High-Stakes Loving [King's Bluff, Wyoming 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Fiona Archer

  Chapter Three

  Reagan watched Mike shift the truck’s gear stick to park. The nerves in her belly fluttered quicker than the wings of a trapped butterfly. She hugged the bottom of her bag with her free hand, her fingers rubbing the soft battle-scarred leather.

  Mike stared out at the trimmed bushes and neat flower beds. “You’re a gardener.” It wasn’t a question. “Those rose bushes are old. Carrying on from your dad?” His voice softened on the last sentence.

  Her gaze swung along the line of roses that formed a border separating the road’s grass easement and the garden. “Yes, Dad loved roses.” So had Mom. Big bowls of Mr. Lincoln reds had crowded the house. Their rich damask fragrance draped each room like a ruby velvet blanket. “He planted them when my parents first moved in. They’re tougher than army boots. Survived frost, snow, and drought.”

  The men climbed out. Quinn lifted her to the ground. She fussed with her sweater as they walked toward the front porch. At the door, her hand shook as she aimed her key in the lock.

  From behind, a large tanned hand closed over hers. The metal band of Mike’s heavy-duty sports watch glinted in the afternoon light. “Let me.”

  The lock clicked and the old wooden door, with its bright red painted exterior, creaked in welcome as he pushed it wide.

  Her gaze stuck on the hall table with its small dish for keys and a silver metal photo frame holding a family snapshot from decades ago.

  One step past the doorway and everything would change. They’d warned her.

  She dragged in a deep breath.

  “Sweetheart, the ground’s not gonna swallow you up as soon as you’re inside.” Quinn’s breath tickled her ear. His hand found the small of her back and gently urged her forward.

  She dropped her bag near the hall table. The heavy clod of the men’s boots sounded on the floorboards. Shoulders squared, she turned around.

  Mike pushed the door closed with the kind of unhurried movement that reeked of confidence. He leaned back against the wood, crossing his arms over his chest. Quinn stepped forward, hat in one hand and a black gym bag in the other.

  She frowned and glanced up at his face.

  “A SEAL always keeps a bag handy. Mike and I have everything we need in here.” He dropped the bag at his feet, followed by his hat.

  “Everything?” She guessed he meant more than a clean shirt and deodorant.

  “For tonight anyway.” Quinn stalked forward, his body now so close she had to lift her chin high to meet his gaze. “Reality-check time. I’ll ask you again. Do you want this, Reagan? Because we’re not some pansy-ass Ken-doll version of Doms.” He caught her wrists and drew them behind her back, holding them there with one hand.

  Her pussy throbbed. She tested his hold, wanting, no, needing to struggle. He tightened his grip. Firm. Inescapable.

  Quinn used his grip to push her up against him. “You’re caught, sweetness. And that’s just a preview of things to come. We’re gonna order you about, tie you up, eat your pussy till you’re begging us to let you come, say no because that’s the kind of bastards we are, then we’re gonna eat you up all over again.” He lifted his free hand and ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “I want to discover all the ways you light up when we bury our cocks inside that warm heaven between your legs. You’ll come when we say so and not before. Defy us and you’ll be punished. Still interested?”

  Dominated. Tied. Theirs.

  Her mouth opened but her voice refused to cooperate.

  Mike pushed off the door. “We need the words, Reagan.”

  “Y-yes.”

  Quinn lessened his hold until her hands fell away to her sides. Somehow, the action left her…bereft.

  “Strip,” Mike ordered.

  “Here, in the hallway?” They had to be kidding.

  Mike’s mouth pressed down in a harsh line. But it was his cold stare washing over her like an icy bath that made her gulp.

  She hurried to remove her shirt and tank top. Her fingers struggled to get a grip, as if covered in woolen mittens. Why did the guys have to stand so close?

  Dragging the tank top over her head, the easy-fit cotton now impersonated skin-tight spandex, hooking on her elbows until with one hard pull, she managed to lurch free. Sexy, Reagan. With her gaze lowered, she dropped the clothing at her feet.

  Thank God for front-closing bras. Her breasts spilled out. Don’t think about all that pale skin. Just hurry. They’re waiting. The white cotton joined the rest of her clothing. After toeing off her sneakers, she pulled her panties down with her jeans.

  The cool air wafted over her bare skin. She shivered. There she was, naked in front of Mike and Quinn. And yet, every part of her was alive with a slow burn that kindled from deep between her legs. She moved her gaze from Quinn’s boots to her chest. The hard points of her nipples stood like beacons, screaming her arousal.

  Oh, heck, her breasts. She raised her arms.

  “Hands by your sides, sugar.” Quinn’s deep voice cut in.

  Lowering her hands was like refusing to swim even as the water closed over her head. Her fingers twitched. A tightness filled her belly. Standing there, like a horse on display, seemed so wrong. Shouldn’t she argue back?

  “We’re going to push you, Reagan. Well beyond what you’re used to from a partner. In or out of bed.” Mike tilted his head. “Have you been with a Dom before?”

  “No.” Only in her dreams. This reality was so much more.

  Mike walked behind her.

  She forced herself not to swivel around. Look ahead. Chin up.

  A line of knuckles brushed against her butt cheek.

  She started. Her breasts jiggled.

  Mike’s chuckle singed her ears. “Easy, sub.”

  She dragged her gaze up to Quinn’s face. The heat of his stare made her stomach muscles quiver, as if he’d twirled a feather over her belly button.

  “Ever been tied up?” Mike’s hand curved over her hip.

  “No.” Her face heated. It seemed so foreign and carnal, talking about bondage in such a matter-of-fact way.

  “Spanked?”

  “N-no.” She coughed past the shag pile carpet coating her throat. “I haven’t done anything, besides, you know, normal stuff.” Two lovers at college and an ex-boyfriend in Sheridan. All missionary men, and she wasn’t talking Bibles.

  This time Quinn chuckled. “We’re gonna open up a whole new world for you, sweetheart.” He cupped her breasts. “You have beautiful breasts, Reagan. Full and heavy.”

  Her gaze dropped to her chest.

  Her breasts sat like plump white pillows in Quinn’s work-roughened hands. His fingers curved over, squeezing, kneading. First gently, then harder, then gentle again.

  Mike’s grip firmed on her hip. The heel of his palm dug into her bottom before the edge of a fingernail traced down the curve of her ass. His other hand came around to rub her lower belly, skirting over the bare skin above her pussy. Something about a man’s hand, the wide pads of his fingers, the rougher skin, intensified the sensation.

  A moan, long and deep from in her throat, filled the hallway.

  “You wax?” Mike continued to stroke over the top of her mound.

  “I just started.” Chloe’s nagging and reassurances that it wasn’t that painful had won out. She’d fibbed about the pain, but not the sensation of smoothness.

  “Has anyone taken you here?” The hand from her hip moved to tap the crease of her backside.

  “No. I’ve worn a plug. Once. Years ago. The relationship ended before we went further.” An impatient lover wasn’t her idea of a good partner.

  Mike squeezed against her from behind. The hardness in his jeans pressed into her lower back. “Good.”

  She felt the corners of her mouth curve up. Conceited man. Her chest warmed at the idea they wanted to be first.

  Quinn squeezed her breasts, harder this time, and then used his thumbs with a slow, almost arrogant flick over her nipples.

  Her answering moan cam
e out like a plea for more.

  “Look up,” Quinn ordered.

  She lifted her chin. Questioning his order didn’t cross her mind.

  “We have rules, sweetness. Not many at the beginning. But they’re important both for your safety and to ensure your enjoyment.” He let go of her breasts and moved his hands to cup her face. “Good Doms don’t hurt or punish subs because they’re on a fucking power trip. When you earn a punishment, you’ll know why.”

  Punishment? Her clit throbbed from hearing his gravel-rough voice say that word.

  “You’ve heard of the term ‘safe word?’”

  “I’ve read about them. And, I’ve ah, heard it discussed by friends.”

  His mouth quirked. “I bet you have.” He untied the pink scarf on her ponytail and draped it around her neck, letting the ends trail over her breasts.

  Each breath she drew in raised the scarf up and down over her nipples, tickling the hard buds with a gossamer-light kiss. She bit her lip against the sensation. If only Quinn would pinch and roll them as he had earlier. God, she’d never had a man do that before, like he didn’t give a damn if it shocked or pushed her.

  “You say your safe word and play stops. We sort out what’s scared or confused you, and if we’re all in agreement, play continues. Pick a safe word, Reagan. Something easy to remember but one that stands out.” He waited a few seconds. “What’s it gonna be?”

  “Spaghetti.”

  He blinked. “I may regret this but I have to know. Why that word?”

  She shrugged, then shivered as her movement lifted the silk to once again glide over her nipple. “When I was a kid and felt low…” For three years she’d suffered nightmares, hearing her mom call for her. Reagan, I’m here, I’m here. But she’d never found her, instead waking up to her dad holding her, drying her tears. “Dad and I would cook spaghetti together. It always made me feel better.”

  “Spaghetti means safety. Good association.”

  Mike rubbed his jaw on her shoulder. She hummed at the scratchy caress. So typically Mike, stubble rough and yet gentle. She tried to tilt her head a little to the left to give him more room.

  He bit down on her shoulder, hard.

  “Oh!”

  Her gasp was from surprise, not pain. Shivers rode across her shoulders and back. Her core clenched at the dark thrill of his bite.

  Mike kissed her shoulder. “Not all pain is bad. Sometimes a sub needs a pinch to make her purr.” He slid two fingers down over her mound then between the wet folds of her labia. Up and down he rubbed, squeezing her clit at the top of each upward stroke.

  She widened her stance. Her breathing became louder. Every muscle in her body drew tight.

  Quinn gripped her nape. His other hand claimed her breast and captured a nipple, rolling it between finger and thumb.

  Her legs wobbled. She clutched at Quinn’s shirt. Her gaze locked on his face.

  “Quinn, I—”

  Her next words were lost under Quinn’s kiss. His mouth claimed hers with an almost fierce hunger. His tongue pushed in, tasting her, forcing her to open wider, to accept his control.

  Without warning, Mike thrust two fingers inside her, stroking over her G-spot with the barest hint of pressure.

  Quinn’s mouth muffled her groan. Her fingers twisted in his shirtfront as she grasped in vain for some measure of control. She tore free from his kiss. “Oh, God. I can’t…I can’t wait. You have to let me come.”

  Mike’s hand slid away, his fingers leaving a wet path across the top of her thigh. Cool air replaced his body heat against her back.

  Quinn freed her nipple. His other hand released her nape. He met her slack-jawed stare with a hard look.

  “What are you doing? You can’t stop now.” She craned her head back to see Mike.

  “You have much to learn.” Mike undid her ponytail with expert ease. “We give the orders. Not you.”

  Quinn tugged on one end of the scarf. Like a snake, it slid over her shoulder to fall into his hand. With lightning-quick speed, he used the silk to bind her wrists in front of her.

  She stared, first at her bonds, and then up at the now smiling giant.

  Air whooshed out of her lungs as she was caught up in his arms and held tight against his chest. Her toes curled at being carried so easily. Those linebacker shoulders and strong arms seemed free of strain.

  “Which door is your room, sugar?”

  “First on the left.”

  She caught a glimpse of Mike following behind, carrying the gym bag and Quinn’s hat. They never stopped working as a team.

  Mike swung open her bedroom door. Quinn strode in, then stood at the foot of her bed. The king-size mattress had been such an extravagance, as had the custom-made brass headboard. The hours she’d spent hand-embroidering bees and flowers on the linen bedcover were a labor of love. Her bedroom had always been her secret hideaway. A place where her fantasies ruled, shutting out the mundane normality of her life.

  Judging from the slow grins on the men’s faces, they weren’t displeased.

  Quinn gazed down at her, still holding her snug against his chest. “Sweetness, you have a bed built for bondage.”

  Trust them to zero in on the headboard.

  Mike dropped the bag beside the bed, with Quinn’s hat ending up on top of her tall oak dresser. He took the time to fold back the linen cover before transferring it to a nearby chair. The rest of the blankets and sheets were pulled down with more vigor. He nodded, apparently satisfied with his work. “Let’s get you ready, sub.”

  Talk about a long reach. Quinn lowered her directly onto the middle of the mattress. The coolness of the cotton sheets caressed her backside as she wiggled her way closer to sit near the pillows.

  She needed to pinch herself. Here she was, sitting up on her bed with two Doms, preparing to do, well, whatever the hell they wanted to her. They stood together, talking in hushed voices. The obvious strength and height of their bodies crowded her usually spacious room, ramping up her arousal.

  The thin silk scarf securing her wrists weighed like heavy rope. Her clit thrummed. She closed her eyes. If she squeezed her thighs hard, really hard, maybe? Nope. The wetness coating the skin there made any kind of friction impossible. Damn it.

  There was a soft thump beside her. Her eyes popped open. The gym bag.

  Quinn riffled through the black canvas carryall. He produced a set of leather wrist cuffs and a length of chain with some kind of clip at the end. “Let’s get you secured. Then we can take our time.”

  Take their time? No. Less time. More action.

  “Umm, you don’t have to, ah, warm me up. We’re good to go.”

  A deep V formed on Mike’s forehead. He leaned a knee into the mattress and then wrapped a hand around her jaw, holding her easily despite her initial pull away.

  “We judge when you’re warmed up.” His grip hardened, letting her feel a tiny bite of pain. “By the time we’re finished, you’ll be ready for a fucking NASA blast off.”

  His mouth crashed hard upon hers, mashing her lips against his own. He pulled down on her chin, forcing her lips apart. The roughness matched the untamed nature of the man. His tongue raided her warmth, probing and tasting her like she was a fine wine he wanted to sample. Then he gentled his approach, his lips now softer, coaxing instead of demanding. And yet the power of his touch remained as lethal.

  Her mind spun from his gentle assault. It was like falling into a bed of clouds. She tilted her head until the ends of her hair tickled the small of her back.

  With one last nip along her jawline, Mike lifted his head.

  She blinked. Center your thoughts, ninny. Maybe apologize? She’d obviously committed a breach of sub etiquette. She risked a peek at Mike.

  The raw hunger of his gaze rendered her silent.

  Quinn sat on her other side and loosened her scarf binding. “I’m not sure what five-minute lovers you’ve had in the past, sweetness, but getting you wet doesn’t equal to having you warmed up
.” He wound the material in a ball, tossed it onto her bedside table, and then handed one of the leather wrist cuffs to Mike.

  Quinn continued talking as they secured the cuffs around her wrists, each running a finger under the wool lining to check the fit. “The thinking portion of this exercise is our job. Yours is to feel. To do that, you need to trust in us and yourself.” He drew her wrists together and locked the interconnecting D-rings. “Can you do that, Reagan?”

  After coming this far? No way was she backing out.

  “I can.” She flicked her gaze between both men. “But I’m nervous. I’m going to make mistakes and stuff. I need you to be patient.”

  “We don’t have ‘Tarzan’ tattooed over our chests.” Mike rubbed long, firm strokes over her upper thigh. “If you weren’t nervous, I’d be shocked. Remember, you have your safe word.”

  She nodded. “Spaghetti.” Funny. Instead of an easy cop-out, it seemed more like a lifeboat. The kind of escape you never hoped to use.

  Quinn pushed her back down against the sheets. He lifted her hair so it fanned out on the pillow. “Here’s the rules, darlin’.” Gently, he raised her arms over her head. “You’ll call Mike and me by our first names. Calling us both Sir leads to confusion.” There was a clang of chain against brass and then a tug as he adjusted the length. “You have permission to speak outside of your safe word. Don’t abuse that concession.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  His laughter streamed over her like a warm spoonful of caramel sauce. So rich, comforting, and leaving her wanting more.

  Both men stood, toed off their boots, then removed their shirts. Mike flung his T-shirt to the ground. The long lines of his body reminded her of an Olympic swimmer. Tall as a church steeple, with hard muscle and a wide chest that tapered to washboard abs. Eight of them.

  Quinn took his time unbuttoning his denim shirt, all the while letting his gaze run over her naked form. He had no shame. And wasn’t that sexy as hell?

  When an alpha stepped into the room, you knew with every breath you fought to get down in your lungs that whatever happened, it would be on their terms. And she had two of them.

  Finally, denim gave way to tanned skin. The extra fifty pounds he carried on Mike in weight and three inches in height were housed in an impenetrable wall of man. The biceps she’d touched earlier were there, along with the mile-wide shoulders. A light dusting of hair trailed to a slim line that disappeared past the waist of his jeans.