Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  “I’m just going to wash you.” He runs a hand through my hair, his voice soft and scratchy. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” I slowly release a breath.

  He slides the shower curtain back and stares at the tiny green tub with wide eyes.

  “You had that exact expression when you drove my Midget,” I say.

  “I imagine Cole experienced the same claustrophobic horror when he saw this green coffin.”

  A swallow sticks in my throat. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Include him. Talk about him.”

  “Yes, I do. He’s part of you, and I don’t want you to ever close off that part, or any part, of yourself from me. If you need to talk about him, I want to be the one you come to.”

  He’s trying, and gratitude tingles through my limbs. But there are some things I won’t share, like how many times Cole followed me into that tub and fucked me against every square inch.

  “But I require something from you,” Trace says. “If and when you forgive me, I need you to make room for me”—he taps my chest—“here. Understood?”

  “Yes.” My heart pounds, devouring his words and the vulnerability in his eyes.

  I reach for the hem of my camisole, but he brushes my hands away and lifts the top over my head. Then he slides off my boyshorts, his fingers caressing my skin with tenderness.

  Any nervousness I felt about being nude is muted the instant he removes his boxer briefs. A different sensation grips my body as I take in the glorious shape of his. Appreciation, amazement, desire—all of it expands my chest with a heavy intake of air.

  The strength and definition packed into his shoulders and arms, the grooved washboard of abs, and the heavy cock hanging hard and long between powerful legs makes me weak in the knees. I reach out and brace an arm on the wall.

  Chin angled down, he raises a brow. “Get in the shower, Danni.”

  I move my feet, and he follows me in. Then he takes over, lathering his hands and massaging my neck, my toes, and everywhere in between. He’s thorough, gentle, and sinfully seductive.

  He cleans my hair and turns me toward the wall, gliding soapy fingers over my breasts and between my legs. I drop my head back on his shoulder, not even trying to muffle my moans.

  “You’re making it impossible to keep my word.” He slides his lips down my neck, his breaths hot and hungry. “You and your tight little body.” He slams a palm against my ass then rubs the hurt with wicked pressure. “I want to do things to you. Things that should be illegal.”

  I spin in the circle of his arms and grip his face. His lips part, and his eyes search mine. Then he kisses me—a deep breathless kiss, full of fire and need. Tongues tangling, hands grasping, we fall against the shower wall, locked in a frenzy of desire.

  His swollen cock presses against my belly, and I curl my fingers around it, stroking up and down and wrenching a choked groan from his throat.

  “I said I was just going to wash you.” His hands plunge through my hair, and he rocks his hips, sliding his length in my grip.

  “You washed me. Now you need to put your massive cock inside me.”

  “Danni.” His hand covers mine around his girth, halting my movements. “I want more than sex with you.”

  I slide my free hand through his hair, marveling at how the thick wet strands fall perfectly tousled over my fingers. “We’re spending the next four days together?”

  “If I don’t make anymore mistakes,” he says, brushing a kiss against my wrist, “we’re spending the rest of our lives together.”

  My heart hiccups. “If you’re staying here, we’re going to have sex. Does it matter if it’s now or a week from now?”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yes, it matters.” He steps back and grabs the shampoo. “I know what I want, and your heart isn’t there…yet.” His biceps contract as he lathers his hair. “I will not trade long-term desires for short-term impulses.”

  His voice is rough, his scowl formidable. It’s obvious how difficult it is for him to refuse me. His short-term impulse looks painfully engorged between his legs.

  I back off, keeping my caresses chaste as I help him soap up. Ten minutes later, we lie in bed, naked, legs entangled. His body wraps around my back, spooning me from behind, with his thigh wedged between mine. He’s still hard, but he doesn’t grind against me. He seems content to just hold me. In the bed I shared with Cole.

  The thought is unwanted, but I can’t block it out. Cole bought this bed for me when he moved in—the wrought iron headboard, foam mattress, gray linen bedding. His scent lingered in this room for months after he left.

  “Tell me about him,” Trace says quietly.

  Can he read my thoughts? I crane my neck and find his gaze on the picture frames across the room.

  “I should probably put those away.” My hand fists in the sheets.

  “Don’t do it for me.” He pries my fingers from the bedding and entwines them with his. “I intend to make myself at home in the house you shared with him. I’m going to make love to you in the bed I assume he once slept in. If I can’t handle seeing a picture of him, our relationship is doomed.”

  My ribcage stretches with cautious happiness, and I tighten my hand around his. “You really want to hear about him?”

  “Please.”

  I start with how we met then share highlights of the ten months we spent together. His design and construction of the dance studio, the road trips on his motorcycle, his hatred for Nikolai. Trace doesn’t speak or tense up, and his arms stay around me, cradling, comforting.

  My voice chafes my throat as I explain Cole’s job, the reason he left, and the explosion that took his life.

  “You sound angry,” Trace says. “You can’t blame him for—”

  “He chose his job.”

  “Sounds like he didn’t have a choice, Danni.”

  “You’re right.” With a sigh, I shift in his arms to face him. “I hold onto the anger like a crutch. It’s just…it’s easier. So let me have it, okay?”

  “I’m finding that I’ll let you have whatever you want.” He kisses my lips.

  “Is that right?” I reach down and wrap my fingers around his thick erection.

  “Except that.” Groaning, he moves my hand from his cock to his back. “Tell me about your family.”

  “You want me to talk about my parents while you have a hard-on?”

  “I want you to talk about them,” he says, tucking me closer against his chest, “to get rid of the hard-on.”

  We chat for hours about everything and nothing. Family and work. Likes and dislikes. We stay away from conversations about the past or the future, satisfied to simply immerse ourselves in the present.

  I don’t know when we fall asleep, but I wake to a startled gasp in the doorway of the bedroom.

  “Shit!” Bree spins away, shouting into the hallway. “Everyone outside!”

  Footsteps sound through the kitchen, presumably David and Angel making a swift exit.

  Trace lies on his back beside me, unabashedly nude with an arm bent behind his head. His lips aren’t smiling, but the glimmer in his sleepy eyes is unmistakable. The man has no shame.

  “I’m confiscating your key,” I say to Bree’s back and sit up.

  “You can have it.” She blindly tosses the keyring toward the dresser and sends it flying to the floor. “Mr. Savoy…uh, Trace…I’m sorry I saw your…um…”

  “Cock?” I pull the sheet over his hips and against my chest. “We’re covered now. You can turn around.”

  A flush sweeps up her neck as she faces us, and her gaze lands on his bulge beneath the thin cover. “I didn’t stare. It’s like…I saw it and looked away really quick. I’m not even sure that I actually saw that much. Maybe just a—”

  “You’re rambling and staring.” I grin and place a hand on his chiseled chest. “Trace, this is my sister, Bree.”

  He holds the sheet in place and rises to the edge o
f the mattress with his hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Oh, umm…” She stares at his hand for a beat before shaking it. “The pleasure’s all mine.” Her eyes widen, and her cheeks turn bright red. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, it is a pleasure, but not that kind of pleasure—”

  “Bree.” I snap my fingers.

  “Hmm?”

  “Give us a minute?”

  “Right.” She grabs the door and shuts it behind her.

  Trace yanks off the covers and climbs over me, guiding me to lie back while nuzzling my neck. “She’s…”

  “Awkward?”

  “I was going to say delightful. But yes, definitely awkward.”

  “She deals with first-graders all day, not gorgeous naked men.” I splay my hands over his muscled backside and squeeze. “Though, I’ll admit I’ve never seen her that nervous. I think you intimidate her.”

  “She’s hot for me.” He peppers a trail of kisses along my collarbone.

  “She is not.” I push at his jaw, trying not to laugh at the tickling scrape of his whiskers.

  “She couldn’t stop eying my massive cock.” He echoes my earlier compliment with a smile.

  I’d say that’s the last time I’ll ever inflate his ego, but I’d be lying. Because that smile… it’s a shockingly sexy curve on his lips, stretching his cheeks, lighting up his face, and making me light-headed.

  “You should smile more often.” I trail a finger along his mouth. “This is potent stuff right here.”

  He parts his lips and bites my finger hard enough to make me gasp. Chuckling, he kisses a path from the ticklish spot beneath my ear, across my throat, to nibble the other ear.

  I squirm beneath the wicked stimulation. “They’re waiting on me.”

  “Do they always stop in unannounced?”

  “Yeah, but I kind of knew they were coming and forgot. David’s here to fix my brakes.”

  “Then I better get out there and help.” He slides off the bed and strides toward his overnight bag, the muscles in his perfect ass flexing with each step.

  “You know how to work on cars?”

  “I used to be an auto mechanic.”

  “Really?”

  “No.” He snorts arrogantly. “But anyone with a dick knows how to change brakes.”

  Ten minutes later, I recline on the loveseat outside with Bree, sipping on a Bud Light.

  “I saw the fancy car in your driveway.” She stares at Trace where he crouches beside David and the MG Midget. “I assumed you were doing ballroom lessons with one of your rich clients.”

  “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “I know, but I never imagined I’d walk in and find you in bed with…that.” She gulps. “I’m so jealous of you right now.”

  I follow her gaze to the blond, blue-eyed tower of hard muscle in my driveway. He stares down at a greasy part he pulled off my car, leaning his weight to one hip and working those jeans like they were designed for a Viking.

  The t-shirt is white, fitted across his shoulders, and showcasing the ridges of definition beneath. He’s the epitome of well-honed beauty, the kind that dilutes my brain cells and fucks my common sense into quivering mush.

  Even Angel is captivated by him. She hasn’t left his side since we stepped outside. When she tips her scowl up at him, he scowls down at her, and they connect on some devious, calculating level I don’t understand.

  She was only a year old when Cole left, so Trace is the first man I’ve introduced to her. Watching them interact is surprisingly enjoyable. In fact, seeing him with my family spreads a comfortable warmth through my chest.

  If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall into a swirling, consuming abyss with this man. A frightening thought, because I don’t trust him. I can’t.

  “Don’t get too excited, Bree.” I keep my voice too low for his ears. “We have a lot to work through.”

  “What do you mean?”

  As the guys change the brakes out of hearing range, I recap everything that happened after she left yesterday morning—the lap dance, the argument that followed, the drama with Marlo then Jason, the angry sex, and his plan to spend the week with me.

  “You packed up the basement?” She touches her throat, eyes watering.

  “Yeah.”

  “You emptied the cup!”

  Oh my God. “You’re so damn cheesy.”

  “Cheddar is cheesy. I’m sentimental.” She tackles me in a hug. “I’m so very proud of you.” Leaning back, she holds tight to my hands. “You have to forgive him.”

  “What?” My neck stiffens, and I pull away. “No, I’m not—”

  “He’s helping you. Can’t you see that?”

  I see a gorgeous asshole with a fine ass clad in denim, his muscles bunching and flexing as he bends under the car.

  “I don’t mean with the car. He’s helping you move on.” She lowers her voice. “Besides, with a Johnson like his—”

  “Please don’t call it a Johnson.”

  “—I’d forgive anything that man did.”

  “You would not.” I stretch my toes, tracing the design on the brick pavers. “Seeing him with Marlo really hurt me.”

  “Because you hurt him.”

  “I didn’t do it deliberately. That’s the difference. He’s vicious.”

  “He’s in love, and you know firsthand that love makes people desperate and crazy.” Her attention drifts to the man in question, and she licks her lips.

  “You just want me to keep him around so you can ogle him.”

  “Totally.”

  “Not helpful.” I droop against the back of the loveseat. “I’m trying to be smart about this.”

  She mirrors my posture, casting me a side-long smile. “You love him.”

  “So?” I lift a shoulder.

  “You always said there’s no real choice in love.”

  “I never thought I’d fall in love twice,” I whisper.

  “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  Her double-meaning settles through me.

  He deserves a second chance, and so do I.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  PRESENT

  Trace makes me wait three weeks for sex. I know tonight’s the night, because he said, “We’re going out. Wear a skirt. No panties.”

  As I stand in my guest bedroom and dig through racks of dresses, the question isn’t What will I wear? What rattles in my head is Do I trust him? Have I forgiven him? Will I tell him I love him?

  We share the same bed every night, hopping between my place and his. He wines and dines me, takes me to fancy parties with his fancy friends, slums with me at dive bars and restaurants, and accompanies me on visits with Bree and when I line dance at Gateway Shelter.

  I’ve spent the past three weeks analyzing his every word, every action, attempting to glean his intentions. We had the I’m clean, he’s clean, we don’t need condoms talk. And there hasn’t been any suspicious interactions with other women. When I spy on him at the casino bars, he intercepts the bold feminine hands on his body. He doesn’t so much as look at them.

  Only one photo of Cole sits on my dresser—the one of him straddling his bike and smiling those adorable dimples at the camera. Gradually, mournfully, I boxed away the rest in the basement. The matter of the bike remains. Sell it? Keep it? Trace never mentions it, never pushes me to clear out the boxes downstairs.

  I know he’s not trying to trick me or impress me. He hasn’t made any guilt-wrencher moves to imply a declaration of my love or forgiveness is necessary. I genuinely believe he simply enjoys being with me, talking to me, and watching me dance. No strings attached. Not even sex.

  That’s not to say he doesn’t want sex. The man is hard more than he’s not. He’s in the shower right now, and I bet the stubborn shit is rubbing one out.

  For me, abstinence was so much easier when I wasn’t immersed in chiseled, scowly temptation day and night.

  He works when I’m sleeping and dancing at the ca
sino. Outside of that, we’re never apart. This inseparable, celibate routine we’ve fallen into feels like a slow strangling death. He touches me chastely and kisses me sweetly, despite the sexual tension coiling around us and gasping for relief.

  It’s spectacularly effective.

  He’s worn me down with his patience and consistency. But in the end, it’s his dedication that’s my undoing. He’s no longer an if but a when.

  I still cling to doubts, but I trust Trace not to intentionally hurt me. I think he’ll always be manipulative. It’s in his nature. But will he manipulate me? Cheat on me? Fuck me and leave me?

  He’s moved past that.

  I hope to God I’m right.

  Selecting a turquoise dress with a flirty knee-length skirt, I slide it on with a pair of kitten heels. It’s my night off work, and I’ve spent the last hour doing my hair and makeup.

  I step into the dance studio and cue up a song that expresses everything I haven’t had the courage to say to Trace. As I check my reflection in the mirror, Say You Won’t Let Go by James Arthur streams through the speakers.

  Mouthing the words, I gently sway my hips, lift my arms above my head, and close my eyes. By the time the chorus hits, I’m singing aloud and traveling through improvised steps. The music, the lyrics, the emotions I feel for Trace resonate inside me and accelerate my breaths.

  When I open my eyes, I catch his reflection in the mirror and slow my movements to a graceful stop.

  He leans against the doorframe behind me, chin down, one hand in the pocket of his khaki pants, the other holding a blue necktie. He’s a heart-stopping sight, scowl and all.

  “I’m ready. I’ll just…” I move toward the stereo.

  “Don’t.”

  I freeze, pinned by the force of his gaze, and that’s where I stay as the last half of the song plays.

  The lyrics are a slow-burning confession of love, the push and pull of commitment, a plea to never let go. It’s the ballad of us, and I know he agrees when his head lifts, eyes seeking mine.

  As the song ends, I release the air from my lungs and wait for his reaction.

  “I’ve never seen you dance to that.” He doesn’t move, his eye contact oh-so steady.