by Skye Warren
“Stay here,” he says, curt, like maybe it’s his hotel room instead of mine.
“I can answer the door,” I say, except there’s a cool breeze on my breasts. I’m not wearing a shirt, which is probably a good reason not to greet visitors right now. The black tank top somehow disappeared, so I grab a pillow and hug it to my body, facing the door.
Sutton opens the door and faces the newcomer with no surprise.
From the angle I can’t see who it is, but I know based on the low, angry voices that come next. From the cadence of the voice and the rumble of sound. From the excitement in my chest.
“Let him in,” I say, because I don’t want another fight.
Or maybe that’s exactly what I want.
Christopher’s dark gaze finds my bare shoulders. He makes a sound like a hiss. I could have touched burning-hot iron to his skin to produce that sound. I want him to see what he gave up those years ago.
Not enough to drop the pillow.
Sutton closes the door and leans against it, apparently content to obey me. Even if I said the wrong command. Maybe that’s what he’s doing, teaching me a lesson.
“Is this what gets you off?” Christopher demands, looking every inch the powerful businessman. This is how he’d be across the smooth cherry table in the boardroom, negotiating a contract, establishing terms. “You want two men panting after your pretty little body?”
It feels like the answer should be no, but the little flip in my stomach means maybe yes. Is that wrong of me? My desires aren’t anything straightforward and numerical. I could paint them, these feelings. They would look like Cleopatra, but she wouldn’t be seductive and knowing. She would be afraid. I’m over my head with these men.
Christopher prowls toward me, and I clutch the pillow tighter as I evade him. It means giving him a glimpse of my bare back, but it’s better than being cornered. He keeps coming at me. I keep stepping back, until I hit something warm and breathing and unmovable.
Sutton.
I’m between both men, caught with only a pillow to cover me. Christopher’s eyes are completely merciless. He doesn’t feel sorry for anything that happens next. When I glance over my shoulder, Sutton looks a little kinder. Enough that he runs a gentle hand along my side, soothing, settling me for whatever comes next.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but it’s not a direct question. Not only for Christopher or for Sutton. It’s for both of them. For the room, which has closed me in.
“Nothing you don’t want,” Sutton murmurs in my ear. When he speaks like that, it’s easy to see why someone would do business with them. They’d stake their entire livelihood on a handshake with this man, his word worth more than a thousand other signatures.
And still my vision wavers, the whole world wavy and ocean-like. Underwater, that’s what I am.
“Drop the pillow,” Christopher says, and he sounds the very opposite as Sutton. The opposite of reassuring. He’s pure danger like this. “Let’s see what we’re paying for tonight.”
A slap on the face couldn’t have surprised me more. I step back into Sutton’s embrace, holding the pillow tighter. “I’m not a prostitute.”
He gives me a cold smile. “I’m not going to leave cash on the dresser, Harper. For many reasons, not the least of which is that you don’t need the money.”
If he had coaxed me for hours, I would have held on to the pillow. This Christopher, I know very well. This Christopher I know how to fight. I toss the pillow aside, casually, as if I’m naked in front of two men every day. “I wouldn’t be a prostitute, even without my trust fund.”
Christopher’s gaze doesn’t drop. He stares into my eyes hard, like he’s saying a thousand things without words. There are probably equations and pie charts in his head. “But I’m still going to end up paying for this.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, even though I know. I’ll pay my own price.
Sutton strokes his hand down the side of my neck. His mouth follows the same path. No wonder he was able to tame a wild horse. I would have followed him to the stream. Would have crossed the county to keep his hands on me. “You tell me to stop,” he says softly. “Tell me to punch Christopher in the face. Whatever you say, that’s what happens.”
Heady, that’s the feeling of power. Addictive. Terrifying. “What if I’m wrong?”
“There’s no wrong,” Sutton says.
Christopher’s lips twist. “If there’s no wrong, then there’s no right.”
I could kill him, this man who was my stepbrother and my former confidant. This man who controls my fortune. Yes, I could strangle him easily and feel relief.
But not before I lose my virginity to him.
“I’m surprised you would share.” I could be speaking to either of them, but it’s Sutton who could have demanded we never answer the door.
Sutton who could have insisted Christopher go away.
His lips move against my neck, an enticement all their own. My skin tightens beneath him. “Do you remember what I told you the first day? In the boardroom? I don’t mind that you have unfinished business.”
Make him suffer all you want, as long as you don’t go home with him at the end of the night. That’s what he said about the gala. Is that what he thinks about tonight? Except I won’t be going home with either of them. “Unfinished business,” I say, unsteady. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
Christopher’s eyes flash. “How generous of my business partner.”
Words fall like pebbles into a large lake, almost soundless. Deceptively small. “That’s what I did with the library, isn’t it?” Sutton’s voice is low and faintly mocking. “You wanted it but didn’t have enough. I helped you do it.”
“Helped.” Christopher tastes the word, sounding hard and accusatory. He looks at the places where Sutton touches me—one hand on my arm, his other on my waist. His mouth less than an inch from my neck. I can feel the soft caress of his breath. “This is how you help.”
“Do you want her?” Sutton says, sounding unconcerned. The way you would ask if someone is having a nice day, polite indifference—you could almost think he doesn’t care. If not for the erection hard and throbbing against my ass.
“I’ve always wanted her.”
The words should be sweet. Maybe for another woman they would be, but they only make me angry. They make me furious. Not the snake-hair kind of fury. This is sly and seductive. It ripples along my skin, turning me into someone else.
Someone who turns her face back to meet Sutton’s lips.
I start the kiss, but Sutton is the one who takes it deep. It’s not a show, the way he licks inside my lips like he’s trying to taste my essence. He must find it, because he groans into my mouth—soft, like maybe he doesn’t want to make that sound. I bite him for it, because my body is wild and feral and wants him to make the sound again.
Only a small part of my mind listens. Any second now the hotel door will open and close. Christopher will leave. For so many reasons he’ll leave. Even putting aside the fact that he never touched me after that night in the art gallery, even ignoring the tense competition between the two men… threesomes aren’t something men do, are they?
Frat boys talk about it at school. Two women, that’s what they want. Bonus points if they’re twins. But never two men, not for ones as confident and commanding as these. They would kill each other, which maybe is the point. This is a gladiator match, and I’m the arena.
The door doesn’t open and close.
A whisper on the back of my hand. On my cheek. It could almost be nothing, except that my skin remembers. I break the kiss to see Christopher tracing my skin, not touching. There’s an expression of fierce concentration on his face. This man can discuss advanced economic theory like it’s the alphabet, and he studies my shoulders, my breasts, the indent of my waist, like I’m a puzzle beyond comprehension.
Those eyes have never been more opaque than now. It’s impossible to imagine what he’s thinking behind black ma
rble. Is he surprised that we ended up here, after hating each other for so long? Or does it feel inevitable, like every sharp word and growled insult has led to this?
That’s what it feels like for me—inevitable. It’s finding silt at the bottom of the ocean after a long way down. I knew it must be here, but I lost hope along the way.
He brushes the backs of his fingers against my collarbone. Lower, lower. Skips over my breasts and touches again at my stomach, making me suck in a breath.
He’s going to make me ask, this man. He’s going to make me beg.
“Touch me,” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine. It’s with cold deliberation that he cups my breast. Tugs my nipple between thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t blink, not even when I ache and squirm in Sutton’s hold.
It’s wrong that I’m held from behind by one man and touched by another. It’s the culmination of everything we’ve done, a physical manifestation of being with Sutton at the theater and having Christopher watch me from his box seat.
Everything more intense and surreal.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Sutton’s voice startles me. He sounds casual, as if they share women every day. As if my breasts are a sunset worth mentioning.
Christopher swallows hard. “Beautiful. I’ve dreamed about them, of course.”
“I think a man would have to be dead not to dream about these.” Sutton runs a hand up my side and cups my breast, the one Christopher isn’t already holding. There are two different hands on me right now. One calloused and square-tipped. The other elegant and strong. It’s pure decadence having both of them touch me. Enough to drive a girl insane, the way they each feel so different, with every stroke telling me, there are two of us, two men, two.
My hips rock forward and back, reaching toward Christopher and then back toward Sutton. I can’t decide what I want, can’t decide who I want, and it hurts both ways.
They guide me toward the bed without discussing it. They became business partners for a reason. Even so different, there’s some part of them that works together. I’m undressed with four hands moving over me, worshipping me, driving me insane.
I’m laid down on the white lace bedspread, my breasts ruched and sensitive, my legs spread by Christopher’s hips. He touches me, careful and sure, finding me wet. One finger presses inside. Two. My body pushes up to meet him, finding the rhythm he feeds me, seeking release.
He pulls away before I can reach climax, making me moan my complaint.
“You want this?” he asks, so soft it might not be important. If not for the way his jaw ticks, for the impossible bulge beneath his slacks, you could think my answer doesn’t matter.
It was always supposed to be you. I bite those words back, because they have no place in this moment. No place in front of Sutton, who leans against the dresser, looking hungry and benevolent. He’s the one granting us this moment. Is this a gift to me or Christopher?
It might not be a gift at all. A Trojan horse, the way Christopher unbuckles his belt with hands made clumsy with urgency, the way my legs fall open against the bed. Enough to destroy the both of us, the way Christopher catches a condom Sutton tosses across three feet.
And then Christopher pushes against me.
His eyes widen. “You’ve done this before. Haven’t you?”
I turn my face away, hiding. A little ashamed. The hand on my cheek is gentle but inexorable. He turns me to face him, his eyes made a fraction lighter.
“Haven’t you?” he asks, soft, even though he must already know. My cheeks are burning. In all the imagined times that Christopher Bardot took my virginity, I never had to tell him.
Never had to admit I’ve waited for him.
“I want this,” I whisper, pulling uselessly at his arms where he leans over me. It might as well be pulling stone columns for all I move him. He’ll make the decision for us.
He leans down to press a chaste kiss to my lips. It feels like goodbye, that kiss, and I push up from the bed, following him, begging him with my body to stay.
I didn’t need to worry. He pushes inside me fast enough that I gasp, hard enough that I arch away from him, stunned and stretched. My hands fist in the bedspread.
“Shhh,” Christopher says, brushing hair away from my cheek. “The worst of it’s over. I’m going to be gentle with you, Harper. I promise.”
It’s a promise that makes my eyes sting, because it can’t be real. He’s determined and hard and cold, but never gentle with me. Except he pulls me into his arms, cradling me, holding me still as he pulls back and thrusts again. My mouth opens in lingering pain, but he captures it in a kiss. It has to be a lie, this kiss, so full of emotion that Christopher can’t have.
Pleasure surrounds me as surely as the dark water around a stone.
I sink deeper with every thrust and every breath. His head falls to my shoulder as he murmurs, “Yes, God. Harper. Like that. You’re so beautiful like that.”
Beautiful. He uses the word, but it doesn’t feel like he’s describing me. Not the way I look, anyway. He’s describing the way I feel around him. The way my secret muscles clench and squeeze, fighting the intrusion. He reaches down to move my hips in some specific way that feels only slightly different, until he pushes in again. Then sparks light up a place deep in my body, electricity running to every nerve and making me light up.
A rough sound comes from behind me, and I look back to see Sutton watching us with eyes a sharp crystal blue. They speak of arousal, those eyes, and something else—a secret plan.
A plan, like this is part of his strategy.
Like he always knew it would come to this between the three of us.
Then Christopher thrusts into me again, and I forget to think about Sutton. I forget anything but the feel of this body working over me, inside me, the warm lips on my neck. He tastes my skin along my shoulder. My breast. When he closes over my nipple, I whimper.
“I need you.” Three words. The most truth I’ve ever spoken to Christopher.
His eyes reflect the need back at me. I need you. Or maybe I’m imagining that. And then he closes his eyes, blocking me out again. He thrusts again, hard, making those starbursts behind my eyelids. There’s nothing to do but pant and moan and feel when he does that.
I’m drifting in a nighttime ocean of pleasure, unable to find land but not wanting, never wanting it as long as he does this. My nails scratch at lean, muscled shoulders. He grunts and pushes harder, harder. He bends to my ear, the other side of Sutton. And murmurs, so quiet I almost think I’m imagining it. “Please,” he says against my skin, more feeling than sound.
This man, so proud and so strong. He says please like a man kneeling at my feet.
And I come like a goddess being worshipped, the pleasure fire-bright in my clit and spreading out to my body in waves. Christopher rides my climax with quick thrusts that take me deeper. There’s no air here, but I don’t need it, don’t need to breathe, only need Christopher—and I cling to him. I grasp at him, hungry, desperate, as his body stiffens and pushes, once, twice, and he cries out, hoarse and broken.
Exhaustion makes me collapse back on the bed, my eyes closed. Sleep laps at my skin, threatening to drag me under. God, I can’t fall asleep right now. I shouldn’t, but my body doesn’t understand that. The last thing I feel is Christopher’s lips against my forehead, like a benediction as I sink into sleep.
When I wake up, it’s still dark in the room, no beam of light from between the two heavy drapes. There’s a warm body underneath me, muscles waiting. My hand clenches in springy hair on a broad chest. Before I look up, I know it’s Sutton. A slice through my chest, realizing that we’re alone in the room. Sometime after taking my virginity, sometime after kissing my hair, he walked away. That’s what he always does. He probably has some academic reasoning in his head about how it’s actually protecting me, walking away, instead of breaking my heart again.
“Morning,” he says softly.
“Christopher?”
�
��He left. Are you feeling okay?” He means the virginity thing, which I want to brush off as nothing. Not a big deal. Only a social construct, except it feels distinctly physical right now. There’s a dull ache between my legs, a reminder of where Christopher has been.
Beneath a white sheet I can see that Sutton’s hard. “I’m fine. What about you?”
A flash of teeth as he smiles. “Don’t worry about me.”
I’m worried about the way Christopher interrupted us in the hallway. About the way he interrupted us last night. We must have reached the part where it hurts him.
My palm brushes over the muscled ridges and flat plane, down to where his arousal burns against my hand. He sucks in a breath when I grasp him with my fist. This part I’ve done before, playing in the basements of boys I could barely remember after the fact. They weren’t as big as Sutton Mayfair. Not nearly as controlled either. He lets me stroke him, down and down, the rest of his body still like a predator coiled to strike.
“You’re sore,” he says, his voice like rocks grating against each other.
“Not,” I say, which is a lie. It doesn’t matter, this ache between my thighs. I want to feel Sutton; maybe more than that, I want him to feel me.
He looks like he’s about to argue the point, and God, he could prove it. If he touched me between my legs, I would probably flinch. So I press my lips against his chest, to the side, lips open and teeth grazing him. His body jerks, no longer controlled.
“Damn,” he mutters.
“It’s just the two of us,” I whisper.
It’s just the two of us, which means we can finally get this right. Now, when I’m still fragile and sore from Christopher, it might finally be enough to free me from wanting him. If only I could want another man. If only I could want Christopher and have him, that would be enough.
He holds himself back, but only barely. Those muscles that look handsome beneath his suit have turned into something far more feral. He’s part animal now, vibrating with need. “Shouldn’t touch you like this. Should give you a break.”
