by Nikki Sloane
The relationship was open on my end. I could date if I wanted, but I had better odds of Ryan Reynolds leaving Blake Lively for me—or her doing the same—than finding a man in Chicago who was totally cool dating a girl who fucked strangers for a living.
It was fine. I’d accepted it and could always go cry into my stacks of money if I got lonely. But I never did.
Well, I rarely did.
Her tongue was frantic, whipping at me, and the full, intense sensation of my orgasm barreled at me. I sucked in a breath, writhing beneath her sinful mouth as I clutched at the sheets. Any second now, she’d make good on her promise and deliver a toe-curling orgasm.
“Regan,” a male voice rang out from the bedroom doorway. “What the fuck?”
-6-
Tara
Regan jolted and turned to glance over her shoulder.
If the gallery ever went out of business, Silas could always get a job at the blindfold club, because the guy was huge. He worked out a lot, was covered with ink, and had an imposing presence. His hulking form was squeezed in the tight, dark doorway, but I could make out the scowl twisted on his lips.
“You started without me?” He delivered his pointed question as he stepped deeper into the room. I was naked, but his gaze was focused on her.
“You told me I could.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you would.”
Regan flashed me a devious smile and stirred two fingers over my clit, making me contract from the acute bliss. “I’m getting her warmed up for you,” she said, just before putting her mouth back on me.
“Fuck,” I groaned under my breath. Her hands were set on my thighs, and I grabbed them, lacing our fingers together. I needed to hold onto her as I bucked with satisfaction.
Now that he was here, everything was complete. Regan and Silas were a matching set. Like her, he was fucking hot.
I’d always gone for the big, beefy guys, anyway. The epitome of manly men. Once I’d realized I was bi, I discovered the inverse was true of women. I loved the feminine, girly girls. Dresses and high heels and red lipstick.
He grabbed the sides of the gray t-shirt he was wearing and stretched it up over his head, casting it to the floor. Next, he focused on the belt at the waist of his jeans, eager to shed them and catch up with me. His hair was shaved on the sides and long on top, and as he pushed the jeans down, his soft brown hair fell into his eyes.
“Why do you still have clothes on?” he asked.
Her mouth paused only to speak the annoyed words. “Because I’m busy.”
He raised an eyebrow at her tone. Like her, he was a Dominant, which made for an interesting dynamic. They had figured it out, she told me when we’d first discussed the arrangement, but adding me in every once in a while gave them the opportunity to top at the same time. As a unit.
I’d only had to think about their offer for a second. Not one Dominant, but two? Two people focused on my pleasure was a pretty sweet gig, and being with them was intoxicating. Outside of the bedroom, we were friends. I didn’t give them control of my daily life, and they weren’t interested in it either. But in the bedroom? I submitted eagerly to every command they gave.
A single woman willing to have threesomes with an established couple is called a unicorn—because supposedly they don’t exist—but couldn’t the same be said of this couple? Women typically didn’t like to share their men. Even though emotions weren’t a part of it, Regan had no problem letting Silas fuck me.
Sometimes, she got off on it.
My “relationship” with them satisfied all our needs. Mutually beneficial.
An enormous tattoo sprawled across Silas’s chest and down his arms, and as he stepped behind her and put his hands on her hips, the pattern in the ink moved along with the flex of his muscles. She was still dressed, and he had on a pair of boxers, but he tugged her back against him, grinding his hips into her ass.
“Get naked,” he ordered. When she froze, and he realized his mistake, he tacked on, “Please.”
He had to move when she backed off the bed, so he came to me. The mattress shifted as he climbed onto his knees, and I tried not to roll into him as he knelt beside my head. He palmed himself through his boxers—black ones with tiny maroon dots.
There was a glint of silver when he lowered the waistband. He was long, and thick, and still the only guy I’d been with who was pierced. I liked that. Just another thing that made our relationship special. His hair fell into his face once again as he looked down at me.
His voice was quiet and yet still firm. “Give me your hands.”
Regan was nearly undressed, and I only caught a glimpse of her undoing her bra before I presented my wrists to him. His artist hands were rough with callouses, brushing against my skin as he pulled my wrists up, crossed them together, and pinned them to the bed in one grip. He used his other hand to hold himself steady as he dragged the tip of his rapidly hardening cock across my lips.
I opened my mouth and let him slide deep inside, and kept my gaze locked on his. If I didn’t, he’d order me to look at him while I sucked his cock. He moved his hips, slowly retreating and then diving inside again.
A moan tore from the back of my throat as a wet, lush tongue returned to my clit. She was a flurry of activity, sucking and massaging. She used all the tools she possessed to get me there. My eyelids went heavy and my vision hazed. The orgasm swelled, and then burst open, setting off fireworks of sensations.
Silas grinned as he watched the orgasm roll through me, leaving me shuddering and breathless on the sheets. He slowed his thrusts to a stop, maybe letting me enjoy the pleasure, or maybe he just liked the way it looked, his dick buried between my lips while he held me down.
When it was clear my climax had passed, he retreated and sat back on his haunches, my wrists still trapped in his hand. “No buyers tonight?”
“The deal fell through,” Regan answered quickly. Maybe a little too quickly.
“Yeah?” He shot her a hard look, which was . . . strange.
I lifted my head to peer at her. She was perfectly nude, all pale skin and a smattering of freckles across her chest. Just inside of her shoulder, there was a black, circular tattoo. Silas’s patterned mark on her.
Her tits wavered as she set her hands on her hips. “You want to talk about the club now? That place you hate?”
His gaze flicked to me with concern. “I don’t hate the club.” But then he stared at her, rolling his shoulders back. “I just hate that you work there.”
She clenched her teeth and sucked in a breath through her nose. I could see all the things she wanted to say but was holding back. This was the only argument I’d ever known them to have, and she definitely didn’t like me hearing it. If they’d asked me, I wasn’t going to weigh in, but in my mind? The club was where Regan got to be who she really was.
“Can we not right now?” she said.
Silas let go of my hands and turned his full attention to her. “You know, last time a deal fell through, I got a call you were in the emergency room.”
Oh. Shit. That explained the look he’d given her. Last year, Regan had been strangled by a client and nearly killed before Julius was able to stop the guy. There’d been breakdowns on multiple fronts, the other girls had told me, since I hadn’t been working that night.
There was worry streaked across his face, and I couldn’t stand it. “Nothing like that ever happened before.”
“And nothing since,” she added softly. “I can handle myself, but I’m safe, I promise you. The second that changes, I’m out of there.”
She climbed onto the bed and pressed herself to his back, wrapping her arms around him. Her pale, feminine hands broke the pattern of dark ink on his chest. He sighed and covered her hands with his own, melting into her.
My chest tightened watching them. I didn’t get lonely, except for moments like these. Sex and love were something I’d separated a long time ago. You didn’t need one
But that also didn’t mean I didn’t think about both, or want to have each.
“Sorry to be a buzzkill.” He shifted to see her better. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
When she kissed him, he lifted his arm over her head, put it around her, and pulled her to his side. The kiss deepened, and the tension in the room dissipated. Desire flooded in its place, pressing down on me. And apparently her too, because she broke the kiss long enough to cup the back of my head and direct me to him. To service my doms and get him ready for her.
We couldn’t have painted a better picture of our relationship if we’d tried. Silas and Regan as equals and me at the bottom.
It was exactly where I wanted to be.
-7-
Tara
I’d never danced on the stage at the Pritzker Pavilion, so today’s dress rehearsal would be the first time. The outdoor theatre was in the center of Millennium Park, just steps away from the Cloud Gate sculpture we Chicagoans always referred to as “The Bean.”
The walls framing the covered stage were stunning. Rolling waves of shining metal bending toward the skyline behind it, as if someone had used a massive can opener to peel them back. Red seating filled the slope leading toward the front of the stage, and the area behind the seating was a long, grassy lawn. If the seats were full, there was plenty of room to take in the show from a blanket or lawn chair.
Hopefully, people would. The showcase tomorrow night was free, and the weather forecast couldn’t have been better. September in the city was usually great, but with an outdoor amphitheater, we’d still lucked out on dodging rain.
As I made my way down the concrete walkway that led to the backstage area, I glanced at the ChiComm logo being projected on the stage backdrop. It was the city’s first year doing a showcase from the performance community. There’d be everything . . . sketch comedy, dance, live music, all for charity.
The orchestra area in front of the stage was bustling with people who were arranging music on stands and warming their instruments. All our practices had been with recordings, and I couldn’t wait to hear the orchestra in person tonight. Live music pushed me to take my dancing to a new level.
It was just as busy in the wings backstage, and I couldn’t find Elena. I checked the time on my phone, making sure I wasn’t late. My friend’s email had said six, and it was ten till right now.
“Tara,” she called out, weaving her way through the crowd of people exiting the stage. “They want to move our spot in the schedule. Any chance you’re warmed up?”
Being a dancer meant things were fluid. You had to be ready for anything, like learning a new eight-count of choreography minutes before performing it. I spotted an empty place just beside the stage and hurried to drop my bag there. “I walked fast from the CTA station, but I still need to stretch.”
When she nodded, her rich, dark hair gleamed in the stage lights. Like me, she’d pulled her hair up into a top-knot, but wayward strands were curling at the nape of her neck.
My best friend was two years older than I was. She was super cute, with an infectious smile, and deep, expressive eyes you could see all the way from the back of the theater. We’d met during my audition to be a dance major at Indiana University, and after I’d been accepted, she’d become my unofficial mentor.
We were quite a pair. I was a tall, white girl with a long neck and the perfect frame for ballet. She was a compact Latina with great boobs, a four-pack stomach, and a sexy round ass. Even though we wore the same outfit—a black crop top with long, lacy sleeves and matching black bike shorts—it looked completely different on us.
I lunged down into a kneel and began to stretch my hip flexors, looking beyond her to the rest of our group already on stage. Elena had cobbled together all the guest instructors she’d had at her studio over the last three years, wrangling us into performing for publicity. She didn’t need help keeping the lights on at her business, but she tried to offer dance scholarships and reduced-cost lessons to the kids who couldn’t afford it.
I’d been lucky growing up. My affluent parents back in Iowa didn’t understand why I liked dancing, but they picked up the bill. Dance classes and costumes and travel for competitions added up fast, and that shit was expensive. They griped and whined, but I never gave it up, and eventually we all just accepted I was the black sheep of the family.
“I still can’t believe Nadine’s here,” I said. “She’s so awesome.”
Elena grinned. “What, her? That bitch was thrilled to come out of retirement.”
Nadine was easily the biggest star in the last two decades to have come out of the program at Indiana, and she’d danced with the Pacific Northwest Ballet until last year. The girl didn’t draw a single bad line with her body, and her turns were to die for.
I envied her. I got amazing lift on my jumps and could make complicated leaps look effortless. But turns were my weak spot. My execution of pirouettes caused directors to sigh and stick me in the back of the group.
It kept me from landing a spot in the corps of the Chicago Ballet Company, which had been my dream since the first time I’d laced up my pointe shoes.
Negative thinking helps no one, an old coach’s voice echoed in my mind. I shook my head as if I could rattle the thought away, and it seemed to work.
I probably didn’t stretch as much as I should, but everyone was waiting on me, and as soon as I felt good enough, I pulled off my sneakers and hustled onto the stage, tossing quick hellos to the rest of our group. Elena was at the edge of the stage, bent over to chat with the orchestra conductor, and as I took my place, she straightened.
“He’s going to give us a four count in before they’ll start,” she said, hurrying to her spot opposite me. She settled and went motionless.
“One,” the conductor started, “two, three, four . . .”
Off we went.
Elena had asked me to choreograph the piece, and I’d done my best to play to our strengths. There were six of us, coming from a range of dance styles, but I’d tried to creatively combine the fluidity of contemporary and hip hop with the precision of tap and ballet. Nadine was the star of the piece, but we each got our own moment to shine. Mine was a soaring leap where the group caught me mid-air.
Some sections of the music, we were each doing our own thing, complimenting each other, but as the music swelled, we came together as a unit in perfect synchronicity. As I performed, a thin sheen of sweat coated my skin and my pulse quickened to match the intensity of the orchestra.
My moment was coming up, and I was amped.
Our circle rotated, and I spun out upstage, which would give me room for a running start. As I made my approach, Elena turned her back, took a knee, and put her fist on the stage, becoming my ramp.
We’d practiced this all week. We’d done it until we felt comfortable enough we could execute it in our sleep. Elena was a powerhouse of muscle, and I knew I wouldn’t hurt her using her as my springboard. The group was downstage, waiting for me, confidence in their eyes. They wouldn’t let me fall.
The orchestra built to a crescendo, fueling my run, and I put one foot flat on her shoulder blade, vaulting up to the sky. I wanted jaws to drop tomorrow night when I did this. I wanted to fucking fly.
And I did.
I soared as if I’d been shot from a cannon, giving me more than enough time to do a grand jeté before turning mid-air to land safely on my back in my group’s awaiting arms. I heard the gasps of people watching from the side of the stage as I fell into the net of arms, and a smile peeled back my lips—
Only for it to freeze. I’d been caught, but I had too much energy. I’d come in so hot, that when I landed . . . I bounced.
I rebounded right out of their hold, and was falling again, only this time it was off the end of the stage. There weren’t practiced dancers to catch me now, just the back row of the orchestra pit.
Shit, shit, shit!
I pinched my eyes closed, bracing myself for the pain I wouldn’t be able to avoid.
Only instead of landing on cold, unforgiving ground, I hit something fleshy and warm. There was a thunderous crash. Music stands went flying, people gasped and scattered, but the pain I was certain was coming . . . didn’t.
Arms cradled my body, saving me.
The music petered to a stop, some orchestra members ahead of others.
My eyes flew open. All around, there were panicked faces and people shouting.
“Are you okay?” someone said.
I couldn’t answer them, because the only thing I could do was stare at the man whose lap I’d crash landed in.
He was devastatingly and utterly gorgeous.
His silver eyes focused on me, his sensual mouth quirked, and his dark eyebrows were pulled together with concern. I was pressed against his chest, and he didn’t seem to be breathing, which was interesting. I wasn’t breathing either—I’d forgotten how. The sight of him was that distracting.
It was chaos around us, but I ignored it.
There was a short, dark beard along his jaw. It accentuated the long curves of his cheekbones, and I thought about running my fingers over the grit of his whiskers. It was probably a side effect of the adrenaline, but I wanted to nibble on his sensual, full lips.
Instead, I gripped fistfuls of his shirt to pull myself upright, and Jesus fuck, the guy was ripped. His chest was a plate of muscle. Was he security? How the hell had he made it into the orchestra pit so fast?
“Are you all right?” His voice sounded strange. It had a lilt to it I couldn’t place.
“Yes,” I whispered. And no. When I tried to escape, he only tightened his hold, and the submissive in me melted. How long could I stay in his lap before it became weird?
He wasn’t convinced and gave me a skeptical look. “You sure?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “You?”
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