rumored to be married to a party lifestyle.

  “Star of the team for over a decade,” I mused as I read Dante’s track record. “And apparently already on cereal boxes when I was still in high school. I knew I should have paid more attention to those bios…”

  Joel, though he was still a virtual baby in the arena, had already proved himself to be both photogenic and energetic, making him the new favorite choice for advertisers everywhere.

  Jim suspected that this was the root of the trouble between them, and was far more dramatic than anyone had let on so far. He wanted me to go digging for the juiciest truth. He didn’t say it outright, but I got the impression that he wanted to publish a potentially career-ending exposé.

  I wouldn’t fabricate such a thing, but if the story was there…

  “Why not?” I bobbed my head around as I weighed the pros and cons, and decided to take a look at my potential interviewees.

  “Oh! Hello, Dante,” I said appreciatively as his picture popped up on the screen.

  His caramel-colored skin brilliantly offset his crinkling, green-heavy hazel eyes, and his thick black hair clung close to his head in tight little waves. He had a dimple in his left cheek, a soft boyish feature which dramatically contrasted with the ruggedness of his many-times broken nose.

  “Well, sugar, if you smell as good as you look, I might interview you twice just for the hell of it. Now, the other one… Joel Palmer, right? Yeah. Oh, you’re cute too.”

  He was far younger than Dante, with a cocky grin illuminating his lightly freckled face. His brown hair was buzzed in a style reminiscent of the military, and his muscular arms were tattooed from wrist to shoulder. Even in the photograph, his dark blue eyes were twinkling mischievously, giving me the impression that he would dare me to a race just to watch me run.

  “Sold, Jimmy,” I said cheerily as I typed up a reply. “A two-week deadline and a couple of demigods to interview. Best way to start a Monday.”

  Chapter 2

  Human interest stories were all well and good, but I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself in front of three or four million readers. I spent the rest of the morning learning everything there was to know about hockey, from game rules to player hierarchies and history. It wasn’t the first time I had given myself a crash course in something I had previously held no interest in, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

  By the end of it, I had developed a legitimate—if only slight—interest in the game itself. Not enough to go buy a fan jersey, but certainly enough to make the next couple of weeks enjoyable.

  My computer chimed again with a response from Jim. A rink-side ticket with my name on it was attached, for the team’s opening game that evening. The message itself had me raising an eyebrow.

  Livia,

  Spoke to the manager. You’re interviewing Palmer and Drake tonight.

  “Cutting it kind of close, aren’t we, Jim?” I asked out loud.

  I wrote a quick reply, thanking him, then returned to my research. I wanted to know exactly what I was looking at when I watched the game—as much to see why these two in particular stood out, as to assuage my boredom over the course of the game.

  “Not that it’s definitely going to be boring,” I told myself. “It could be a lot of fun!
Don’t sell the game short before you watch it.”

  In spite of my firm admonishment, I found my attention drifting as I clicked through online videos of hockey games. I could, on an intellectual level, appreciate the skating skill, but under the football-like padding, there was little else to hold my attention.

  One video caught my eye; the title was full of capital letters and exclamation points, declaring proof of a deep-seeded rivalry between Palmer and Drake. I clicked on it, intrigued.

  The video was dark, and for a moment I thought it wasn’t working. Then, I heard the laughter, and realized that I was looking at a locker room door. It opened slightly to reveal a group of muscular men in various states of undress, crowded around one young guy in street clothes.

  “What the hell?” he shouted.

  He turned, and from his profile I identified him as Joel Palmer. He held his uniform in his hands, and was staring at it in disgust. The person behind the camera furtively moved around the group to show the problem: Palmer’s uniform was covered in smears of something that could have been barbecue sauce…or something much worse.

  “Which one of you assholes did this?” he demanded.

  Loud guffaws answered him, echoing mockingly in the locker room.

  “Hey, don’t get mad at us, kid. If you’d showed up for practice, you would have had time to wash it.”

  The voice was low and smooth as silk, even over the crappy audio. It sent a warm shiver through my core, activating my inner huntress. I scanned the faces, looking for the owner of the voice. The camera flicked up briefly, just long enough to show a glimpse of bare, caramel-colored chest.

  I swallowed hard as my belly turned over in a delicious twinge of desire. Oh, yes, I was going to enjoy interviewing Mr. Drake.