by Jade West
Thomas licked my open lips before his answered, and his smirk set me on fire.
“Not until you do,” he said, and I felt it in them both, the same crazy need to feel me fall apart between them.
It came so much easier than I expected. I came so much easier than I expected. My stomach muscles were clenched so tight I feared I’d never stand straight again, every nerve in me spiralling as those two fat cocks slammed in hard. My pussy throbbed raw before the ache of climax found me, that sweet spot deep inside unravelling with a string of sparks that had me convulsing.
My ears were ringing as I heard them grunt along with me, the expletives hissing loud enough to grit my teeth as I cursed like a whore.
I didn’t care that my cheeks were wet with tears and likely blooming pink. I didn’t care that they’d claimed all of me, likely to leave me a ruined limp mess for all time.
All I cared about was the way they thrusted into me, both of them reaching their peak as I screamed out with mine.
I couldn’t think.
Couldn’t do anything but hold on tight.
Couldn’t stop my body burning up and screaming for more.
Until it was done.
We were done.
They held me so tight, still suspended between them as I strained for breath, and this was the most fucked-up moment of all, feeling so right between two men who’d felt so wrong.
I’m sure I was smiling. I’m sure my words made no sense as they tumbled breathless from my lips.
And I’m sure they were smiling too as they moved together onto the bed and kept me tight between them.
We stayed for an eternity in the cold afternoon light, three bodies breathing and holding, three bodies coming down from a crazy high I’d never known.
It was Thomas who pulled away first, stroking my cheek with a tenderness in his fingertips I’d never felt from him.
Brett folded me further into his arms, nuzzling my neck as I watched the other man get to his feet and retreat to the bathroom.
I wondered if this was it, a beginning of another retreat as he bailed and ditched us high. But no, he came back with a smile on his face and his dick still proud, giving Brett a playful slap on his arm as he passed by on his quest for his clothes.
That playful slap meant everything.
I couldn’t hold back the grin at the shift in the room. Coaxing Brett away from me with an urgency from deep. He got it, kissing my neck once more before dragging himself away from me in search of clothes of his own.
It was when he slapped the other man back, right between his shoulder blades, that I knew the page was turning.
“Fuck,” he said. “They were some moves.”
“Didn’t move too fucking bad yourself,” Thomas said back, and I sighed happy onto the mattress, well aware that my holes were still weeping all over the sheets.
It was disgusting.
Beautiful and disgusting.
Hot and beautiful and disgusting.
But as I moved afresh, I knew I wouldn’t be repeating the experience in a hurry.
Everything hurt. Every single thing.
I laughed as the guys caught my discomfort, clearly visible through my smile. Their arms were right there waiting, lifting me to my feet and keeping me tall until I found my balance, two smirks at full volume as I dithered my way to the bathroom to splash my face with cold water.
My reflection was different in the mirror. My hair slick and messy all at once, my eyes wild and watery, my lips puffy from dicks and kisses.
I couldn’t hold back the laughter as I splashed myself cool.
The guys were pretty much dressed when I stepped back in to join them, absorbed in a low grunt of a conversation like two old friends. And that, right there, that was the greatest outcome of all, zinging right through me as I dared to reach for a fresh pair of knickers from the drawer.
Brett dropped to his knees to help me dress, and I watched Thomas all the while my husband guided my body in every which direction.
Thomas looked as different as I felt, his smirk at odds with the asshole I’d come to know these past few weeks. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t, just kept my smile easy on his as he fastened up his shirt cuffs.
“Whisky,” Brett announced, when he finished pulling my cami top down over my head. “I think we need a decent shot of whisky.”
“Whisky would most certainly be welcome,” Thomas agreed, leaning back for a stretch before landing a palm on his stomach. “But first food. I’m ravenous.”
That was hardly a surprise and I told him so with a giggle. One honeycomb sundae does not a meal make.
“Help yourself from the kitchen,” Brett told him. “Grab whatever you want.”
Thomas tipped his head before his exit. “I’m thinking steak. Rare. Fries on the side.”
“Go for it,” my husband said. “You’ll find the butcher’s finest in the fridge.”
It was only with his hand on the door handle that Thomas glanced back to face us. “How about you filthy pair? Hungry enough to join me?”
My nod was instant, and so was Brett’s.
“Steak for three sounds really good,” I told him. “We’ll be out to join you as soon as I’ve managed to get myself buttoned up straight.”
We watched him leave, saying not a word as the door swung closed behind him. Brett’s raised eyebrow was the only communication but it summed up far more than a mouthful of words.
He liked it.
Fuck knows, I think he even liked Heath.
And so did I.
I grabbed my blouse and buttoned it up with still dithery fingers, reaching into my jeans pocket to check my phone was still in place before attempting to clasp up the button.
It was only when I pulled the handset from my pocket that I saw the flash of the message icon. I unlocked the screen with a thumb swipe, not surprised that I’d missed the bleeping in all the double dick action.
My sister. Sarah’s name flashed up before the message text. There was more than one. A whole string from the looks of it.
I stopped dead, swearing my heart would pass out on me as I struggled to comprehend the words.
Thomas Heath IS Thomas Browning. My fucking God, Grace. We KNOW him. x
No.
It couldn’t be.
We couldn’t possibly.
My fingers were shaking to a whole new tune as I called up the next.
Polly Piper knows him. I caught her before she left the bakery for the day and she cried like a baby before she told me the truth.
He’s Thomas Browning. No fucking shit. Tina Hadley is his mother.
I felt sick as I clicked for more.
Jesus Christ, Grace, call me. Please call me. x
But I hadn’t. Of course I hadn’t.
I could barely bring myself to click on the final message. I had tunnel vision as I stared, unable to face so much as glancing at my husband as he adjusted his collar in our full-length mirror.
Thomas Heath’s dad was George Foster! Fuck! Tina was with George Foster at Alvington Plastics before he hooked up with Brett’s mum. Shit, Grace. Thomas Heath is Brett’s stepbrother. His actual stepbrother. I can’t even…WTF?! CALL ME! x
I couldn’t call her.
I couldn’t do anything.
My mouth was open as Brett headed back in my direction, my desire to throw my phone out the window overriding every urge to show him the messages.
But I couldn’t not. I daren’t not.
I didn’t even have the beginnings of reason as he landed a kiss on my cheek and raised an eyebrow.
“What’s up with you, Mrs Foster? Two at once left you a little pale?”
The shake of my head was slow. The way I handed over my handset was slower.
His brows knitted as he scanned my screen, and then they loosened, every one of his features going slack with shock as he scrolled up and down.
“This can’t be right… my dad wasn’t…”
That’s when it hit m
e. What this would mean for Brett’s pedestal memory of his dad if this were true.
Brett’s dad was a hero beyond fault in his eyes. Beyond the tiniest hint of criticism, no matter what the situation.
“Dad wouldn’t have… no fucking way…” His laughter didn’t come close to convincing. “There’s no way, Grace. If Thomas Browning was my dad’s boy he’d have…”
It broke my heart to see the way his eyes darkened as he swallowed.
“I’m calling my mother. She’ll set this straight.”
His fingers were shaking as they fumbled with my phone keypad, unwilling to even seek out his own mobile before keying in his mum’s number.
I reached for him as he put the phone to his ear, but he stepped away, pacing through to the bathroom as his hello barked out.
It was when the bathroom door closed that I knew this was really real.
Really, really real.
And it was when I heard him scream out loud that I knew Polly Piper wasn’t lying.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Brett
Thomas Heath wasn’t my dad’s boy. No fucking chance.
It made no fucking sense, not any of it. Not that Thomas Heath was Thomas Browning from high school. Not that he knew my dad at fucking all.
My dad had been a perfect father, ever since he’d rocked up at our dining table when I was five years old going on six. I remembered it, even now, all these years later. Just like it was yesterday. His smile. The way he ruffled my hair and helped my mum with the dinner plates. The way he patted me on the back when I got top marks for my homework.
The way he was always fucking there. Always. Always urging me to do better, do my best, be a winner.
How could he urge me to be a fucking winner if he had another boy cast aside somewhere else in our fucking town? How could he walk away from his own fucking kid to shack up with someone he barely knew?
I knew he loved my mum. He loved her until the day he died. They were good together. Perfect together.
Yet I knew from way back when that I had to keep away from Tina Hadley. Knew she was trouble. Remembered how my dad’s eyes darkened at the mention of her name, Mum’s lips pursing as she told me to stay away from those people. And by those people she’d meant him too.
Thomas Browning.
A kid I only vaguely remembered. Scrawny and pale, blonde hair and thick glasses. Weak and pathetic.
“Brett,” Mum’s voice sounded out. “What a nice surprise.”
But it wouldn’t be. It wouldn’t be a nice surprise at all.
“Tina Hadley,” I barked. “Tell me about Tina Hadley. Who was she?”
The pause was too pronounced. “Why do you want to know about Tina Hadley? Who’s been talking about her?”
“Her fucking son is right fucking here, in our fucking hotel!” My voice was too loud and I knew it. Beyond all reason.
And that’s how come I knew the truth of it. The truth festering in my gut.
Mum was quiet. Silent as I tried to get myself together.
“Tell me Thomas Browning isn’t Dad’s boy,” I told her, and my voice had a weakness to it I hated.
“Brett–” she began, but I cut her off with a bellow.
“TELL ME!”
She couldn’t tell me. Of course she fucking couldn’t.
“WHY?!” I boomed. “Why would he fucking do that? Why would he have another kid and never fucking mention it? Never see him? Never say anything?!”
“It’s complicated,” she said, and I couldn’t hold back the bitter laugh that pulsed right through me.
Complicated.
Isn’t it always?
“Try me,” I snapped, holding my breath until she spoke again.
“Tina was… difficult. Your father’s relationship with her was… strained.”
“Not strained enough that he didn’t knock her up and have a fucking kid with her.”
“He didn’t know that…” she blustered. “Not at the time… not for years. Tina was… easy… she liked men. Lots of men.”
“Is Thomas Browning my dad’s fucking son or not?” I demanded.
“He thought so…” she breathed. “By the end, anyway. But not at the beginning, Brett, I promise you. He’d have never left if he’d known…”
It didn’t matter.
My head was shaking as I weighed it up, and no matter which fucking way I looked at it, it didn’t matter.
Dad had a kid with another woman. He moved in with us and left him behind. Didn’t call. Didn’t venture fucking near the whole time we were growing up in the same fucking town.
“Why would he do that?” I asked her, hating how weak I sounded. “How could he do that?”
Her sigh was enough to choke me up. “People aren’t perfect, Brett. Relationships are complicated. Emotions are complicated. People don’t always make the right choices in life.”
But he did.
My dad did.
He was always right. Always strong. Always pushing me to follow in his footsteps. And I’d failed. So many times I’d failed. Never scoring enough goals. Never getting high enough marks. Always nearly. Always well done but better luck next time.
And the whole fucking time he’d slapped my back and told me to dig deep, son he’d been nursing the biggest fucking blip of all. Walking out on his own boy without so much as a glance back over his shoulder.
I’d gone to the same school as the son he’d walked out on and I didn’t even know it. Didn’t question the instructions to steer clear of those people because why the fuck would I?
I always did what he said. Always believed in what he believed in.
He was my fucking dad. My. Fucking. Dad.
But he wasn’t.
He was Thomas Browning’s fucking dad.
And Thomas Browning was in my fucking kitchen cooking steak with my wife’s fucking pussy juice still on his fucking dick.
“I’m sorry,” Mum said, too little too late. “He was sorry too. He thought about contacting Thomas, weighed it up for years, but Thomas was…”
“Was what?” I snapped. “What was Thomas?”
“Successful,” she breathed. “Thomas was very successful. He’s very wealthy now. Your father was worried he’d think he was after his money. He wasn’t after his money, Brett. He wasn’t like that, he just wanted to apologise…”
Fuck, how it hurt.
I was crippled in that bathroom, doubled over, fighting the urge to sick up my bowels through my fucking ribcage.
“There was a letter with the lawyer, part of the will,” she went on, like she hadn’t said enough already. “We couldn’t locate Thomas when the will was read. He’d changed his name several times and his contact details were unavailable. It’s still filed at the office downtown. If he’s there we should get it couriered.”
“A letter?” I wheezed. “A letter for Thomas? From Dad?”
Her sigh said everything. So fucking defeated I wished I could knock myself out and never wake up to this shit again. “Yes, Brett. A letter. I didn’t see the point in telling you… not then…”
“We’re not done with this,” I snarled. “We’ll never be done with this, do you understand me? WE’LL NEVER BE DONE WITH THIS!”
I jabbed the screen hard enough with my thumb that the screen turned black, then tossed the handset onto the tiles without two shits for the way it skittered against the shower tray.
I sat on the toilet seat with my palms against my sweaty temples as I struggled to make sense of this whirlwind of shit.
Grace’s tap at the door was light when it came. Her voice edged with the same desperation I was feeling.
“Brett, sweetheart, can I come in?”
“No,” I said. “Give me a minute.”
She didn’t.
The handle turned and the door inched open, her fingers curling around the frame before her face peeked around the side.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just…”
I’d never been so gratefu
l for my Grace as I was when she saw my despair and sprang into life. Her arms were everything I needed, holding me tight as she pulled my face to her chest and smothered me in all the love I’d need to breathe a single breath.
“You didn’t know,” she whispered. “This isn’t your fault, Brett. Not any of this.”
Getting to my feet was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life, but it was just the tip of the fucking iceberg.
Facing Thomas Browning was still to come.
Chapter Sixty
Thomas
I’d never cooked for other people before. It was a surreal realisation as I fired one of the Foster’s big griddle pans up in their kitchen and prepared to slap on three steaks.
It’d been a long fucking time since I’d done something with the genuine desire to please people rather than tear them down. It felt strangely good. Alien in its attraction.
So did the pride at Brett’s slap on my back and the knowledge that for once in this sorry lifetime we’d worked together instead of at odds.
I tried to keep a hold of my thoughts, reminding myself with that same bitter chill as always that we were still enemies for all intents and purposes, but I didn’t believe it. Not with the same gut-wrenching spite I’d been carrying on my shoulders through living memory.
There was an easiness at the prospect of an evening in the bar with a whisky in my hand. An appeal to flowing conversation that I’d never experienced.
The steaks were cooking nicely when I heard the creak of a door to my right, my smile brighter than I’d have imagined when the bulk of him stepped into view.
It disappeared in a pulse of shock, shrivelling up the moment I saw the expression of dread on his face.
I fought it anyway, gesturing to the griddle pan with my spatula as he stepped on into the room. Grace was at his rear, her face wracked with the same gaunt horror as they stopped a few paces from my side.
“I hope you’re hungry,” I bleated regardless.
“I’ll never be fucking hungry again,” Brett said, and I cursed the fucking world for my ridiculous sliver of optimism.
It was instinct that saw me turn the hob flame to nothing and brace myself for the carnage. I didn’t fully appreciate what was coming until his words knocked me sideways.
