Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  His snorts a soundless breath.

  I don’t date. I fuck. Which means I’m never alone at night.

  My nostrils flare. “What does this slumber party entail?”

  He rubs the underside of his jaw and turns toward the gift bag on the bureau. I lean forward as he removes… A bamboo paddle brush?

  My mind takes a fast trip to Naughtyville, and my backside tingles in memory of Cole’s darker desires. “You could redden an ass with that.”

  Trace’s fingers clench around the brush handle, his expression smoldering.

  I flutter my eyelashes. “Just throwing that out there.”

  “The brush is for the knots in your hair.”

  “Lame.”

  Or so I thought. The moment he crawls onto the bed and nudges me onto my belly, I realize something monumental is about to happen.

  He reclines beside me, braced on an elbow with our bodies aligned. “Look the other way.”

  I turn my head and hug the pillow beneath it as wonderment buzzes in my belly.

  His fingers run through my waist-length hair, gathering the heavy strands down my back. When the wide brush replaces his hands, I can’t stop the sigh from billowing my lips.

  He starts at the ends and works his way up gently, affectionately, taking care around the tangles like he knows what he’s doing.

  “Thank you,” I mumble happily. “This is really nice.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It’s the weirdest, most amazing feeling. I’ve never had man brush my hair. Especially not a pompous, well-to-do suit. Hell, I struggle to imagine him combing his own hair. Wealthy men with chauffeurs don’t do this. Serial killers do. The kind that rubs the lotion on its skin.

  “Are you going to chop me up into little pieces when you’re finished?”

  “Your mind is a scary place.”

  “Sometimes. Have you ever done this before?”

  The brush pauses mid-stroke. Then he resumes with careful strokes. “No.”

  Big steps for Stodgy Savoy. Good for him.

  “What else can you do with those hands?” I ask.

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “Chicken.”

  He goes still. So fucking quiet and still. Then slowly, methodically, he sets the brush down on the mattress in my line of sight.

  Worry tingles up my spine. I’m in for it now.

  He wraps my hair around his fist, and with an eye-watering yank, he cranes my neck at an uncomfortable angle.

  “Stop taunting me.” His mouth touches my ear, the gentle caress at odds with his tone. “You won’t like the consequence.”

  “I want the consequence. Show me, Trace.”

  His breath rushes out, harsh and ragged, and his hand tightens, stinging pain through the roots along my scalp. I squirm against his grip, hating and loving the anticipation.

  “No.” He releases me, tempers his breaths, and calmly picks up the brush.

  “Disappointing.” I wilt in defeat on the mattress.

  “Get used to it.”

  “No need.” I shift to my side, facing away from him. “I’m not going to pursue someone who doesn’t want me.”

  I’ve gone without sex for three years, and now I’m starving for it. Trace triggered something inside me, something that awakened my libido. But there are a lot of men out there. Plenty of hard long dicks who would be more than willing to give me a night to remember.

  So for the next twenty minutes, I simply savor the pleasure of the brush sliding through my hair rhythmically, hypnotically. He continues to stroke long after the tangles are smoothed out, his breaths steady and composed, rasping in sync with his hand.

  I must’ve drifted off, because when I open my eyes, the brush lays on the mattress and his warm body presses against my back.

  His breathing is no longer measured. It’s erratic and shallow. And his hand… He’s rubbing my bare thigh beneath the shirt. I’m not wearing panties, and each time his fingers creep upward, I ache to raise my leg so he can rub where I need him the most.

  This is madness. What game is he playing?

  The free-spirited, Bohemian half of my soul urges me to roll with it. What’s life without a little adventure?

  But the broken half, the half that remembers what it feels like to love and lose, cringes in fear beneath every furtive caress of his hand. Furtive, because I’m certain he’ll stop touching me if I move.

  That can only mean one thing. He’s hiding his feelings from me.

  He said he’s never been in love, but maybe something or someone in his life made him distrustful and wary. Maybe it’s just his nature, hence the stiff upper-lip.

  Or maybe I intimidate him?

  Now that’s funny.

  His fingers trail upward, following the curve of my hip over the shirt. When he reaches my elbow, he ghosts his touch along my arm, stretching toward my hand where it rests on the bed. He feathers his fingers over mine, circling, lingering. Then he bumps against the engagement band, and his breath stops.

  He yanks his arm away, slips quietly off the bed, and pads toward the exit behind me.

  I crane my neck and watch him leave with his hands stabbing through his hair and tension tightening his shoulders.

  Something just happened, and it had everything to do with the ring on my finger. On my right hand!

  I roll to my back and stare at the exposed beams in the vaulted ceiling. If I go after him and press him to talk, he’ll recoil with hateful, chest-thumping blather. Or he’ll turn into a statue and give me useless one-word answers—which is worse.

  Wrapping the blankets around me, I try to sink back into sleep, but my brain won’t shut off.

  Why does he care about a piece of jewelry on my right hand?

  Because that ring symbolizes everything. The life I loved. The man I lost. The happiness I’ll never get back.

  If my engagement to Cole is such a point of contention for Trace, why doesn’t he ask about it? Why doesn’t he ask how Cole died or why I still wear the ring?

  The missing answers leave me wide awake. Confused. Flipping and flopping. Anxious. Huffing and puffing.

  Screw it. I throw off the covers and find Trace in the sitting room. Perched on one end of the couch, he’s bent forward with elbows on spread knees, sipping an amber drink from a crystal tumbler. A bottle sits on the trunk in front of him. Scotch.

  I stop within arm’s reach and put my hands on my hips. Then I lower them, because it feels confrontational.

  With his head tilted down, he lifts only his eyes and suspends me there, in the full force of his gaze.

  He says nothing. I say nothing. We’re rocking the communication.

  I release a sigh and lower to sit on the trunk, facing him.

  “What goes through your mind when you see this?” I hold out my right hand, and the silver band glints in the lamp light.

  He takes a sip of the scotch, swallows. “Your fiancé could’ve splurged a little and at least bought you a diamond.”

  My cheeks inflame, and the sharp rise of anger burns the backs of my eyes. “Diamonds are synonymous with greed and slavery and murder. No one had to die for my ring.” I drag in a serrated breath. “Cole gave me exactly what I wanted.”

  “Except a marriage.”

  I flinch, and my fingers ball into fists. “Why would you say something so cold and heartless?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “A truth I live with every second of every day,” I whisper, on the verge of tears. “The reminder is merciless and unnecessary.”

  I don’t need this. The more time I spend with him, the more I feel like a mat he uses to scrape the shit off his shoes. I stand on unsteady legs and stride toward the hall to change my clothes. This is me, being strong and mighty. Roar.

  Until his voice drifts across the room.

  “You’re the kind of woman a man marries.”

  My feet stick to the floor, my heart thundering for more. More to that declaration. It sound
s like a compliment, but coming from him, it could be anything.

  I need to let it go, get dressed, and get the hell out of Dodge. But I know what will happen. I’ll stew on his statement, wondering if he meant this or that or… Fuck! I want answers.

  He hasn’t moved, his chest still angled over his knees, his hand curled around his scotch.

  “Explain what you mean.” I retrace my steps, pausing a few feet away from the man responsible for my flighty state of mind. “Why am I the kind of woman a man marries?”

  “You’re empathetic.” He meets my eyes. “The donation at the shelter. The arthritis prescription for who the hell knows? Your abhorrence of the diamond industry. Most women don’t even think about the blood shed for diamonds. They just want the ring—the one with the biggest price tag.” He swallows the last gulp of scotch and stares into the empty glass. “That kind of empathy translates into compassion, support, and encouragement toward your partner.”

  My heart thuds, and my brain short-circuits. I’m not a religious person, but I feel the strong need to pray about this to whomever is listening.

  “You’re intellectually challenging,” he says. “Straight-forward, honest, and genuine—all of which trumps shallow beauty. A physical relationship is…nice.” His lips form a sinful smirk and settle back into a frown. “But when a man meets a woman he can hold meaningful conversation with, he won’t tire of her. Ever.”

  My mouth gapes, and I snap it shut. How do I process this? What the hell do I say? Thank you? Fuck you? My God, I’ve never met a more complicated, confusing man.

  “To top it off, you’re…aesthetically pleasing.” His eyes roam over me, making me shiver. Then he grabs the bottle of scotch and refills his tumbler. “You take care of your body, which means you’ll take care of his.”

  His. Some unnamed man who isn’t Trace.

  “I’d bet my casino,” he says, “there isn’t a woman in the world more beautiful than you. I should know. I’ve been surrounded by beautiful women most of my life.”

  “That’s enough.” I cross my arms over my chest, trembling with the need to cry or laugh or lose my fucking mind. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “A man doesn’t fuck you without wanting more. Without wanting the long haul. But I’m not looking for forever. I’m not going to date you or fuck you or marry you.” He drinks from the tumbler, rolls the scotch around in his mouth. “It’s just not in the cards for us, sweetheart.”

  His flippancy is needles dragging beneath my skin.

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “You’re in love with another man.”

  And there it is. I straighten my spine, an attempt to belie the quiver in my chin. “He’s gone. He’s…not coming back.”

  “Tell that to your heart. It missed the memo.”

  Is that true? I’ve come so far in the last two years. I can go days, sometimes a week, without breaking down. And I can talk about him now. About his life. His death.

  But I can’t remove his ring.

  My fingers clench around it, and Trace zeroes in on the reflex.

  I try to put myself in his position. If he was hung up with another woman, a woman he’d lost years ago, it would raise red flags. Maybe I’d admire his beauty from afar, but I wouldn’t pursue. Wouldn’t get attached.

  “So that’s it.” The weight of resignation pushes down on my shoulders.

  He wants me here because he likes to look at me. And brush my hair. And he thinks I’m interesting to talk to. I like to look at him, too, and I’d happily brush his hair. But talking to him is like walking along the rim of a volcano. Sometimes he’s quiet and tolerable. Sometimes he spews cruelty and ugliness.

  My gaze drifts to the elevator. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and pouring down rain. “I need to—”

  “You’re not leaving,” he says sternly. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  That’s fine, because if I’m going to continue to work here, we need to have another conversation. One that addresses the way he speaks to me.

  I circle the trunk and sit on the couch a couple of feet from him, tucking my legs beneath me. “For a classy, top-notch executive, your manners leave a lot to be desired.”

  He reclines back, balancing the tumbler on his thigh, his chest bare and eyes focused on me.

  “The size of your bank account doesn’t make you classy,” I say. “It’s the dignity you carry yourself with and the respect you show to others. If you have an ugly attitude and belittle those around you, it doesn’t matter who designs your suits or how posh your penthouse is. None of it matters.” I harden my voice and give him firm eye contact. “If you want me to work with you and hang out with you, respect me. Respect my intelligence, and most of all, respect my feelings.”

  He watches me for a moment, his pupils large and expression slack. “Do you put this much effort in everything you do?”

  “In the things that are important, yes.”

  “That’s remarkable. And rare.” Sincerity scratches through his voice. He sets the tumbler on the trunk, twists the cap closed on the bottle of scotch. Then he laces his fingers together between his spread knees and stares at his hands. “You strive for greatness without calculation or awareness that you’re doing it. That’s empowering. It inspires me to be a better version of myself.”

  His praise tightens my chest and pulls my brows together. It makes me uncomfortable, but I’ll take it any day over his hurtful comments.

  He lifts an arm along the back of the couch, beckoning me to slide beneath it. I shouldn’t give in to my desperate need for affection, not with this man. But a voice in the back of my mind urges me to live in the moment.

  As I scoot across the cushions and rest my cheek on his chest, another inner voice whispers, How is this different than dating?

  “Are you tired?” He grabs the remote and absently runs his fingers through my tangle-free hair.

  “Wide awake.”

  “Want to watch Dirty Dancing?”

  I nod, and ten minutes into the movie, I tumble into sleep, fantasizing about dancing dirty with Trace Savoy.

  Chapter Twelve

  PRESENT

  “Don’t get me wrong. The cuisine is superb.” A distinguished man with silver hair and a sharp suit corners me in the back of Trace’s restaurant. “But Chermoula mackerel isn’t the only thing I’m interested in eating tonight.”

  I hear the come-on loud and clear. The man is old enough to be my father, and he’s staring at my chiffon belly dance skirt like he wants to tear through it. With his dick.

  It’s closing time, and no one’s around to witness the confrontation. I’m tempted to head butt his leering look into next week. But I’m an employee here, and I take my job seriously.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll pass your feedback along to the owner.”

  Speak of the devil. Here he comes, storming through the dining room in all his scowling glory. It’s after midnight, and Trace looks like a million bucks, all freshly starched and vibrating with energy in his charcoal suit. I just finished eight hours of dancing and feel like death slapped in glitter.

  It’s been three months since I spent the night in Trace’s penthouse, and I haven’t been back since. Not because he hasn’t invited me. It’s confusing. The sexual tension that ignites the air whenever we’re together isn’t one-sided. It stretches and fires between us with no relief, no resolution, no budging.

  I said I wouldn’t pursue him, and I’ve had plenty of distractions to stop me from accepting his invitations. Five weeks ago, Nikolai and I nailed our Samba performance at the Fourth of July celebration at the Arch. I’ve also been juggling dance lessons at home and the shelter in between the evenings I work here.

  The schedule is killing me, and after a lot of internal debating, I’ve decided to transfer my dance students to Nikolai. He teaches at another school and needs the income more than I do. I can always take the students back, if and when this casino gig goes south. />
  As Trace charges around the empty tables, I cast him a cease-and-desist order with my eyes. He slows his roll, hovering at a distance behind the creepy restaurant patron.

  “Do you do private dances?” The man’s tongue slithers like a dying slug along his bottom lip. “I’ll pay handsomely for the lap variety.”

  Bile creeps up my throat. Do I look like an exotic dancer?

  My cherry-red half-circle skirt wraps low on my hips and attaches to a metallic gold mini underskirt. Chunky glass rhinestones and beaded appliques fringe the hardshell bra, red panel draped around one hip, and matching satin upper-arm bands. The belly dance costume is feminine and artistic. Certainly not designed for a lap dance.

  I lift my chin and meet his beady eyes. “Do you miss the warm wet center of your mother’s loins?”

  So much for taking my job seriously.

  “My mother’s what?” His face pinches, deepening the pucker of wrinkles on his brow.

  “Her loins. You spent nine months there. I assume that’s why you’re staring at mine with pathetic longing.”

  His shoulders snap back, and his gaze darts toward the exit. “You don’t need to be nasty.”

  “Don’t I? You just asked me for a lap dance.”

  “Excuse me,” he mumbles, slipping away and walking out of the restaurant.

  Servers flutter around the tables, collecting dishes and making a wide berth around the mountain of bristling power glaring at me.

  “What are you looking at?” I anchor my hands on my hips.

  Trace glances over his shoulder, as if I couldn’t possibly be addressing him.

  “I’m talking to you,” I say. “The man with the eternal scowl.”

  Clasping his hands behind him, he prowls toward me. “Interesting tactic there. He’ll never look at his mother the same way again.”

  “Oh, please. All the creepers have mommy issues. That was a free therapy session. Maybe I should start charging.”

  “Stay with me tonight. We can watch a movie and—”

  “Nope.” Dear God, I want to. Iwantto-Iwantto-Iwantto.

  I hustle out of the restaurant before I change my mind.

  But he’s right on my heels, nipping and growling. “Why not?”