Harper had picked up the album cover, and now he pointed at Willow with it. “That’s true. You wouldn’t want smoke getting into all of these fine…” He looked at the swirly, psychedelic album. “Ah, upstanding artifacts.”
“Plus,” said Carl, “three of the teenagers already fled.”
“It’s that damned David Niven room,” Willow explained, halfway out the door. “For some reason the décor inspires antics.”
The three partners looked at each other, questioning. Violet in particular with her scientific brain was perplexed. “Why would the David Niven Room—”
“Never mind,” said Sinclair soothingly, shutting the door behind Willow. “I’m more interested in discovering how this décor affects us.”
Violet looked at the bed. “Oh, you mean looking for that thimble.”
Sinclair took her by the arms and faced her square on. “That, and I’d like to be given one more chance to finish executing a Hand Relief Party. I think I was rudely interrupted by some damned show-offy cowboy last time and didn’t get a chance to prove my skill to you.”
Violet was flattered. She could see where it would behoove her, having these two splendid men in competition with each other. “Shouldn’t I be the one giving you men a Hand Relief Party? Isn’t that how these ménages work?”
Sinclair laughed fully, looking at her as though she were a child. “I’m not exactly sure how they’re supposed to work. You’re the biologist.”
Violet took him seriously. “Well, bisexuality is the norm in the animal kingdom—”
Harper spoke from somewhere behind her. “Ten percent of rams won’t mate with ewes. But they’ll go hard at it with other rams.”
“See? It’s perfectly natural for two men to engage in sexual behavior together.”
Sinclair said, “I didn’t say anything was unnatural, Violet. I just want you to calm down long enough for me to prove myself.”
“Don’t you get it, woman?” asked Harper. “He wants to prove his masculinity because he was last seen giving me a Hand Relief Party.”
There was amusement in Harper’s voice, but Violet loved discussing animal behavior. She wasn’t very up on human behavior, having shied away from intimacy for twenty years. She had thousands of associates, colleagues, and friends the world over, that was no problem. But this whole relationship thing made her wary, spooked, and more than a little afraid. “Oh, believe you me, Sinclair, there’s no need to prove any masculinity. I squeezed your erection. I could tell that the length and breadth of your tool is quite satisfactory and must be aesthetically pleasing to the eye, too.”
Sinclair looked over her shoulder at Harper. “I wonder if she’s always like this.”
“You could cuff her to the waterbed with these.”
A clanking came from behind her, and Violet twirled around just in time to see Sinclair leap past her and swipe whatever Harper held in his hands. Harper was standing at a wooden Scandinavian bureau, apparently looking in a drawer. Sinclair’s reflexes were too fast for the other two, and in the twinkling of an eye he had clicked—was that a handcuff?
“Hold your horses, partner!” yelled Harper. But he didn’t appear to be protesting too strenuously as Sinclair yanked him by his one cuffed wrist over to the bed. “I was suggesting we handcuff Miss Stinson, not me. What you want to go and do this for?”
Sinclair shoved Harper onto the waterbed. His butt hit the plastic mattress with a slap, and as fast as a fisherman letting out line, he’d cuffed Harper’s other wrist to one of the vertical slats in the headboard. Violet sucked in air, delighted at the picture Harper made. His Stetson had tumbled off when Sinclair had shoved him, and it now bobbed on the bed like a boat at sea. Harper was halfway propped up by the headboard, his neck crushed at an angle, and he looked delicious helpless like that.
Violet praised Sinclair. “You turned the tables on him! It must be hard to catch a hardened cowboy like that by surprise.”
Harper jerked on the chain. The flashing of his eyes showed a sliver of the darkness Violet knew was contained there. She could tell he was trying to shrug it off, but being made submissive was new and annoying to him. “Bastard! What’s your fucking end game? Violet. Are you going to let him do this to me?”
Sinclair stepped up to the bed. Harper kicked him in the knee with a pointy cowboy boot, and Sinclair dodged the second kick. “You’re right that I want to prove my masculinity. That should only take a couple of minutes. And I don’t need you butting in and taking control. I know how much you love control. This should teach you a lesson.”
Violet marveled at the deep psychological understanding Sinclair had. He was right. Harper did need a lesson in the dynamics of the power balance. She slapped Sinclair chummily on the arm. “You did that so well, Sinclair! You’re right—it’s completely amusing to see this big, bad outdoorsman strapped to a waterbed. Harper, you look like a drowning man. Those chaps make you look like a sailor who fell over—whoa!”
In a flash, Sinclair had tossed Violet onto the undulating mattress, right between Harper’s outspread thighs. The air was squeezed from her lungs, and she struggled to raise her torso. Now it was Harper’s turn to grin evilly at her. He cupped her jaw in his free hand and speared his fingers through her hair. Her breasts were pressed against his erection that strained the crotch of his 501s.
“Violet, darlin’,” he drawled. She was instantly taken in by his syrupy voice. “How does it feel to be submissive?”
Automatically she tried to analyze it. She knew she tended to take things literally. “I like it when I look at it from a certain angle. Being submissive can also be an empowering experience. In a way, the submissive person holds all the cards, don’t you agree?”
“Not normally.” Harper had the most seductive smile Violet had ever seen. His cock twitched against her tit. “But I’m enjoying this more and more every second.”
Violet nearly got lost in Harper’s gaze. She was bowled over when Sinclair kneeled behind her, and she clutched at Harper’s shoulders to steady herself. She could see Sinclair’s handsome, blow-dried hair and statuesque torso in the mirror that backed the headboard’s bookshelf. She caught her breath when he stripped off his shirt and flung it aside. As suspected, he had a superman physique, all rippling muscles and a sprinkling of chest hair with mouth-watering, stiff nipples.
He leaned against her as he reached around her, squeezing Harper’s prick as she had squeezed Sinclair’s. An erotic flutter resonated through her womb, making her pussy walls clench. Watching her beau Sinclair palm Harper’s big dick gave her a forbidden thrill. It was racy, sensual, and edgy all rolled into one when Harper responded ardently, swiveling his hips to press his penis into the palm. Sinclair’s other hand on the back of her neck let her know what was expected of her.
Shut the front door! She hadn’t given head in ten years, and she feared the size of Harper’s phallus would choke her. She looked up fearfully at Sinclair’s reflection.
Sinclair nimbly unbuckled the cowboy’s belt while talking salaciously. “Don’t you want to suck on this juicy, delicious meat, Violet?” The buttons came undone magically between Sinclair’s fingers. Harper, confident in his sexuality, put an arm behind his head to cushion it and seemed all settled in for a provocative time. Sinclair’s thumb rubbed the exposed trunk of the cock, and Violet’s inner pussy walls clenched at nothing, instinctively wanting to be filled.
“Of course I do,” she purred, trying her best to conjure up her memories of being a sex kitten for Bryan. The attitude was foreign to her, and she relied on the hormonal maelstrom the two men were stirring up with their heat, their friction. Rushing Sinclair along, Violet helped lift the long cock into the light. She barely had time to fear the bulging mushroom head, the veined length of it, before gulping it down her throat.
“Agh.” Harper’s voice was choked with the suddenness of her decision. His hips reflexively lodged the prick further against her tonsils, and it was her turn to gag.
She
held it all together, though, and when she backed off she was able to get a nice rhythm going, bobbing her head up and down the length of the shaft. She even gyrated her own hips, her pubic bone rubbing against the loathsome crushed velvet bedspread.
“That’s it, darlin’. Suck me like you mean it.” Harper encouraged her. She realized with a shock that Harper was also somewhat of a newbie at this, having only done men since losing his fiancée. He’ll be aroused by the newness of it all. Then her hope plummeted when she remembered he was used to being sucked by men. Their mouths are bigger. Their throat muscles are more powerful. She would be a pale and feeble comparison unless she stepped up her game.
Sinclair answered for her. “Oh, she means it all right, buddy. Don’t you, Violet? Don’t you just love sucking that long, delicious cock? Let me feel. Ah.” Violet jumped when Sinclair touched a few fingers to her soaked pussy lips. She was proud of herself for maintaining her grip on Harper’s penis. “You’re slick and juicy, Violet. Sucking on that well-hung cock is making you wet. What happens when I finger you like this? Ah. There. I got the spot, didn’t I?”
“Mm hm.” Harper inhaled sharply when she tried to answer Sinclair, so she did it again. “Mm hm, mm hm.” The vibrations of her voice probably tickled his cock, so she started moaning like a hurricane around him. It worked. He went apeshit, bucking and snorting like the “high roller” sort of horse he called her.
“That’s good, sweetheart,” urged Sinclair. His fingers must have been a blur as he played those repetitive glissandos against her clitoris. The tension mounted in her womb, her Kegels flexing automatically, clamping down on an invisible penis. “Suck that juicy cock. Is she doing good, Harper? Tell her how good she is.”
Harper’s words came all in a rush. “Oh, she’s fantastic, all right.” He seemed as though he didn’t want to be bothered with talking, though. When Violet detached her mouth temporarily to attempt to suck the ball sac between her lips, Harper’s free hand grabbed her hair, directing her back to her mission at hand. Now his deep groan resonated, vibrating her lips. “You are one…fucking…excellent cocksucker, darlin’.”
Although she knew logically that any cocksucking was probably A-OK in most men’s books, Violet’s ego swelled with pride. She was completely unprepared for her own orgasm to come so soon. The thrill of being praised had distracted her and now the ecstatic arms of her inner clitoris were wrapped tightly around her canal, squeezing the daylights from her.
The sudden intense pleasure flooded her brain with such a rush of endorphins she must have forgotten to suck. Harper held his breath and gripped the back of her neck as he arched into her, hovering on the brink of orgasm himself. When she remembered to suck harder, she was repaid with a gusher of salty semen.
“Ahhh…” The deep baritone of Harper’s happiness vibrated in Violet’s throat as he filled her.
She was overcome by his groans and his ejaculation, and Sinclair was teasing out a hefty orgasm from her. It rolled up and down the walls of her inner pussy in such violent spasms she was afraid she’d break something. None of her solo orgasms had ever been this extreme and deep. Like tickling or scratching, it probably felt ten times better when done by someone else.
When Sinclair kept diddling the most painfully sensitive spot on her clit, Violet tried to slap his hand away.
“What, too much?” he teased.
Swallowing her last gulp of jism, Violet detached from the cock with a loud sucking noise and twisted her torso and hips away from Sinclair’s hand. “Yes! Shut the front door, Sinclair! My nerve endings are absolutely on fire!”
Sinclair chuckled and sat back on the wavy mattress, looking like the cat that ate the canary. “Well? Did I perform well?”
She slapped his arm weakly. “You performed just fine, mister.”
“Call him Sir.” Behind her, Harper sounded weak, too. They’d both come twice today, and Sinclair was batting zero but didn’t seem to mind. Violet had the feeling there would be plenty of time for that.
She was perplexed. “Sir? He’s not British.”
Harper lazily stuffed his cock back into his pants with one hand. “A little help here, Sinclair.”
Sinclair sounded like he was joking when he said, “Only if you call me Sir too.” But he leaped to stand and retrieve a key from the bureau.
Shrugging, Violet went to the bathroom to freshen up.
Was that a clitoral or vaginal orgasm she’d just had, and the one before it? That age-old argument had been around forever. Clitoral orgasms were “immature,” not full or ripe. The only good kind of orgasm, the old saw went, was a vaginal one. Violet had always wondered about the difference. Her orgasms were always created by clitoral stimulation. But when it happened, every womanly organ inside her was squeezed ecstatically. Spasms rolled down and up her inner vaginal channel and up into her womb, her ovaries—every muscle in her abdomen clenched in sympathetic unison.
She had a sneaking suspicion that all orgasms were clitoral in origin. She would talk to her sexologist friend, Dr. Bruce Aggrawal. They had only discussed hippos mating before when they were in the Ngorongoro Crater, but for once, Violet wanted to know about people.
When she returned to the room, Harper and Sinclair were floating on the bed, kissing. Both fully clothed, it was fascinating to watch. They lay on their sides facing each other, lapping at and sucking on each other’s mouths as though drunk. Their jaws worked languidly, throat muscles rippling, deep masculine groans of satisfaction. Sinclair speared his fingers through Harper’s thick brunette hair, massaging the back of his skull, and his fat erection strained at his jeans, but he made no move to satisfy himself. He passively allowed Harper to stroke his well-built chest with the back of his hand, exploring. Sinclair’s prick jumped every time Harper pinched a nipple.
But Violet forgot it was a waterbed, and when she sat on the edge to admire the men the tidal wave she created woke them from their stupor. They both raised their heads, regarding her blankly.
“Never mind,” she said. “Carry on.”
Sinclair sat at attention and wove his own fingers through his damp hair. He was out of breath. “No problem. I’m going to go get that wine from the Jag. Got a whole bottle of Coppola I never even opened. Harper, do you drink wine?”
Harper had crawled to the headboard bookcase where he had been cuffed earlier. He rifled around in a few vintage magazines that had been placed there. “Not really. There’s no alcohol at The Racquet Club and when else do I get out in society?”
Sinclair asked, “More of a whiskey guy, then?”
The grin that Harper gave Sinclair was adorable. “A tried and true bronc buster.”
Violet protested, “But you weren’t always a cowboy, were you? You’re what, thirty?”
“Thirty-two.” Harper’s face was closed again, and he returned to the magazines.
“Your accent pins you as being from Texas.”
“Why couldn’t I be a cattleman in Texas?”
“You seem more…educated. Not that a cowboy can’t be. But some of your word choices mark you as having some higher education.”
Harper still didn’t look at her. “I got an engineering degree from Rice. Didn’t wind up using it long. Now, look here, Sinclair. Didn’t your father write ‘look in the bed’?”
Sinclair scooted over, creating an ebb tide of waves. “Yes, he did. What you got?”
“Well, this here’s an old Look magazine. Think there’s anything to it?”
Mouth gaping, Sinclair slowly took the magazine from Harper. “Yes. Definitely. My dad put eyeballs in the two Os when he wrote ‘Look,’ just like someone did here on the masthead. And—oop! Well, what do we have here?”
Violet jumped on the bed just in time to see Sinclair brandishing the little thimble between thumb and forefinger. It must have slid out from between the pages. His face was lit up with the vindicated joy of discovery. “Jesus, Harp. You’re a fucking genius. Maybe you can find Willow’s menu for her.” To display his
gratitude, Sinclair laid another openmouthed kiss on his partner while Violet took the thimble from him.
Yes, it was a scrimshaw thimble, engraved with a tall ship, a compass, and birds flying around the three masts. Violet replaced the thimble on the Look magazine and bounced off the bed.
“I’m going to get some ice,” she said, swiping up the ice bucket.
“Mm hm,” Sinclair acknowledged as he licked the underside of Harper’s tongue.
Chapter Ten
Sinclair snatched the wine tote from the Jaguar’s trunk and slammed it shut, but the two men didn’t leave the parking lot. They both stared distantly at the Searchlight’s neon sign, fittingly a searchlight that pivoted its beam into the sky when lit.
Sinclair was the first to speak. He knew Harper would never broach any remotely sensitive subject on his own. “So what is this we’re doing here, Harper? Do you have any serious intentions toward Violet or what?”
Harper crossed his arms and leaned a thigh against the Jag’s trunk. He gazed somewhere over Sinclair’s shoulder. “To be honest, I don’t know. Things have been so upside down lately. Never thought I’d kiss another woman again, much less put my head between her legs.”
“That’s what I mean. I feel protective of Violet. I have as little claim to her as you do—hell, I think she’s a woman of the world and can never be claimed by anyone, Harper. But I want to make sure you don’t stick a knife in her back. Or anywhere else for that matter. I think she likes you—more than ‘likes’ you. But she’s as familiar with human relationships as you are. She has no idea when something has the potential to hurt her.”
Harper whistled silently, looking at the asphalt. “Well, I’ll tell you this much, Sin.” He’d called him that a few times and Sinclair didn’t mind it. His closest friends growing up near Last Chance, and many of his jet-setting buddies, called him that. “I don’t aim to hurt Violet. We’re both babes in the woods at this relationship business.”
The Substantial Gift [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 10
