Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I

by Akeroyd, Serena

  “I haven’t finished until you see this is the only way forward.”

  “He’s right, Zane. This way we can all be together.” My words had been a whisper of air. Each word imbued with the need Jake had just detonated inside me.

  “It isn’t normal.”

  “What is normal, Zane?” I’d retorted, my hand coming to rest on Jake’s knee in a silent declaration that Jake was mine too. “Having a mistress in New York while your husband is in Maine? Missing Jake and hating yourself for needing me if you’re in New York? Wishing I was with you, when you’re back home? Is that how you want to live your life?”

  “No, of course not.” His bluster was half-hearted. More than anything, he’d sounded confused. His eyes slightly dazed, lost, as though he was being offered a gift and wasn’t sure if he could accept it. Even if he wanted it more than anything else in the world.

  “Well, be grateful that you have two partners who want you badly enough to compromise.” Jake’s voice had been steely and God help me, at the sound, my pussy clenched, hating its empty state.

  “You think it will work? Two people who are only together, because the ‘glue’ i.e. me, can’t make up his goddamned mind? Can’t settle for a normal, monogamous relationship?”

  “Does it look like Jake and I are putting up with each other?” I’d asked, completely confident in my statement. “You brought us together, Zane, but you’re not the glue.” I’d let my gaze drift down to Jake’s stocky cock. Ruddy, the tip almost purple as it pulsed with his desire, I’d reached out and taken it into my hand and to Jake’s hiss of pleasure, the jerk of his hips, I’d whispered, “This is for me, Zane. Not you.”

  He’d licked his lips, his eyes glued on my hand and Jake’s cock, and almost as though that had sealed the deal, he’d nodded.

  Strange how with that one gesture, he’d forever altered all of our lives. That simple, throwaway nod had marked the beginning of our household of three.

  Within two days, Jake had us out of Paris and those forty-eight hours had been strange. Jake had been out almost constantly, seeing to business and trying to wrap it up before we left. He’d managed to do it and had my name cleared of assault charges too. I don’t know how much it had cost him, but I’m appreciative of his efforts. A criminal record has not and never will be on my to-do list.

  Zane wavered in and out. Not of consciousness but of my presence. The days he spent God knows where, maybe with his publisher in Europe, maybe at the Eiffel Tower? I don’t know, I just left him to it. Taking the opportunity to absorb as much of Paris as I could in the time left to me. After all, I might never have the chance to visit again so I didn’t waste a minute.

  I’d spend my days wandering through the crowded squares. Meandering down the backstreets and exploring a city that held me in its thrall. Gorging on street food in establishments of questionable hygiene but with produce so mouth-wateringly good, there were queues out of the door that ran along an entire street. I discovered and enjoyed the subcultures living within the city proper and in those two short days, learned more about a city that resonated with me.

  Ironic, really. Just when there had been an agreement for the three of us to merge into the one relationship, we all split out in separate ways.

  The nights were different. I retreated to my own room, unsure of whether the time was right to go to Jake’s. I’d fall asleep alone, wake up at some point in the night to find Zane there and then, before I woke up, he’d be gone again. I don’t know if he went to sleep with Jake and woke up with him, he might have slept on the sofa for all I know.

  Not much conversation passed between us, we got by, letting time dissipate the awkwardness, knowing that things would start to change eventually and not trying to rush it.

  In the end, it was a relief to fly out of Paris and to return to the States. We flew into Bangor and I took my first steps in Maine. In no time at all, the airport parking service the guys used had dropped off their SUV and within three hours, we arrived at Bayling Cove.

  I immediately saw why Jake had fallen in love with the place. Quaint, picturesque, and downright cute, it’s a place I could easily call home. And if things go right, then that’s just what will happen.

  Despite myself and despite the lack of intimacy between the three of us, a thrill flushes through me at the very idea. I want these two men to be my home, but for a place to rest my head, I want it to be here.

  Zane and Jake’s house is not quite a mansion, but it’s definitely an inch away from it. As far as my explorations have let me see, it’s the biggest building in the town. According to Meg down at The Pike, a diner that serves the hungry fishermen after they return from the sea, the house had once belonged to an old merchant captain who’d made his fortune then fallen in love with a Frenchwoman and built her the property.

  Part picket, stone and brick, the hodge-podge of materials should have made it look homely, but if anything, it’s rather comely.

  The front façade has a vaulted gray-slate roof, and in the center of the high peak is a set of French doors that lead onto a Juliet balcony with railings so ornate, it defies logic that they were crafted from metal over a hundred years ago. Curls and twirls, patterned into rose buds, it’s a beautiful tiara for a magnificent house.

  On the ground floor, the front door is surrounded by a verandah that covers the perimeter. From the sky, it probably looks like a T-shape. The front has the high gabled roof and to the left and right, are the branches of the house.

  I was amused to note, upon arriving, that the left belongs to Jake and the right to Zane. Now I’m here, apparently I get the center. The bedrooms of which are for guests and on the ground floor, the kitchen and dining room are in this part of the house.

  Jake’s half is filled with antiques. From Persian rugs that cover the expansive floors to paintings I know are original classics. Their wealth never ceases to astound me. Walnut dressers, a carved, plantation desk made of beautiful mahogany, teak sideboards and console tables...the list goes on.

  There’s even a bedroom styled in Jake’s taste, I know because I wandered around both halves when each man had gone out on separate errands.

  Zane’s style is more modern. Not minimalistic, but more spacious. Less clutter, even if the clutter is priceless. He has low sofas with squashy cushions, a huge TV, an entertainment center that I’ve used every night and a baby grand piano. He has a writing room, with three different desks. Each one faces a specific window meaning he can see different parts of the manicured garden whenever the sun is shining on it.

  I’ve settled into the house, the town and into the uneasy truce that’s still between us all.

  We’re avoiding each other, or should I say, the men are avoiding each other. Depending on my mood, I take residence in the part of the house that fits.

  If I want to read, then Jake receives my presence. More often than not, he’s sitting in his overlarge armchair, his one concession to modern furniture, and I’m squished in at his side. Head on his shoulder, book in my hand. I spend a lot of time with Jake, because I’ve made it my mission to go through Zane’s backlist of novels and by God, neither he nor the books are good for my levels of horniness. When I get to the sex scenes, I could pull Jake’s pants down, right there and then. Restraint be damned.

  How I haven’t forced myself on him yet, is a miracle.

  Either that or a testament to my control.

  If I want to watch a movie, then I’ll cuddle into Zane’s side. Sometimes, I sit on his lap, especially if I’m playing at being a wuss whenever we watch a scary movie together. I’ve been sticking to action and adventure. I couldn’t handle a saucy flick. Even kissing scenes are getting me hot, at the moment. Twelve days of no-sex is playing havoc with my body.

  I’ve noticed that I spend a relatively equal amount of time with both men. Not just Zane, something I’d feared. Showing favoritism was a surefire way for this plan to completely disintegrate and in all honesty, it hasn’t been a problem.

 
I like Jake and I like Zane.

  Not a one of us has fucked. But I refuse to revert to the Mona of old. I’m with Zane every day and even though we’re not having sex, and Zane has a very high sex drive, I can tell he’s at peace. That particular devil, which had been torturing him throughout his marriage, urging him out into the big bad world in search of pussy, has gone.

  And I’m also with Jake. Something that is gradually taking on the same importance as time spent with Zane.

  Because of my refusal to fade into the walls, steadily, we’re all moving forward. I do what I want, with whom I want, when I want and because I’ve accepted the status quo so easily, the men are coming to accept it, too.

  That being said, the wall between them will have to be breached by them alone. I can only do so much. At least, we’re all getting used to each other’s company.

  Jake and Zane aren’t acting like strangers, but neither do they act like lovers.

  By leaving things and letting them take their due course, I’m avoiding a pressure cooker situation and I think that’s the smartest way forward.

  I’ve made it my role to be the chef. Considering the most I’ve got to do every day is twiddle my thumbs, it’s the least I can do to take over the cooking. And in their kitchen, with what seem like acres of cupboards and cooking space, a huge stove with eight, count them, eight rings as well as a central island with a huge marble top that is perfect for making pastry, I’m blissed out whenever I’m in there.

  I won’t deny, I really put a lot of effort into cooking and all three of us sit down and enjoy what I’ve made. We don’t rush it and immediately run from each other’s company, we take our time, savor it, share a couple of bottles of wine, and muse about our day.

  Maybe I’m being impatient, and as much as I want the future between us all to blossom, it’s hard sometimes. I never thought I’d make such an admission but I’m really, really horny and no amount of kneading dough or rolling out pastry is taking away the urge.

  I’ve got two men under the same roof as me. Two men with whom I’m in a sexual relationship and yet, neither of them has touched me.

  I feel like I’m going insane.

  “You scrub that anymore, you’ll rub the coating off.”

  Jake’s wry comment has me spinning around from the sink and the dishes I’ve been scouring. I try to blow a lock of hair out of my eyes, but my forehead is tacky, so I have to rub it away with my forearm. “I burnt my sauce. The pan needs a good scrub.”

  A damned shame it was too. The béarnaise had had the right consistency, the perfect taste but because I keep wandering off into the realms of fantasy, it burnt away. Leaving me with a pot worth nearly three hundred dollars—I’ve seen the same set in the kitchen shops Edwina frequents, she loves cooking—in dire straits.

  “What are we having for dinner?” he asks, moving away from the doorway and into the kitchen.

  Even though only a short time has passed since I arrived here, I’ve already instigated small routines.

  It makes me feel like a homemaker, something I’ve never wanted to be, except with these two guys, I really do.

  I’m almost ashamed. I feel like I’m turning into my mother, and she’s someone I never, ever wanted to emulate. But Jake and Zane aren’t my father and I want to look after them. They both work really hard, whereas I do nothing.

  In the pantry, there are always fresh cookies and that’s where Jake’s heading. He opens the door, steps inside and returns with the basket. He stops off at the freezer, picks out some ice cream and then turns toward the island. After snagging a spoon from the recently washed pile stacked in a tub by the sink, he takes a seat at the counter.

  I watch him make an ice-cream cookie sandwich, and grin when he proffers the first one to me rather than taking a bite himself. I hold up my soapy hands and he curls his finger, beckoning me forward.

  The look in his eyes has my temperature shooting up. I almost want to wail, because it’s the first time either man has looked at me that way in nearly two weeks, and I’m wearing a fucking apron and am sweaty from cooking.

  Nevertheless, my pussy answers the call. Immediately urging me forward toward the hand with the cookie. He raises it to my mouth and I take a bite. Chocolate ice cream with choc chip cookies. Delicious. On the last bite, his hand presses it to my lips and then, slips down to drag me by the nape the few inches toward him. His mouth goes to my neck and my ear, his tongue flicking the lobe until my legs quiver with the sensation. He urges me forward, scraping the stool back so I’m between him and the counter, as well as between his legs.

  With his mouth occupied, my head is tilted back to allow him all the access he wants, but my still-soapy but drying hands reach down and nudge his cock with my fingers. He’s reassuringly hard and my pussy feels like melting with the need to be filled with every inch of him and to have him fuck me until, preferably, I pass out.

  Okay, so I’m greedy, but hell, I’ve two, count them, two men who I’m supposed to be sleeping with and yet aren’t.

  This is the first sexual contact I’ve had with either Zane or Jake. Up until now, it’s been almost fraternal affection between us. And although I’m a changed woman, preferring to grab the bull by the balls rather than run away as though the hounds of hell are biting at my heels, I haven’t wanted to upset the status quo for fear of tipping the equilibrium that has settled between us all.

  So, it’s with relief that Jake starts to nibble the side of my neck as his hand reaches up to cup my breast through my T-shirt. He kneads the flesh, massaging it between his strong fingers, sometimes brushing my nipple but in an almost accidental fashion. His other hand reaches for the hem of my shirt and he only retracts those kneading fingers to skim it over my head.

  My bra is soon discarded and I’m left naked from the waist up. I keep my hands at my side, wanting Jake to lead, needing him to take control. Why it’s important, I can’t really explain. It’s almost like I need him to know that I’m for this, one-hundred percent. I’m not here just for Zane, although when this plan first came together in my head, it was just that.

  Now, at this moment, I want Jake. Badly.

  Swallowing as his fingers touch bare flesh, gooseflesh cascades over my skin and has me shivering with the sensation. I can feel the slippery slide of my pussy lips, feel the dampness of my panties and know that soon, my crotch will also be wet. The idea turns me on all the more and I moan as Jake’s mouth latches on to my nipple and he sucks down. Grabbing him, I bury my fingers in his thick hair and hold him to me. With his lips otherwise engaged, tugging and pulling at the sensitive nubbin, the muscles in my belly jerk inward as I feel his hands at the button of my fly. Within seconds, he’s shimmied my cut-offs down to my knees and my panties are lodged an inch or so above them. The instant I’m bared, his hands are there.

  I should be embarrassed at how wet I am. At the ease in which his fingers slip and slide through the petals of my sex, but I’m not. My arousal is honest, my need for Jake pure. And now, he knows that. He’s not second best. I want him, because he turns my blood into fire.

  His lips retreat and return to the neglected nipple and as he plays, he moves me back so that I’m against the counter now rather than between his legs. I feel the dampness of my cream as he moves his hands away from my pussy to grab at my hips, and he lifts me so that my ass is leaning on the edge of the island.

  Fuck hygiene, I spread my legs and let myself fall back, resting on my elbows so that I can watch whatever he’s about to do.

  I’m not disappointed.

  At my side, the sweating and slowly melting ice cream has been abandoned. But no longer. He grabs the spoon, loads it with ice cream and plops it down on to my nipple. I could have refused, jerked away at the sticky mess, but there’s a softening to his eyes, an almost childish glee to play with me. And anyway, I don’t want to say no.

  These men have taken me to the moon and back.

  Who am I to demur if they find other ways to send me there again
?

  Almost instantly, the ice cream begins to melt as it reacts to my body temperature and within seconds of that occurring, Jake’s mouth is there, lapping up every gooey drop.

  The other nipple is similarly anointed but this time, the chill feels even more pronounced and once again, gooseflesh has me shuddering. My lower back is cold from the marble top, my nipples tingle with the cool molten liquid of the ice cream and yet, the remainder of my body is in contact with Jake and as such, is hotter than usual. The contrast is enough to have me mewling as trails of now liquid, but still chilly ice cream swirl down between my breasts and to my navel.

  His tongue follows the path, sucking and licking as he goes. When he slurps some flesh between his teeth and suckles, I know I’ll have a hickey there in the morning. Over time in Jake’s bed, I’ve realized he likes to leave his little marks. Not a day went by when we were intimate that I wasn’t marked somewhere or other.

  As his lips work away, the fingers of his left hand aren’t idle. The right might by wielding the spoon, but the left is busy. One single pad of a finger is pushed against my clit. It isn’t moving, only the gentle rippling of my hips as they buck in reaction to what he’s doing has him frigging the nubbin. When he bites down to mark me, my butt jerks upwards and I cry out as his finger slides down the central line of my pussy lips, nearly penetrating me with the sharpness of my own movement.

  A finger is presented to my mouth and knowing where it’s been, I quickly accept it between my lips. Sucking the digit clean of my cream, I lave and lavish affection on it. Almost as though it was his cock. Before long, he’s pulling it out of my mouth as though he can’t stand any more. And by the sounds of his harsh breathing, I’m not far wrong.

  And then, he attacks.

  It’s almost surreal to be standing, or in this case, lying down in a kitchen that belongs in a magazine. Surrounded by luxury that only the truly rich can afford, from pans that cost more than the average man’s monthly wage, down to a marble top that was probably shipped in from Italy and was certainly not made for sex.