I Spy a Dark Obsession

by Jo Davis

  “Of course not,” he said warily. “Why would I?”

  “But you’ve known him for years, and you two are close.”

  “Yes. What’s your point?”

  She turned in her seat to face him, warming to the topic. “It just seems that two sexually charged men who’ve shared a big part of their lives together would have, at some point, shared a woman. Especially since you two are obviously close.”

  “Well, I’m not comfortable with the thought of being . . . in a sexual situation with Bastian,” he said defensively.

  “Exactly. And why is that, I wonder?” She sounded satisfied, as though he’d made her point.

  He stared at her in the dark interior of the car, processing what she meant. “You’re implying I’ve avoided having a ménage with Bastian because I’m afraid I’ll develop feelings for him.”

  “Or you’re afraid the feelings you already have, the ones you keep under lock and key, will out themselves.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” But the protest had sprung from his lips too easily, and his voice had wavered. His heart pounded and his palms felt clammy. “Anyway, what are you trying to get at? You want a ménage with me and Bastian?”

  Her voice lowered, her reply husky. “Would you be willing to consider the idea if I did?”

  “I don’t—” He started to refuse. What stopped him, he wasn’t sure.

  Taking advantage of his lapse, she scooted close, reached out, and placed a hand on his chest. “I’m a pretty direct person and I’m used to just coming right out with what I want or feel. Yes, I want to be with both of you at the same time.”

  Even though he’d braced himself for the words, they still knocked him for a loop. “You—you want a ménage with us.”

  “Yes.” Her smile was wicked, those gorgeous eyes sparkling, her touch searing him as her hand moved south. Down his belly to his crotch and the hardness that had come back to life there. “Picture me naked between you. Me, on my hands and knees, sucking his cock while I take yours from behind.”

  “God,” he rasped. He could picture it just the way she described. Her pretty lips stretched around his friend’s shaft, wild red hair tumbling around her shoulders, Michael pumping her with long, glorious strokes.

  Still rubbing his erection through his jeans, she leaned over and nibbled on his jaw. Kissed his temple. “Tell me where’s the harm in three people enjoying each other, Michael. I think Bastian would be game, and part of you is very much willing.”

  Two orgasms tonight and his cock throbbed like he hadn’t had sex in a week. The picture she’d painted fired his blood and his imagination.

  “You wouldn’t even have to touch him if you don’t want to,” she continued. “Many ménage relationships work just fine without the men having sex.”

  “I . . . I let him blow me earlier,” he blurted. “Right here in the limo, on the way to get you.” Jesus, what had made him confess that?

  She pulled back, eyes round. Then her mouth curved into a knowing smile. “So that’s why you two were acting weird. You loved it, and that scared the hell out of you. Am I right?”

  He sighed. “Yeah. My best friend—a guy—sucked me off, and I fucking loved it. What am I supposed to do about it? I didn’t react well, and I said some cruel shit to him. He probably won’t forgive me after tonight.”

  “He will. The man loves you. Anyone can see that.”

  “He deserves better.”

  “Then be the one to give him better. It’s easy.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” he said honestly. “How do I explain? I’m not homophobic. I believe everyone has the right to love whomever they choose and I don’t have a problem with alternative lifestyles.”

  “Then what’s the problem? What frightens you so much about being with Bastian?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Michael . . . I think you do.”

  “What, you’re a psychiatrist now?” He scowled.

  “Simple deduction,” she said calmly. “You’re the most self-assured man I know, with the exception of your feelings for Bastian. I believe you haven’t let yourself recognize what’s holding you back. Would you like to come in?”

  The limo slowed to a stop and he looked out to see that they’d arrived at her condo. “I would. Thanks.”

  After helping her out, he gave the driver instructions to take the car home. He’d get a ride home later from one of the agents watching Katrina’s place. He fielded a brief pang of guilt for having his men stay out late to accommodate his evening, but reminded himself they were earning damned good hazard pay to do so.

  As he walked Katrina to her door, his mind turned to her assertion regarding Bastian. What was holding him back? It wasn’t as though he had a terrible family history to blame. His parents were very open-minded, wonderful folks. No bad sexual experiences in his past, with a man or a woman, that he could point to as the culprit.

  Quite simply, he was a straight man who was attracted to his best friend. Might even love him. And yes, goddammit, love him like that. Even in his head, he couldn’t put a finer point on the term.

  So the issue was Michael’s and no one else’s. It was his internal struggle with the black-and-white man he’d always prided himself on being, and the man he was becoming. One he didn’t know at all, who was beginning to recognize that shades of gray could filter into a man’s life—and that maybe it was okay.

  He had no clue how to handle the barrage of emotions. Not the least among them was the guilt that haunted him because he hadn’t loved Maggie the way she deserved. Not with the undying passion everyone believed. She was a good woman and a good friend, but the marriage had been a mistake. Her loss hurt so much because she’d deserved a husband who spent more time thinking about her than about repairing his strained friendship with Bastian.

  In the end, he’d wronged them both.

  “Are you coming in?”

  Blinking, he realized he’d been standing on her threshold and she was holding the door open, waiting with a bemused expression. “Sorry. I was woolgathering.”

  “Thinking about Bastian?”

  He stepped in, and she closed and locked the door behind them. “And me.”

  “And did you come to a conclusion?” Stepping close, she wrapped her arms around his waist.

  “I think it comes down to an old dog and new tricks. Or something along those lines.”

  “You’re not old, but I can help with the new tricks,” she whispered into his mouth.

  He groaned, his musings put on hold. She was going to kill him. “Why don’t you show me?”

  “My pleasure.”

  Oh no. It’s all mine.

  But he wasn’t about to argue.

  Bastian woke and gazed into the darkness, disoriented. As his eyes adjusted, he remembered. Turning his head on his pillow, he could just see Blaze spooned around Emma in the moonlight on the other side of the huge bed. For a long moment, he stared at them, his throat suddenly burning.

  Why couldn’t he have that for himself? Not just the mind-blowing sex—great as it was, sex could be had anywhere—but the intimacy. Love. Because even in sleep, love radiated from the couple, in the way they snuggled tight, unwilling to ever let go. He didn’t begrudge them their happiness in the least, and knew he would never be more than a fond playmate for them. Which was okay, because he felt the same where they were concerned. But he wanted, needed his own lovers to—

  God, he needed to leave. Right fucking now.

  Slipping from the bed, he gathered his clothes as quietly as possible, glad he’d thought to bring them up from the basement playroom when they roused him to come upstairs. Not wanting to wake them, he padded into the living room to dress. In less than a minute, he was ready, and had pulled out his cell phone to call the agent outside when a deep voice startled him.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  He spun to face Blaze. The man stood in the darkness, a huge form, black hair spilling over his shoulders. “Yeah. I need
to get going.”

  “You’re welcome to stay, you know.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it, but . . .”

  Moving forward, his friend gave him a brief hug. “I understand, believe me. Just know we’re here for you. Give us a call anytime.” His smile slashed the darkness. “For any reason.”

  Despite the ache inside, he couldn’t help but smile. “I will.”

  Blaze saw him out and waited with him on the porch while Bastian made his call and stayed until the agent’s car pulled up. Once he was safely ensconced in the vehicle, his friend waved and headed back inside.

  “Wild night, huh?” Agent Chapman commented. The older man sounded tired, but his voice held no real rancor.

  “You could say that.” He paused. “Thanks for taking me back to the estate.”

  “No problem.” The man yawned. “Gotta say, I’ll be glad to hit my own pillow, though.”

  Bastian agreed. Only the bed at Michael’s estate wasn’t really his, was it? As much as he wished differently, his best friend’s place wasn’t his home.

  When he let himself in a short time later, turned off the alarm, and stood in the darkened foyer by himself, the reality hit him hard. Michael wasn’t here, was probably off with Katrina. The two of them having a great time.

  Once again, I’m on the outside. Always have been where he’s concerned. Always will be.

  This wasn’t his home, and he didn’t belong here. He couldn’t stay one second longer than necessary. It just hurt too fucking bad.

  Jogging upstairs, he grabbed a duffel from the closet and shoved as many of his clothes in it as possible. Next, he gathered all his suits, leaving them on the hangers. He’d need those for work. The toiletries in the bathroom and anything else he’d left behind, Michael could toss out.

  Slinging the bag over one shoulder, he picked up the stack of suits and took one last look around. The burning started again, the lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit. He couldn’t breathe.

  He fled down the stairs, pausing only long enough to set the alarm and lock the house again. When he went in to work on Monday, he’d return Michael’s spare house key. Outside, he unlocked his rental car, threw in his stuff, and jumped into the driver’s seat. As he sped out of the gate, he told himself he wasn’t running. He was being realistic, taking himself out of a painful, futile situation.

  Nobody’s going to look out for you, Bastian, old boy. You have to do it yourself.

  This was self-preservation, and he had to go.

  And if he had tears running down his face? Nobody would ever know.

  Or care.

  Seven

  Humming, Michael walked into the house. Given the previous night’s activities, he should’ve been exhausted. But this morning, he felt energized. Hopeful. The extra spring in his step and the adjustment in his attitude could be attributed to one person. Well, make that two.

  Katrina. God, what a revelation the woman had turned out to be. Beautiful, with a streak of kinkiness under her classy exterior and an open-minded outlook that surprised him. Ever since she’d planted the suggestion of a ménage in his brain, the wheels in his head had done nothing but churn.

  A threesome. With a woman he admired and who was rapidly getting under his skin, and the best friend he . . . loved. Yes, loved. Even though he stumbled over precisely which definition of the word to apply to him and Bastian. In any case, after a lot of soul searching, he had no problem envisioning the scene Katrina had described of the three of them together. On the contrary, the idea made his cock twitch in anticipation, though it couldn’t manage much more than a nod of agreement after last night.

  This really could work. And as she’d said, he and Bastian didn’t have to have sex for the three of them to enjoy being together. It would be perfect. As for the fact that he’d let his friend blow him in the limo? A moment of weakness—that’s all. Bastian would understand once he explained how good things could be.

  Tantalizing breakfast smells were coming from the kitchen, as Mrs. Beasley was no doubt fixing something spectacular. He decided to head upstairs first, see whether Bastian had made it home yet and was conscious. They needed to talk—the sooner, the better. At his friend’s door, he knocked lightly.

  “Bastian?” No answer. He tried again, louder. “Hey, Bastian?”

  The man never locked his bedroom door, so Michael turned the knob and eased it open a crack. If the guy was still asleep, their talk could wait. Peering through the crack, he blinked at the sight of the perfectly made bed, and pushed the door all the way open. He walked inside. Empty. Which meant he’d never come home, or had come back and left early.

  “Damn, you must’ve had some wild night if you never came home.” And hell, that thought sat in his gut like a rock.

  As he turned to leave, something stopped him. He scanned the room, struck by a sudden sense of the space being completely devoid of life. As if the emptiness was more than Bastian not being here at the moment. Stalking to the dresser, he yanked open the top drawer and stared.

  Where socks and underwear should be neatly folded, there was nothing. Next drawer, same story. No T-shirts or shorts.

  “What the fuck?”

  Heart lurching, he moved to the bathroom. A razor and shaving cream sat on the counter, and there was a bottle of shampoo in the shower. That meant Bastian hadn’t necessarily left for good. Right? Hurrying to the closet, he stepped inside, flipped on the light.

  Gone. Every damned suit, shirt, tie. He’d cleaned his shit out of Michael’s life almost as though he’d never been there.

  In a fog, Michael walked to the bed and lowered himself to sit on the side. “Why? Was it because of last night?” Stupid question. Obviously, it was.

  He’d screwed up by allowing what happened between them in the car. Had set some sort of expectation on Bastian’s part about where their relationship might go. And then he’d pulled the rug out from under his friend not once, but twice. First by shutting him down after the incredible blow job, and then by whisking Katrina right out from under the man’s nose to have her for himself.

  Okay, Michael was a selfish bastard. But he could fix this.

  Fishing his cell phone from his pants, he speed-dialed his friend’s number. The call went immediately to voice mail, and Michael took a deep breath. “It’s me. We need to talk. Please don’t shut me out.” He paused. “Okay, I’ll try your landline.”

  Ending the call, he waited a couple of minutes, then dialed Bastian’s number at his condo. On the fourth ring, he got the answering machine. After Bastian’s taped greeting and the beep, he spoke more urgently. “Please pick up. Come on, don’t do this to me. Dammit, I know you’re there.”

  Nothing. Well, shit! He’d have to go over there, because this tactic wasn’t getting him anywhere. Hanging up again, he pocketed his phone and bounded down the stairs, yelling, “Simon!”

  The older man was hurrying through the living room as Michael reached the bottom of the stairs. “I say! Whatever is the matter?”

  “Bastian’s gone!”

  The butler hesitated, uncertain. “Perhaps he had a pressing errand—”

  “No, I mean gone. As in packed his stuff and left.” Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair. “I guess that means you didn’t see him go.”

  Simon stiffened, appearing affronted. “Of course not, sir. I would have phoned you straightaway had I known.”

  “Damn, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I know you would have. I’m just worried. I didn’t expect him to take off like that.” Though the guilty little voice in his head whispered that he should have.

  “Really?” Was that a note of censure?

  Michael didn’t have the inclination to listen to Simon’s pearls of wisdom, or a lecture on how he took Bastian for granted. Besides, that wasn’t true. “Yeah. Listen, I’m going to look for him. If you hear from him, call me.”

  “Immediately.” The butler eyed him sharply. “And I do hope you can convince him to return. The estate
won’t be the same without him.”

  The truth of that statement hit Michael hard as he headed for his Camaro. He tried to imagine the house without Bastian’s teasing, his sunny smile, his laughter. The absence of that special light was a depressing prospect.

  “Hey, boss?”

  Car keys in hand, Michael stopped and turned to see his head of security bearing down on him. A man on a mission. “John?”

  The man halted a few steps away, frowning. “I’ve been waiting for you to get home. Thought you should know that Mr. Chevalier tore out of here in the wee hours this morning. One of your agents trailed him and—”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he snarled.

  “I tried,” the man replied evenly. “Kept getting one of those out-of-service messages.”

  “I didn’t notice any glitch in my cell service. But, then, I was occupied for a while. When did Bastian leave?”

  “The gate records show he arrived at five fifteen and departed at five forty-two, with one of your agents—Thompson—right behind him. Thompson tried to notify you, as well, but when he couldn’t reach you, he called me. Mr. Chevalier went straight home and hasn’t emerged since.”

  Michael nodded. “Thanks. My phone seems to be working fine now, so call me if anything else comes up.”

  “Will do.” With a wave, the man walked off.

  Michael got in and started the car, grateful that his men had his wayward friend under tight surveillance. Thinking of the danger Bastian had placed himself in by moving off the estate, Michael’s blood began to boil. By the time he arrived at the man’s first-floor condo, his head pounded from being torn between thanking God he was safe and the desire to bitch him out. Stepping from the car, he resisted the natural urge to look for Agent Thompson’s sedan, which would give away his location to the bad guys, should there be any lurking.

  At the door, he let his fist fly, not caring if he disturbed all the neighbors with the commotion. “Bastian!” Bang, bang, bang. “Open up! Let me in, goddammit!”

  Silence. Bang, bang. “Let me in right now, or I swear to God I’ll break in this fucking—”