Betting on Bailey (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing For Love Book 1)

by Crescent, Tara

  Our shared desire hangs heavy in the air.

  Sebastian moves closer and pins Bailey in place against a wall. “Spread your legs for me,” he growls and she obeys instantly.

  “Is she wet?” I ask from my position opposite her. I don’t come closer, not yet, but my voice is thick with lust. “Check her, Sebastian.”

  He kneels between her feet, his hands gripping the sides of her panties. He yanks them down harshly. The fabric rips, but she doesn’t care. She thrusts her hips into Sebastian’s face. “Please…” she begs.

  My cock jumps in reaction to her pleas, her open need.

  Sebastian pushes three fingers into her wet, waiting pussy. “She’s soaked, Daniel.” His voice is rich with satisfaction. “Take off the bra, Bailey.”

  “Here? Anyone can see,” she protests weakly, but her hands are already reaching behind to unclasp the offending garment.

  “Are you questioning us, Bailey?” I ask her, my voice taut. I come closer now and my hand grips at her jaw before I press a hard kiss on her waiting lips. My tongue runs at the seam of her lips till she permits me entry.

  Blood pounds in my head. She whimpers as Sebastian’s fingers thrust in and out of her pussy, his tongue dancing over her clitoris. “Please,” she begs again. Looking at her, I can tell that her climax is close. Another few seconds…

  Sebastian and I exchange glances, then he thrusts his fingers in and out of her, faster and harder. At the same time, I pinch Bailey’s erect nipples between my fingers. She erupts between us in waves and waves of pleasure.

  When I wake up and my head clears from its sexual fog, I shake my head in chagrin. I can’t remember the last time I had a sex dream about a woman.

  Bailey Moore is trouble.

  * * *

  Bailey isn’t there when I get to the Maxwell Club, but Sebastian is, idly shooting some pool. I grab a beer at the bar, and walk over to him. “Want to play a game or two while we wait?”

  “Sounds good,” he agrees. He racks the balls efficiently, and we toss a coin to see who breaks. Sebastian wins, and he bends over the table. “Be honest with me. What do you think of Juliette's franchise proposal?”

  We haven’t had a chance to talk about this. I’ve been spending a lot of time in Kansas City, and he’s been busy sorting out the mess with Ben. This is the first opportunity we’ve had to talk about Juliette’s ambitious plans. “I’m always honest with you,” I respond. “It's a terrible idea.”

  He breaks. Three balls hurtle into pockets. “I thought you might say that.”

  “Don't you think so? You have to know that setting up a chain of franchise restaurants will take too much time away from your operations in New York. Already, you’re writing a cookbook and you’re filming a Food Network show. Where are you going to fit it in?” I shake my head. “You are spreading yourself dangerously thin.”

  Sebastian doesn’t deny the truth of my words. “You’re right,” he says. “I know I’m crazy to think about this. Seb New York is my home. I’d rather shove bamboo skewers underneath my fingernails than to see it languish because of my inattention.” The nine slides into the top right pocket. “Still,” he says slowly. “The vision of a restaurant in Hattiesburg shimmers and beckons.”

  “Why are you still trying to prove yourself to them, Sebastian?” I ask him, though I know the answer. Sebastian’s upbringing was hell, and I do understand his desire to rub his success in the face of his hometown. “There are people here in New York who believe in you, who want you. Can’t you just let Mississippi go?”

  He misses his shot and I move to the table. “You did that deliberately,” he accuses with a faint grin. “Let’s change the topic. What do you think about Bailey? I'm looking forward to tonight.”

  “As am I.” My smile dims as I shake my head. “I checked up on her,” I tell him. “She just moved out of a man's apartment. I’m assuming he’s the ex. His name is Trevor Decker. The guy owns about a dozen sandwich shops in the city. And he plays in the league. What?”

  Sebastian’s trying hard not to smirk. “It's my job to know things,” I tell him, sounding defensive. “Besides, most of this was just Google.”

  “Someone's very interested,” he chuckles. “It’s good to see you focus on something that isn’t work.”

  I grimace. We both have our flaws. Sebastian can’t let his past go. I have an all-consuming focus on the family firm, leaving me no time for women or relationships or anything else.

  “What are you going to do about our bet if Bailey doesn’t show up this week? Clark was a douchebag to her. Maybe she doesn’t want to play anymore.”

  “My bet,” I correct him. “I believe it was me that put forward the number.” I shrug. “It’s fifty grand. I’m not going to get bent out of shape about it.”

  Sebastian gives me a shit-eating grin. “If she shows, I’m totally going to enjoy coaching her. I think I caught a vibe from her.”

  I roll my eyes and refuse to rise to the bait. “Please. You think you are going to score all the fucking time.” I lift my head and I see that Bailey’s walked in while I was taking my shot. She’s at the bar, laughing and saying something to the bartender as he hands her a shot of vodka. She’s wearing black again today - black pants and a black shirt, but unlike last week, her hair isn’t pulled back into a ponytail. It cascades in lush waves over her shoulders and down her back. She looks softer this way. Prettier.

  She downs the drink before she turns and heads our way. “She’s here now, hot-shot,” I tell Sebastian. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  * * *

  She looks wary as she approaches us. “Hey,” she says, and there’s a definite note of unease in her voice. “You guys are here.”

  “Is something wrong?” I ask her.

  “I didn’t realize who you were when you offered to teach me how to play pool,” she says, making a face. “Daniel Hartman - billionaire CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Sebastian Ardalan, the youngest chef to earn two Michelin stars. Shouldn’t you be too busy to tutor me?”

  Sebastian chuckles. “You googled us,” he teases. “I’m flattered.”

  She flushes, and I interject before her embarrassment worsens. “We googled you too,” I reassure her. “You’re a cultural anthropologist at NYU, right? What brings you to our team?”

  She grimaces ruefully. “My ex-boyfriend thinks I’m hopeless at pool. I want to prove him wrong. You didn’t answer my question, by the way. Why are you helping me?”

  I bite back my smile, and Sebastian laughs aloud. I should have guessed she would be smart enough to notice the half-answer. I’ve been reading the blog she kept when she was in Russia in my spare time, and her entries reveal a bright, curious, enthusiastic woman. Already, I’m fascinated by her. There’s not a single woman in my social circle who would voluntarily spend a month in the wilderness of Siberia, let alone a year.

  “Daniel bet Clark fifty grand you’d win in July.” Sebastian tells her with a grin, ignoring the withering look I send him.

  I expect her to yell or rant, but she surprises me by bursting out laughing. “That is such a cliché,” she says, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “Bored billionaires betting on the lives of mere mortals like myself.”

  “Daniel’s the only billionaire,” Sebastian corrects her. “I’m just a cook.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course, Chef Ardalan. So let me see if I get this straight. The two of you are going to teach me how to play pool so Daniel won’t lose fifty thousand dollars.” She’s still amused. “Will you even miss the money?” she asks me.

  I’m more intrigued by her with each passing second. “That’s not the point,” I reply. “I don’t like to lose. So what do you say, Bailey? Are you in? Do you want us to coach you?”

  She gives me a challenging look. “Will I get good enough to beat Trevor?”

  “If you follow directions.” There’s definitely innuendo in my phrasing.

  “Directions.” She tests that phrase out on her tongue wi

th an arch of her eyebrow.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  She looks from me to Sebastian, then back to me. Finally, she shakes her head with a laugh. “So, about that pool lesson. What do I need to do?”

  11

  It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.

  E.E. Cummings

  Bailey:

  Unfair though it is, I blame Gabby for my confused state of mind. If she hadn’t told us about her threesome, such a forbidden fantasy wouldn’t have even been in the realms of possibility.

  Now, as Daniel bends over me, helping me aim my pool cue, I can’t stop imagining him doing other things to me in the same position. As Sebastian gives me instructions, I wonder if he’s just as dominant in bed. I have butterflies in my stomach and sex on the brain.

  When Sebastian mentioned the bet, my heart had sunk to my toes. They hadn’t made the offer to coach me because they were being nice, or because they wanted to help me. It was about winning the bet and nothing else.

  Then I stopped to think, and realized that it didn’t matter. I’m not looking for anything from them. Some people flirt as easily as breathing, and Sebastian seems to be one of them. Daniel’s more of an enigma, but I can’t spend time analyzing them. I need to get dramatically better at pool to beat Trevor in July, and Daniel and Sebastian want to win their bet against Clark. For the moment, our goals are aligned. That’s all.

  * * *

  “Tell me about cultural anthropology,” Daniel says to me as we play. “I thought you joined the team to use us as research subjects. And don’t jerk your head up as soon as you make your shot. Keep your movements slow and steady.”

  Heat pools in my lower belly at his words. Slow and steady. I can imagine him saying that to me under very different circumstances, circumstances that would involve a lot less clothing, but I push the lust back and respond to his question. “‘Gender relations and interpersonal dynamics in a modern sporting environment’ would make for an interesting paper,” I agree. “But no, I’m just here because my ex-boyfriend is a jerk.”

  “What did he do?”

  I tell Daniel about the letter from Trevor’s lawyer, and he laughs. I glare at him, but he’s unconcerned. “Come on, Bailey, think about it. You must have hurt his feelings quite a lot for him to retaliate with such a dick move.”

  “I doubt it,” I say dryly. “The Met Gala’s coming up, and Liberal Arts faculty at NYU get an invitation. Trevor’s pouting because he can’t go rub shoulders with celebrities.”

  Sebastian’s listening to our conversation, but he doesn’t interrupt. “Is that all you think it is?” Daniel asks gently. “You are a beautiful woman, Bailey. Your ex-boyfriend is an idiot if he missed that.” He drinks the last of his beer. “Can I get you a drink while I’m at the bar? You were drinking vodka, right?”

  Trevor’s never called me beautiful before. My heart feels like it’s beating faster as I raise my gaze to Daniel’s chocolate brown eyes. “You were watching me when I walked in?” I ask faintly. Damn it, why is my body so aware of these men? I barely know them. I’m not supposed to react this way.

  “I would be a fool not to.” His eyes are warmly appreciative as he looks at me with a grin. “As horrible an outfit as this is, it can’t hide all your charms.”

  “Vodka neat,” I tell him, barely registering his assessment of my attire. “The bartender knows my preference.”

  He nods and walks away, and I tear my eyes away from his butt with difficulty. “Ready to play?” Sebastian mutters in my ear, making me jump once again. “Steady, Bailey,” he soothes, his hands on my arms. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He is touching me, and I don’t know what to do. Things like this don’t happen to me. I’m a chubby girl. I tend to be invisible to guys. Men rarely look at me with open heat in their eyes, the way Sebastian is right now, and it both arouses me and terrifies me.

  “Is it my turn to break?” I mumble. I need to distract myself from the desire that swirls in my body, pulling me like a helpless marionette toward these men.

  An amused smile creases his lips. Sebastian Ardalan is not unaware of the effect he’s having on me. “Go ahead,” he replies. “Break.”

  Pull yourself together, I scold myself, resolving to focus on the true reason I’m here. I have to beat Trevor and wipe that smug expression off his face. I slide my bracelets off my wrists and put them on a nearby table. “Can you keep an eye on them?” I ask. “They aren’t valuable, but I don’t want to lose them.” He looks curious, so I elaborate. “They’re souvenirs from trips.”

  “I get refrigerator magnets when I travel, and Daniel buys coffee mugs,” he confides as I chalk my cue.

  “Really?” I look up, surprised by Sebastian’s revelation. I didn’t expect to have something in common with a billionaire or a celebrity chef, but it’s nice to know that even they shop at kitschy souvenir shops.

  He nods. “Really. Daniel drinks about eight cups of coffee a day, so he collects coffee mugs as a memento of his vacations. I used to take photos, but I never looked at them after I got back home. The magnets, I can look at each time I open the refrigerator.”

  Sebastian gives me some tips about breaking. He shows me how to move the tip of the cue closer to my hand so I have more control when I make the shot. When Daniel comes back with three shots, the three of us lift our glasses in a toast and gulp down the vodka, then Daniel shows me where to aim so I don’t scratch. They make me practice scattering the balls, over and over again, and each time I make contact, they speak encouraging, supportive words.

  Their coaching works. After fifteen minutes, I stop dreading walking up to the table to try and dispel the tightly racked triangle of balls. I start hitting the cue ball cleanly, and when I follow Daniel’s advice - slow and steady - I even have my first legal break. Three balls hit the rails.

  “I did it!” I exclaim. “I can’t believe it. I actually did it.”

  “Yes you did,” Sebastian agrees cheerfully, handing me my stack of jewelry. “Congratulations, Bailey. We’ll make a pool player out of you yet.”

  For the first time ever, I believe him. Less than an hour of instruction and I’ve learned how to break? Daniel and Sebastian are miracle workers.

  * * *

  Clark’s in some kind of snit when he shows up and reads the paperwork that the bartender hands him. Sebastian sneaks a look and comes away grinning.

  “What?” I ask. After hanging out with Daniel and Sebastian for a little over an hour, chatting about work and vacations and my pool game, I feel a sense of camaraderie with them.

  Sebastian laughs out aloud. “Clark’s rank dropped. He’s now a three. Idiot.”

  “That’s not very nice.” Though Clark was a dick to me last week, given my general ineptness at the pool table, I feel sympathetic for anyone that’s struggling at the sport. Even douchebag Clark.

  “Trust me, it’s perfectly justified,” Daniel replies. “You know why his rank dropped? He can’t play opposite a woman.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s way more aggressive when he’s playing a woman,” Daniel explains. “His shot selection is reckless. He hits the balls too hard. Sound and fury, but no substance. He’s trying to prove something.” He shakes his head. “Clark’s been playing in the league for a while. Other teams have figured this out, so they always put up a woman when he’s playing. Of course, he loses far more often than he wins. Watch.”

  Just as Daniel predicts, when Clark puts himself up to play, still muttering about the incompetent American Poolplayers League, the other team confers briefly, and a petite Asian woman comes forward. Both Daniel and Sebastian are struggling not to laugh, and to tell the truth, I too am fighting my urge to giggle at the thunderous expression on Clark’s face.

  Bailey, I think to myself, you might be in trouble. I’m extremely attracted to Daniel and Sebastian, but as I told Gabby over lunch, attraction is not enough for me. Liking them is a pretty necessary part of the equation. The problem is, after this evening, I like them a lot.

  “Where’s Juliette?” I ask them, to try to distract myself from that train of thought. We’d been introduced last week, and we’d even had time for a brief conversation, where I’d learned that she had known Daniel and Sebastian for more than a year. She’d been polite enough, if a little aloof.

  “She’s meeting with some potential partners of mine,” Sebastian says.

  Daniel raises an eyebrow. “She didn’t want you there?” he asks curiously.

  “She did,” Sebastian replies shortly. “I declined.”

  Daniel looks amused. “Of course.” He looks as if he’s going to say more, but he stops himself short.

  I look back and forth at them, intrigued by this conversation. “Partners of yours?” I ask. “Other chefs?”

  “No, these guys are investors,” Sebastian replies. “Juliette’s my business adviser.”

  “Oh.” I feel a strange sense of relief that I’m unprepared to examine. Instead, I turn toward the pool tables, where Clark is, as predicted, losing to his opponent. He’s just scratched while trying to pocket the eight-ball - an automatic loss. For anyone other than me, it wasn’t really even a difficult shot. Had Clark not tried to be flashy, he would have made it without any problem. “Wow, he really can’t play against a woman, can he?”

  “Nope,” the guys confirm. We watch in silence as he racks up the balls for the next game with bad grace, but the second game goes no better. His opponent has her foot on the throttle, and she doesn’t let up.

  “If he doesn’t win the next game,” Daniel mutters next to me, “he’s going to lose the match.”

  “Aren’t you bothered?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “It’s just a game,” he says. “I like to play, and I’m competitive enough to want to win. But if I start getting irritated every time Clark fucks up, I’m going to be angry all the time. It’s not worth it.”

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