Harem: An MFMM Romance

by Abby Angel

  See, almost every sizzling sinful moment of what happened between the three of us gets me hard. But what's starting to get my cock twitching uncontrollably is far, far worse.

  But it's so fucking hot it makes me not care where the fuck I am. To just whip out my dick and start jerking it till I cum is all I want to do when I think about it.

  What is it?

  The thought of not just having Natalie, but having Drake as well.

  That's right.

  I want to fuck my stepsister. And my stepdad. At the same fucking time.

  It's sick.

  It's fucking wrong.

  It's forbidden on so many levels.

  This is the kind of shit the Romans used to do. That had priests and scholars fear that the sun was going to fall out of the sky.

  It's like the demon of lust has nested in my soul. Corrupted me with wicked fucking thoughts.

  Don't roll your eyes at me, okay? That's entirely what it feels like.

  "I have Drake Carlton here to see you, Sloane," Cheryl's voice comes out across the intercom.

  What the fuck? Speak of the fucking devil.

  "Excuse me?" I answer back, my voice barely a croak.

  I can hear her pick up the phone at her desk as well.

  "Drake is waiting at reception. I just got the call," she says to me over the phone. "What should I do?"

  I pause for a long moment.

  Two weeks ago, I would've told Cheryl to send him the fuck back. I would have nothing to fucking say to that man.

  But that was then.

  Things are a lot different now.

  "Send him in," I say into the intercom and then hang up.

  What could Drake want? It must be something important. Important enough for him to come up to Midtown all the way from Wall Street.

  The door to my office opens and Drake Carlton walks in.

  He looks at me, as if he's walking into the lair of an enemy.

  But that look fades just as quickly as I see it. And come on, I think I need to cut him some slack on that one. What happened between us two days ago has probably changed things for him too.

  "I've never seen your new office," Drake says, by way of greeting. "The view is definitely nicer than what I have downtown," he finishes.

  Drake walks to the window and looks out.

  I know he didn't come here to look at the view, but I'm also not a fucking caveman, okay? I have some tact.

  No, instead of saying anything as fucking trite as 'Well, you came all this way for the view' or some bullshit like that, I stay silent.

  Instead, as a sign of giving him a chance, I get up from my chair and walk around my desk.

  There. We're on a bit more even footing now.

  I head next to Drake and stand next to him at the window.

  We're just looking down on the streets of Midtown, right? So why the fuck is my cock twitching?

  Do I want to fuck Drake right here?

  I mean don't get me wrong. I'm not gay. I think I proved that to you pretty conclusively the other day with Natalie.

  But just because I'm not gay doesn't mean that I can't appreciate man meat.

  And if I have to be honest, I'll be the first to admit to you that Drake Carlton is a remarkable specimen of man. He has a great fucking body. He's got the confidence of--

  "I want to talk to you about two days ago," Drake says, turning to me and not wasting any more words. "You know I didn't come all the way up here to look down at the view with you. But I appreciate that you didn't rush me, Sloane," Drake says.

  I decide to just stare at him and let him continue.

  "We've had our differences, you and I," Drake says. "But what happened the other day has taken this to a whole different level."

  Well, that's the understatement of the fucking century.

  I sigh, and gesture toward the sofa next to the window. Drake nods and sits down. I sit on the leather chair across from the sofa.

  "We've been at each other's throats for a long time, Drake," I say to him, and he nods. "I think I'm a fucking venture capitalist because I hated you."

  "There's a lot of anger to go around, Sloane," Drake says to me. "I made my share of mistakes."

  And that's when it fucking hits me.

  You know how sometimes you're just sitting there or talking to someone and they say or do something and it's a stupid insignificant thing, but it sort of puts everything into fucking perspective?

  Scientists and behavioral psychologists call it an epiphany.

  I call it an 'oh shit' moment.

  And that's just what Drake has done to me right now.

  See, he made mistakes. He just admitted he made mistakes.

  "Drake," I say slowly. He looks at me. "You made a lot of mistakes."

  Drake nods his head. He doesn't grimace, but he's quiet.

  "I want you to know, I loved Meredith," he says to me. "I loved your mother with all my fucking heart."

  I don't say anything.

  "After she died, I don't know what happened, but I should've never married Linda," he says to me. "I know you didn't approve, but I didn't care."

  It's not that I didn't approve.

  Fuck.

  Could it be that I didn't want to share?

  Did I maybe want Drake to myself?

  "I can't fault you now for marrying Linda, man," I say to him. "Otherwise, I would've never met Natalie."

  That makes us both pause.

  Natalie Vanderhill.

  The girl with the beautiful face. The gorgeous fucking body. That tight heart-shaped ass. Those slender legs. That flat stomach. Those luscious tits.

  And the dirtiest fucking mind I've ever seen in a woman.

  "Natalie is...special," Drake says, choosing his words. I understand where my stepdad is coming from. It's a loaded fucking subject. "Hell, she's the reason we're in this room today talking to each other as civilized people."

  "When you married Linda, there was a lot of hurt," I tell Drake, going back to my epiphany. I think I almost have it to put into words.

  "But that hurt wasn't because I thought you were forgetting about Mom," I tell him. He's nodding, and looking at me now. "That hurt was because I thought you were forgetting about me."

  "I wasn't close to even trying to be a good dad, Sloane," Drake says shaking his head.

  "That's not it," I say to him and Drake looks at me.

  What is that in his eyes?

  He's my stepdad. All it can be is concern.

  "I think, yeah, I needed a father," I tell Drake slowly. "But I think I was jealous of Linda because she was going to be your lover."

  Drake is quiet.

  And that's the fucking rub, isn't it.

  I was jealous of my stepmom, not because I didn't want a new family coming in.

  Because on some deeper level, I was attracted to my stepdad.

  It's been an attraction that I haven't been able to reconcile all this fucking time.

  So what did I do instead?

  I lashed out. I got angry. I built walls. I never settled on one woman.

  So much to tell Drake about. And looking at him, I see he hasn't turned away in shock or disgust anymore. He's smiling; it's an open fucking invitation.

  We're going to finally bury the fucking hatchet. We're going to--

  The phone interrupts my thinking.

  "Mr. Hardman," Cheryl says with professionalism in her voice. "The investors are here to go over the final details on the investment of Dirty Lil' Angels. They're in the South Conference Room."

  Fuck. This is a real meeting.

  Drake understands though that we've had a fucking breakthrough. He gets up.

  "Let's grab some dinner," he says. "The three of us. We have a lot of talk about."

  I get up. We shake hands. A bit awkwardly. And then he's out the door.

  And I'm in a whole new world. Every last thing I knew has fucking changed.

  I honestly need a breather, to be honest.

&nb
sp; A meeting with some bankers is just what I need to get my focus back.

  Why don't you go see what Natalie is up to?

  Natalie

  “Open the door, I know you’re there,” I hear my mom say from the hallway, the footsteps of her pacing back and forth like a caged lioness reaching me like a bad omen. Maybe if I just remain silent she’ll give up and go away.

  “I can see your shadow from under the door, you know?” she continues triumphantly, and finally stops pacing.

  Sigh. I guess I can’t avoid her, right? She’s my mom, I know, but after that fight at The Oak Room I’m in no mood to see her. Ah, screw this.

  Surrendering, I open up the door and there she is, hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “I can’t believe you’re avoiding your own mother, Natalie. That’s so below you,” she tells me, walking inside the apartment while she shakes her head in disapproval.

  “Well, maybe that’s because my own mother is trying to force me to destroy my company,” I shoot right back, closing the door and preparing for another fight.

  “Sell your company. Not destroy. It’s totally different,” she replies in a condescending tone, as if I was still five years old and she was explaining to me why playing with the poor kids isn’t proper. “Honey, think it through. You own a sex toy company. What kind of career is this? You have a degree in finance.”

  “I know what kind of company I have, and I also know what I graduated in, mom. But this is my life.”

  “Sweetie, please. I’m just trying to help you, really. Get rid of this awful company of yours, get a proper job—like I know you can—and once I’m mayor it’ll all payoff. I’ll pull some strings for you and set you up for life.”

  Her words are full of honey, and the lines around her eyes seem to have gained a soft, and almost kind, quality. Linda, the actress—please give this woman an Oscar. Her words might be honey, but trust me, her intent is vinegar.

  “No.”

  “Be rational about this, Natalie,” she continues sweetly, reaching for me and taking my hand in hers. “You’re my daughter. Forget about my bid for mayor, I’m just thinking of you right now. You’ve proved whatever it is you want to prove, haven’t you? You have money; you have success. Wouldn’t it be nice to be respected as well?”

  For a fraction of a second I almost believe her. Perhaps she really wants what’s best for me. Perhaps she isn’t thinking of herself and her ambitions right now, and she’s really worried about me in that twisted way of hers. But no, I can’t let her sink her hooks in me. She’s trying to play me, but I won’t allow it; if there’s one thing I inherited from her, it's that I’m stubborn.

  “No,” I merely say, shrugging and taking back my hand. “I’m on the verge of securing a major investment, and I’ll take a bullet before I give up on this company.”

  “Investment?” she scoffs, looking around my apartment and gazing at the towers of cardboard boxes crammed in my living room. “And why would anyone invest in this, sweetie?”

  “I have a prototype I’m working on, and I’m betting my whole company on it,” I tell her, determination rising inside of me. I’ve never been the kind of woman who did things just to show others that I can do it, but right now all I want is to rub my success in her face.

  “Is this really how you want to play your hand, Natalie?” my mom asks me, lowering her voice and giving me a look that would make the most hardened SEAL run for cover. I stand my ground, though. I won’t bend over to please her.

  “You can do what you want, mom. I’m not selling my company,” I say again, feeling more determined than ever. An expression of contempt washes over her face and, for a fraction of a second, all of her beauty vanishes; she looks dangerous now, like a coiled snake ready to jump and bury its fangs into the neck of a defenseless prey.

  “Actions have consequences. And I can’t be responsible for what happens next,” she tells me, her words cold and heartless, a veiled threat in her voice.

  “Are you threatening me?” I ask in complete disbelief. I know my mother is ruthless but… Christ, I’m her daughter!

  “You’re making your own bed. And, sooner or later, you’re going to lie down on it. I offered you a bed of respect and money, Natalie, but it seems that you prefer one made of thorns.”

  “Why are you threatening me, Mom?” I ask, a bit too shrill. “Why are you always so brutal on me?”

  Mom looks at me. "Honestly, Natalie, I'm warning you," she says. "If you don't get out of this filthy sex toy business, you're not going to be considered my daughter any longer.”

  "And so what?" I shout back. "It's not like you were ever a mother to me!"

  It takes her two seconds. But her hand reaches out.

  And slaps me.

  "You ungrateful little bitch!" she yells. "You better watch your back, baby girl. Because I'm about to destroy both you, your stepdad, and your stepbrother."

  There is nothing but anger in her eyes.

  "I'll make the world hate you! To the point where they close your business down for you! And by the time I'm done destroying the three of you, they'll be wanting to make me a saint for putting up with you," Mom says. I

  "You wouldn't," I say, shocked. "Not to your own family."

  "I hate all three of you," she says. "And with the reporters I have in my payroll, you're going to watch Sloane and Drake suffer."

  Clutching her purse to her breast, she then turns on her heels and walks for the door, leaving me completely dumbfounded in the middle of the living room.

  Before she can leave, though, I walk after her. I slam the palm of my hand against the door, stopping her from opening it, and look into her eyes. It hurts me to say it, but the person looking back at me isn’t someone I can call a mother. There’s just ice there, almost as if I were just another obstacle in her path.

  But there’s something else too. It finally dawns on me.

  “You’re jealous…” I whisper, and I notice a flicker of anger in her eyes. I can hardly believe it, but she’s jealous of me.

  “Don’t be silly. Why would I be jealous?” she says, but her voice falters as she says it. I can see through the cracks in her armor. I open my mouth to speak, but then I realize it won’t do any good.

  “Just go,” I whisper, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I step back from the door, and with one final hard look at me, she leaves. I lean against the wall and let my body slide down to the floor; burying my face in my hands, I let one huge sob rise in my chest and I finally let the tears loose.

  I’m not crying because I’m afraid of her. I’m a big girl and I can handle myself; I’m crying because she’s my mother. I never had a close relationship with her, but to think that she has become a complete stranger… And, more than that, she’s on the verge of becoming my enemy. My own mother!

  I pity her, to be honest. She always chased money and fame, the high-life, running after it like a dog chasing after a car. It’s everything she wants, but the last thing she needs. And that’s why I know she’s jealous of me. I live a life of freedom, doing the things I love and being true to myself. And she either can’t do that, or won’t.

  Wiping away the tears with the back of my hand, I go up to my feet and take a deep breath.

  Let her threaten me. Let her come after me.

  I’m right here.

  Drake

  The waitress brings us another round of drinks. We're sitting at Cipriani's, and the broker in front of me takes a good, long look at the waitress' ass as she walks away, and then he continues his rant. He's been bragging about his firm's latest client for the last twenty minutes.

  He's one of those old money types. His money's been handed to him from his father, and his father's father, and on, and on. It's a legacy that probably began when his family came over from the fucking Mayflower or something. You get the point. This guy's never known what it's like to have one foot dangling just above the gutter, or to claw your way to the top out of necessity.

  It almost makes me s
mile. I don't care how much money I've made, having that knowledge of desperation simmering just below the surface never goes away, and it gives me an advantage against the competition. It brings out the blood-thirsty shark in me. Always.

  "The IPO for my new client will be offered next week," he continues, "and the firm's going to make more money than it knows what to fucking do with."

  "We'll see," I say, taking a sip of my drink. I honestly don't give a fuck about whatever new client he's waving in my face. I don't give a fuck about the IPO. My mind is all over the place, but it always returns to two things: Natalie and Sloane.

  "There's no wait and see," he replies.

  "I just mean that we'll see if the public wants to invest," I say, trying not to yawn. I've heard these kinds of predictions a million times, and these fucking things don't always work out as planned.

  "Oh they'll want to invest," he continues, and then changes the subject. "What about that waitress, huh? That ass is something else."

  I nod, just to humor him. She's okay, but honestly, her ass doesn't compare to Natalie's. But he's fixated, like a dog drooling over a steak, and who am I to burst his bubble?

  "Yeah, nice."

  "I'd like to grab two big handfuls," he says, a grin forming on his face.

  I bet you would. Good luck with that. With the gold band on your finger, your receding hairline, and that gut protruding over your belt buckle, my guess is you don't have a chance in hell, I think to myself. But I don't say anything. Instead I smile. Schmuck.

  Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and look at the incoming number.

  Shit. "Excuse me," I say, "I need to take this call."

  "No problem, buddy," he responds, and smiles, "I'll just continue to take in the sweet, sweet view."

  I push my chair out and stand up from the table, quickly walking outside. I bring the phone to my ear and answer.

  "Linda?"

  "It took you long enough to answer."

  "I was—" I begin to say, but she cuts me off.

  "You're not at your office; so let me guess … you booked a discrete room at the Carlyle for you and maybe a young intern of yours. You plied her with drinks, flashed your money and influence, and when your phone rang just now, you were taking your mouth off her tits?"