by Pam Godwin
I lean my brow against his, hugging the broad slopes of his shoulders. “When do you want to start learning the steps?”
A smile lights up his whole face, popping those dimples and painting his brown eyes with an eager glow. He lifts me from the floor and carries me to the couch, kissing me as he lowers me to my back.
I crane my neck to the look at the door. “What about—?”
“Trace wouldn’t dare come in, and there are no cameras in here.” He nibbles my lips. “No more spying.”
Kneeling over me, he deepens the kiss with fevered licks. His hand slides over my neck, through my hair, down the length of my body, and pulls on the sports bra impatiently, aggressively. I help him work off the top, and his mouth falls upon my nipple, tongue flicking and curling around the bud.
“Swear to God…” He moves to my shorts, yanking them down my legs while holding my gaze. “I’m not stopping until your pussy’s sore and the walls in this room know my name.”
My legs tremble, and I glance down at the bulge straining his zipper. “Are you always hard?”
“Yes.” He tosses my shorts and climbs up my body. “Because you’re always goddamn sexy.” He molds his hands around my breasts. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m fucking the hell out of you in my head.”
“And the other one-percent?”
“I’m blowing my load in my hand.”
“Cole,” I moan, wriggling beneath his sweeping caresses. “I love when you get all poetic. You and your dirty mouth.”
“My dirty mouth is a sucker for the romantic stuff.” He grazes his teeth across my breast. “Like eating your pussy and lapping up your come.”
He shoves a hand between my legs, using his muscular forearm to spread me wider. With a knee on the couch beside me, he plays with my wetness, opening me, spreading my heat, and plunging his fingers deep inside.
My back arches, and my knees fall open as he thrusts and teases with wicked skill. I bury my hands in his hair, whimpering and rocking my hips. I want. I need. Christ, I don’t know the difference when his long fingers are stroking inside me.
He worships my peaked nipples with hot, wet lips and slides back up, face to face. I sprawl my hand across his scratchy cheek, and he kisses me like we’re the last of our kind, like we’re an extinct species in a loveless world.
Then he leaves my mouth, trailing kisses down my breastbone, across my abs, tickling his whiskers against my skin. His lips are the greedy kind, the kind that possess, devour, and plunder every part of my body they touch.
Dipping his head, he groans against my pussy. “So tight and sweet.” He sinks his teeth into my tender flesh. “I want to break this pretty pink cunt.”
“Have at it.” I gyrate beneath him, high on lust.
He flashes a wolfish grin and lowers his face between my legs. Then he eats me like it’s the last time he’ll ever eat, kissing, sucking, and rolling his tongue around my piercing. He plunges deep and licks every drop of wetness. I tighten my fingers in his hair and wrap my legs around his neck, groaning, holding on, and making it last as long as possible.
Sliding a hand up my body, he cups my breast and tweaks the nipple. The insides of my thighs become stubble-burned, and my inner muscles build in the spasmodic contractions.
His eyes lift to mine, and he presses his lips harder against me, pushing me closer, faster along the rising tide of pleasure.
“Cole!” I jerk against his mouth and tug at his hair, writhing on the couch as everything inside me surrenders. “I’m coming. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
He sucks and nuzzles until my moans wane and my body goes slack.
I’m still trying to catch my breath when he crawls between my legs. The sound of his zipper speeds up my pulse as his fingers trace my soaked, overstimulated lower lips. Then it’s not his fingers. It’s the fat, plump head of his hardness. He slides it through my wetness, circling my clit and making me squirm.
For a second, I think he’s going to slam it in. But instead, he pulls back and straddles my hips.
His jeans gather beneath his ass and stretch across his sculpted thighs. No underwear, of course. The length of him juts from the open fly—thick and veiny and jerking for release.
“I give you permission to choke me with that.” I peer at him from beneath my lashes.
He groans and wraps a hand around his cock. “You know that look you get when you’re being sweet and innocent? Me neither.”
Then he bows over me, braces his weight on an arm beside my head, and proceeds to stroke himself off.
His eyes connect with mine, his pupils blown and lips parted erotically. He’s so worked up he won’t last long. Too bad, because I could watch him like this for hours.
He’s a wall of muscle, not an ounce of fat on those chiseled bumps and valleys. His golden skin is smooth as silk with a dusting of hair on his chest and forearms. He’s a man’s man, a rough-and-tumble, sexual beast of a man, and if I told him right now that I’ll be his and only his, he’d fuck my lights out.
“Danni.” His strokes accelerate, and the rock of his hips stumble into an erratic tempo. “I’m going to fucking come all over your gorgeous tits.” His chin drops, but he doesn’t move his eyes from mine. “Fuck. Oh, fuck, baby. I’m there.”
I grip his denim-clad thighs, digging my nails in as he spurts milky white ropes of come across my chest.
Panting and spent, he collapses on top of me. Then he rolls us until he lies on his back. His possessive lips find mine, and he kisses me adoringly while grabbing my ass aggressively.
I sprawl across his chest and lick inside his mouth, relishing the taste of him. “I love the smell of my pussy on your lips.
“I love the feel of my come on your tits.”
“I love being sticky with you.”
“I love being with you. Period.” He clenches his hand on my butt and throws us into a kiss that erases the world around us.
It goes from rough to slow, from sexy to profound, and every notion in between. That’s what I get with Cole—the extremes, the middle ground, and all the perfect little moments in between.
He’s the song stuck in my head, the one that makes me dance until I’m knotted up in heartstrings.
If he’s my choice, if this is my decision, it doesn’t come in a bang of fireworks. It’s a whisper in the back of my mind—a faint, tiny voice reminding me what I knew the moment I met him.
He’s my first and last love. It’s him. He has to be the choice.
But what if I’m wrong?
At the very least, it’s something, a feeling to explore and try out.
I have to be sure.
I spend the next two months trying to determine if my future is my past, if my first love will be my last. Mentally, I’ve made a decision. But my heart hasn’t clued in yet.
Damn my flaky heart.
And damn Trace. He’s the reason I’m all twisted up and turned inside out.
When I’m alone with Cole, I find a certain peace at the center of my flustered thoughts. We fish on his boat several times a week. We go shopping, jog on the trails, and prepare meals together. And we dance.
I taught him the steps I choreographed for our wedding reception song, XO by Beyoncé. When he twirls me through the room—his posture strong, footwork confident, and eyes glittering—fuck me, but I’m a fool for him. I love him with all the love that exists in the world.
Until I’m alone with Trace. He hasn’t danced with me, but whenever I ask him what he wants to do, his answer is always the same.
I want to watch you dance.
And boy, does he watch. His impossible eyes hold me in bondage as I freestyle dance, pole dance, belly dance just for him. When we’re not spending our one-on-one time in the studio, we’re on the couch or in the bed, watching movies. The man is a cuddler. Not in a warm, fuzzy, isn’t-he-adorable way. More like a get-your-ass-over-here, I’m-restraining-you-with-my-arms way.
Today, the three of us are at an indoor shoo
ting range a couple towns over. I shot a few of the guns Cole brought from his armory. Some bullets hit the paper target. Most curved around the paper and spit at the sloped berm on the back wall. I might’ve accidentally hit the target in the next lane over, which sent Trace and Cole into an uproarious fit of laughter. Whatever. I tried and had fun doing it.
But not as much fun as watching them shoot lethal weapons.
Sitting on the bench behind them with plugs in my ears to muffle the gunfire, I have a glorious view of their backsides. They stand in their own lanes next to each other, sharing bullets, swapping guns, smiling, and seemingly having a good time.
I love to watch them interact. Cole grabs Trace’s attention when he wants the other man to see a target he shot or when he has a technical question about a gun. Sometimes, Trace stops what he’s doing just observe Cole firing down the range.
But there’s an undercurrent beneath the camaraderie. The competitive tension between them is thick. It’s little things—the rigidness in their postures, the cutting looks between them, the glances back at me. Since I’m not planning for a zombie apocalypse, I don’t care who’s the better shot. But it matters to them.
This is a war, Danni.
I didn’t have a good understanding of Cole’s comment those first few days at the lake house. But after living with them for two months, I get it.
We’re still sharing a bed at night, and they haven’t crossed the sexual boundaries they set in the beginning. It’s as if they’re using the temptation of sex to undermine each other’s steadfastness and determination to be the better man.
Blow jobs? They won’t allow it. They seem to accept the fact that I’m engaging in cunnilingus with them both. But evidently, neither of them can stomach the idea of me putting my mouth on a cock that’s not his own.
Or maybe something else is going on. Maybe they’re playing a game to see which one can hold out the longest, as if it’s some kind of determining factor in who I choose.
Is it? Would I have more respect for the one who didn’t base a relationship on sex?
I think I would.
This isn’t a war of fists or blood. It’s a war of character and willpower, of psychology and heart. They’re fighting each other on an emotional level, without words or physical force. While I sense the nuances of an ongoing battle, I wonder how much rivalry goes on that I’m not savvy enough to pick up on.
It’s up to me to end this.
Trace told me at the start if I knew my decision, we would all know. And that will be that.
If I really want to over-analyze his words—which I have a propensity to do—does know my decision mean know in my mind or know in my heart? Because I think my mind knows, but I haven’t discussed it with them. They’re still carrying on like we’ll be here, floating in limbo, for another four months.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to prepare myself for a quicker resolution, starting with subtle attempts to shut out Trace. Sometimes, I force myself to not respond to his affection Sometimes, he notices and steals my breath with a brutal look. But he never says a word.
Can he read my thoughts? Or is he looking for deeper clues? Clues that tell him my heart belongs to another? If it’s the latter, he’ll be looking for a while. Maybe forever.
I think I’ve been spending too much time in my head. So much so I’m starting to annoy myself.
Rubbing my temples, I redirect my attention to the view before me.
They stand together, heads bowed, examining the chamber of a pistol Cole’s holding.
Taller and leaner than Cole, Trace is polished masculinity in designer denim and a white collared shirt. He’s probably the only man in history who wears starched clothes to a shooting range. Blond hair flawlessly styled, aristocratic features carved with a divine hand, his sophistication only makes him look deadlier with a gun.
Cole is raw, rugged power in ripped jeans and a black leather jacket. He’s anarchy personified with his messy brown hair, sexy scruff, square jawline, and dark eyes that make me feel winded every time they shift in my direction.
“It’s not the gun.” Trace glares at him. “Your accuracy is shit. Retirement doesn’t agree with you.”
“Cool story, bro.” Cole releases the slide with a metallic clank. “How about we get to the good part when you shut the fuck up?”
“The village called.” Trace returns to his lane. “They want their idiot back.”
My pulse accelerates as I flash back to the last time they involved a gun in a disagreement.
“Okay.” I jump up and clap my hands. “Who wants to go for ice cream?”
“Is that what you want?” Cole softens his eyes, letting me know he’ll give me anything I ask.
Almost anything.
I want the three of us to love and laugh and live happily ever after. Together. But it’s a fool’s dream.
“Want…need…” I grin. “The fine line between is ice cream.”
Three weeks later, Cole leads me through a buzzing dark nightclub called The Angry Fly. A thick haze from smoke machines clots the air, punctured by shards of neon light. All around me, college kids hop to the thumping music, bodies pressed together, grinding with sexual frisson and revving my heartbeat.
Trace broke away at the door to order us drinks. This isn’t his scene. It’s not mine, either. Not anymore. But as Lose My Breath by Destiny’s Child vibrates the speakers, excitement builds inside me, twitching to let loose.
We drove forty minutes to get here. It’s the closest venue with a dance floor and decent music. Springfield, Missouri is a college town, and evidently, this is the happening place. From multi-colored hair and piercings to barely-there miniskirts, young girls drip from the walls and bar stools.
The atmosphere conjures images of dirty cloakroom sex, the huge space crammed with frat boys smelling out pussy and bearded Millennials punching the air to the electronic beats. I might be the third oldest person here. Cole and Trace have me beat by a couple years.
I turned twenty-nine today.
A few weeks ago, I mentioned in passing that I wanted to rock out with them on a crowded dance floor. A couple hours ago, they surprised me with a new dress and a night on the town. If they dance with me, this will go down as the best birthday ever.
I run a hand along the black sheath minidress, loving the way it molds to my body. With strategic cutouts, it looks like it was attacked by an angry pair of scissors. My skin peeks through the wide slashes from chest to thighs, making undergarments a no-go. Paired with strappy stilettos, the outfit is sexy with an edge.
The looks sliding my way from eager college boys causes Cole to yank me against his side, crushing my shoulders under the heavy weight of his arm. I hug his waist, delighting in the flex of lean muscle as he guides us toward the dance floor.
One thing’s for certain. He and Trace would never leave me by myself in this place. Not for a second. That means I don’t have to worry about getting hit on. There isn’t a guy here with balls big enough to approach me while my possessive sentinels are hovering.
The warm March weather made it possible to leave our jackets at home. Cole looks fashionably old-school and rebellious in his worn Sex Pistols t-shirt, faded jeans, and spiked hair. He’s so irresistible my hands shake to touch every inch of his hard, carved body.
We reach the dance crowd, the writhing bodies rippling like waves in a vast ocean under the strobing lights. He tugs me in, but I pull back, scanning the bar.
“We should wait for Trace.” I shout over the music.
Cole grips my chin and angles my face toward the far side of the dance floor.
Reclined on a bar stool, Trace lifts a glass of amber to his lickable lips. His elbow rests on a high-top table next to two unopened bottles of Bud Light. He wears dark fitted slacks with a tucked-in collared shirt that he left unbuttoned at the neck.
If there’s any emotion in that delicious scowl, I don’t see it. Expressionless, almost stern, he’s so hard to read I have second thoughts a
bout dancing.
Then he winks, and everything inside me melts. Fuck, he’s sexy, and he damn well knows it. So does every woman in the bar.
Two brunettes start circling, creeping in from both sides, corralling him. When they reach him, their painted lips move. The glare he shoots at them widens their eyes. I almost feel bad for them as they turn heel and strut away.
“Come on.” Cole raises his voice above the din. “Go get your sexy on.”
I unglue my feet from the sticky floor and follow him into the sweaty chaos. When he slows at the center, I keep going, pulling on his hand and bouncing to the music. I came here with two men, and I want to see them both. So I head toward the far edge and stop a few feet from Trace.
My blond-haired Viking props a polished shoe on a knee and gives me a chin lift that commands me to dance.
I find the beat, mentally tapping out the count and clapping my hands on two. The movements start with my head and work their way down to my feet. A hair toss, shoulder pop, hip roll, and step together. I feel it, work it, and strip the last of my inhibitions beneath Trace’s heated gaze.
Cole dances around me, keeping it clean as he warms me up. When it comes to a man dancing in a club, less is more, and he has that figured out. He puts his personality into it, infusing every move with swagger, but it’s subtle. His hands go up, raising the roof. Then he buries it, snapping at his sides, snapping in front, and out again. Open, close, open, close… Every action is subdued, sensual, and undeniably confident. Damn, but he knows what he’s doing.
Whenever he circles me, he puts a hand on my waist, keeping the connection. Then he steps closer, and I give him a flirty hip-check, laughing as he pops me on the ass.
Booty by J.Lo shakes the room, charging the air with seductive energy. I throw my hands up in a double-arm lasso, getting my whole body involved and spinning toward Trace. I crook a finger at him, mouthing, Dance with me.
The corner of his frown twists upward, but he doesn’t move. Stubborn man. He can fight it if he likes, but I’m going to lure him in.
I turn around, find his blue eyes over my shoulder, and jam it out. That earns me a real smile, inspiring me to groove my way to the floor, low, lower. Then I slide back up.
