by Cara Dee
“I’m just glad you’re thinking about me in the shower.” I met his grin with a smirk and stubbed out my smoke. “I’ll go get dressed. Be right back.”
I ducked inside the guest room and dug through my duffel for an outfit that would look decent next to King’s. I did have a black button-down that Nicky had bought me, which I could admit looked good on me. But jeans would have to do. I only owned a single pair of dress pants, and they were reserved for funerals.
Fresh socks, some extra deodorant, cologne, my watch, keys, wallet—where was my phone? Probably outside. I didn’t remember bringing it in with me.
Folding the sleeves of my shirt, I rejoined King on the patio, and he told me that he wanted to show me something.
“Do I need my shoes?” I asked, pocketing my phone.
“No, it’s inside.”
I followed him past the barbecue area and into the house, where he veered left. In front of me was a set of stairs that made me think about Camden. Was he really going to hide out upstairs all evening too?
King continued down a hall and didn’t stop until we’d reached the end. Then he opened a door and revealed a slice of heaven by my standards. They had a music room. Why was I not surprised?
My feet sank into the soft carpet as I eyed the guitars on the walls. At the center of the room was a baby grand with its lid open. I withheld my cringe and shifted my focus to the saxophones and mandolins by the window facing the front of the ranch.
Why collect instruments if you didn’t play them?
They were expensive models too. The Steinway alone went for almost a hundred grand.
Madonna mia, I’d never been so torn between grief and awe.
“Tell me this isn’t a rich man’s hobby to collect instruments you can’t use,” I blurted out.
King furrowed his brow at me. “I inherited every piece from my mother.”
That brought me a lot of relief. “Thank fuck.”
He became curious. “How do you know I don’t play them?”
“No guitarist worth his salt hangs a collection of Taylors on the wall like that unless he doesn’t intend to play them again.” I wanted to fucking cry. I walked over to the guitars and brushed a hand over one of them. They had to have a cleaning service around this place. There wasn’t a speck of dust. That was something, at least.
“How do you store your own instruments?” he asked. “You said you played several.”
“That’s different,” I replied. “I don’t own an instrument that I don’t use at least once a week.” I’d been thinking about turning my second bedroom into storage for my instruments, now that Nicky wasn’t using it anymore. So far, I had a pantry under the staircase that I definitely didn’t store food in. I also had a walk-in closet on the first floor that’d become a storage unit for my guitars. “You know how leather gets softer when you wear it? And how a cast iron skillet gets better the more you use it?”
“I’m surprised you know that last one.”
I chuckled. “My grandmother is Italian. Some shit rubs off, I guess.”
He smiled and sat down on the piano bench. “I think I know where you’re goin’ with this.”
I nodded. “Guitars are the same.” Touching a guitar was actually good, especially older ones that didn’t have a thick coat of glossy finish. The natural grease in our hands softened the wood and prevented it from cracking, and I explained that to the master chef.
“Duly noted. I should come in here every day and stroke the wood.”
I snorted and shook my head in amusement. Then I sat down next to him, only I faced the piano instead. “This is beautiful.” I ghosted my fingers over the keys but didn’t play them. “Was your mother a musician?” I searched the walls for clues; there were no pictures, but several vintage posters that’d been framed. Promotional posters for burlesque shows, classical concerts, and paintings of great composers. A wild mix.
“Nothing that went beyond singing in her church,” King answered. “But her second husband was a pianist, her favorite uncle toured in a blues band, and her brother—who died in a car accident in his twenties—was a guitar player. It’s his collection on the wall.” He got up from the bench and leaned back against a wall instead. “Will you play something?”
If you want.
I tested the keys, bracing myself for the worst, and was surprised to find the piano perfectly tuned.
King must’ve seen the surprise on my face. “I take good care of everythin’ in here.”
Evidently.
I shifted in my seat. “Sorry about my bitchy outburst earlier, then.”
He chuckled. “You’re protective of instruments. It’s sweet.”
Occupational hazard.
“On that note, I advise you to keep this lid closed when you’re not here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He paused before he spoke again. “Do you know any classical music? I loved listening to my stepfather when he played.”
I was happy to be of service. “Do you have a preference?” Since the last piece I’d played was “Für Elise” with James, I tinkered on the beginning for King, knowing it would forever be the most recognizable work.
“Oh, you actually know what you’re doin’.” King looked visibly impressed. “Do you know of Debussy?”
Did I know of Debussy… For fuck’s sake. The question was practically insulting.
Personally, I found his most famous piece, “Clair de Lune,” overrated. And it paled next to the masterpiece that was “Rêverie.”
I eased into the first notes and kept my gaze on the keys, getting to know them, sinking into the music, letting old memories wash over me. I’d obsessed over this piece in college. Nonna had loved listening to me play it too.
If I remembered correctly, it was also the piece that made Nicky vow to become as good at guitar as I was at piano.
He’d succeeded.
“My God, Anthony.” King approached slowly as the song built up toward its rather angsty climax, and he sat down on the edge of the bench.
“Tell me about your stepfather?” I asked quietly.
“In a moment. Please play it again.”
So I did. The dream state-like beginning, how it split and let my hands each tell their own story, one more playful than the other, then how the theme shifted, as if the two tales were in a debate and almost arguing, slowly building up toward an ending that left the listener empty and missing something.
“That was amazing,” King murmured.
“Thank you.” The second my fingers were off the keys, the silence crashed down on me too heavily. There was tension in the air that I didn’t know how to interpret, so I chose to play more. Something else. A mindless tune to keep the tension at bay.
“Damn, boy,” he sighed. “I’m still feelin’ the shivers from your playin’.” He blew out a breath and shook his head, and I kept my face composed. But fuck yeah, that was some raving review. “You asked about my stepfather—not much to tell. A genuinely good man who treated my mama the way she deserved, unlike my biological father, who left us when I was in college. Unfortunately, my stepfather loved bad food almost as much as he loved my mother. It took one heart attack.”
I winced. “Sorry to hear that.”
He shook his head quickly, closing the subject, and checked the clock on the wall. “I can bore you with family deaths another time. Can you play something else before the guests arrive?”
“Sure. More classical music?”
“I’d like to hear what you prefer to play,” he answered. “Do you sing too?”
I smiled faintly. “A bit.”
“Well, then. Don’t be shy.”
I chuckled under my breath. While I wasn’t much for tooting my own horn, I knew my strengths—possibly because they were so few.
I was a damn good musician and a damn good singer. Nicky claimed I had the voice of a dozen tortured angels, and that I defined the whiskey voice. But those were his words. I was humble and would settle for half
a dozen angels.
“Has nothin’a do with shyness,” I answered, tinkering on one of the songs I’d be performing with Nicky and the others next weekend. “If you wanna hear me sing, you and Camden should come to the music festival next Saturday.”
King cocked his head at me. “Camden mentioned he was wonderin’ about some of your social media posts. You’d talked about packing the truck for Nashville—and somethin’ about a gig.”
I nodded and gave him the CliffsNotes that’d led up to me joining his online giveaway—since I’d already be in the area around the same time as this food festival. It was a good time to bring up the gift too. As a thank-you for hosting the cooking class and whatnot—and me being raised by a grandmother who told me never to come empty-handed to someone—and, I guessed…just, thanks for everything. It was two tickets to the music festival.
“You’re serious?” he half stated, half asked. “That’s damn sweet of you. Count us in. I’d love to go.”
Cool. I wasn’t going to flip my shit. So what if August King and Camden Adair were going to watch me live? No big deal.
“I’ll get you the tickets later. They’re in my duffel.”
“We’re actually goin’ that way right now,” he said and stood up. “You just decided you wanted to grab a smoke before the ranch turns into a meet n’ greet.”
I grinned and rose from the bench. “Do you want your own smoke, or do you wanna sniff me?”
His eyes flashed with mirth, and he held the door open for me. “I’ll withhold my answer until I’ve made up my mind.”
I knew what I was hoping for.
Fuck. I was probably a complete tool for flirting with him, even if it was playful and without further intentions. He just made that sort of banter feel as natural as breathing.
“Anthony.” He spoke up a few paces behind me. “I think I’ve made up my mind.”
I chuckled and turned around to face him. “That was quick.”
He strolled toward me without a care in the world, but the spark of up-to-no-good in his eyes was unmistakable. And lethal. He was the sexiest damn predator.
I stood stock-still and waited for his wisecrack, wondering what direction he was going to take this, because I wasn’t the only one who’d flirted innocently. By now, he had to know that he had the ability to one-up me pretty easily. I couldn’t predict what he was going to do or say.
My confidence took a hike when we were less than a foot apart, and he didn’t even stop there. I felt my heart starting to race, I tensed up, and I quickly grew frustrated because I couldn’t read him.
Even attempting to look unfazed at this point…? Forget about it.
He leaned in slowly, bringing his rich, intoxicating scent with him, and grazed his nose along my neck.
I swallowed dryly. My pulse spiked. Lust exploded within me.
If he could play this off as banter, I was fuckin’ Santa Claus.
“You smell incredible.” His low, gravelly voice shook me to my goddamn core. Fuck me hard. He slid his hands up my arms, then to my sides, and he tilted his face toward mine. A soft rasp emanated from me as his silver stubble met my two-day-old scruff. Then his mouth ghosted over my jaw, and I sucked in a breath. “Don’t call me King, Anthony. You have the rawest, most gorgeous voice, and I want to hear my name.”
“Jesus,” I breathed out.
No more banter. He didn’t joke about Jesus not being his name. Instead, he closed the distance and brushed his lips over mine. He applied the barest amount of pressure, just enough for me to get a better feel of his warm lips.
My surrender was immediate. I kissed him back without an ounce of thought. There just wasn’t an alternative. He’d reeled me in all fucking day. Hell, he’d been the object of my fantasies since I’d started following him online.
He deepened the kiss and squeezed me to him, and I had to get my hands on his chest. His chest, his shoulders, his neck, up in his hair—my fucking God, his hair felt soft between my fingers. I tugged it a little as I angled myself to taste him properly, and the second I felt his tongue against my own, I thought I was going melt right there in his arms.
Before I knew it, my back hit a wall, and he started kissing me hungrily.
It was drugging, feeling the softness of his lips in the most demanding kiss.
He was hard everywhere else—and pressing up against me in the best way.
My lungs burned for air, and I just couldn’t give a damn.
When he slowed down the kiss, I wasn’t ready.
“Don’t stop yet,” I said, breathing too heavily.
He smiled against my lips and gave me a deep, toe-curling, seductive kiss, his tongue sliding along mine and snaking around it, which only made me picture what it would be like to feel that tongue on my cock.
“Fuck me.” I groaned at the direction of my thoughts. “The shit I’m imagining now is the last thing I need if I wanna focus tonight.”
He let out a sexy, lust-filled chuckle and squeezed my ass firmly. “I’ll refrain from askin’ right now, because I need to focus tonight too.”
I shuddered violently and tried to collect my breath, but it was difficult when I couldn’t stop kissing him.
“Sweet boy,” he whispered. “I’m hardly done with you.”
“Good.” I raked my teeth over his bottom lip and sucked it into my mouth.
He hummed and gave my ass another solid squeeze.
“This is where you tell me you and Camden are open, so I don’t worry I’ve landed in a pile of drama,” I muttered.
He exhaled a laugh and kissed his way down my neck. “He and I are on the same page where you’re concerned.”
Good enough. For now. I still had questions.
“You beautiful, beautiful man.” He sighed contentedly and cupped my face, giving a sweet kiss that had a finality to it. “I want you underneath me tonight, writhing, taking my cock.”
“Fuck,” I exhaled.
“Cancel your hotel reservation.”
Yeah, okay. I nodded. “All right.”
“Good.” One more kiss. “When you only had that towel on earlier, I wanted to get on my knees for you.”
Fuckin’ hell, he was killing me. My cock strained in my jeans.
“Grope you properly,” he murmured. “Suck you off long and hard.”
“August, for chrissakes,” I hissed.
“Fuck, that sounds good.” The possessiveness seeping from his voice nearly did me in. “Camden and I have been exclusive for years, and safety’s important to us. Do we have anything to worry about?”
They were going straight for unprotected sex?
“I’m safe.” I furrowed my brow, struggling to clear the fog. “I don’t remember the last time I fucked without a rubber.” That included oral, because I’d never had that level of trust established with Shawn, and he hadn’t been all that fond of exclusivity. “I have condoms with me, you know.” It made sense if they didn’t since they were in a committed relationship of the kind I hadn’t experienced in probably over a decade.
“I’ll leave that to you.” King touched my cheek. August. Not King. “Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “Are you that different in the South?”
He grinned. “Probably not. You’re the one who’s different—to us. And I’m asking if my boy and I can trust you. If we can make an exception and go all in without anythin’ in the way.”
The implication was dizzying, as was the prospect of being completely uninhibited and natural.
I swallowed hard and nodded.
“Perfect.” He leaned in and kissed the corner of my mouth. “Then I’m going to be so bold and ask you to check in on Camden while I prepare the grill.”
“Wait, right now?”
“Yes.”
All right, but…so much had happened in the past few hours. Last time I saw Camden, I’d shaken his hand, spotted a snake slithering up his thumb, and wondered if he’d followed me on Insta
under a username that uploaded shadowed photos of two naked men. Him and August. And now, I was on the path toward sharing their bed tonight.
“I spoke to him before I showered,” he admitted, brushing his fingers through my hair. Mildly distracting. “A few plans have changed, and he can fill you in on everythin’.”
“Okay.” There was no other answer. I wouldn’t be able to resist anything they offered.
I was in Tennessee to live a little, right?
“Where’s your bedroom?” I asked.
“He has his own room. Just take the stairs. You can’t miss it.”
They didn’t share a bedroom?
King eased off with a faint smirk. “He knows his boundaries, and he’s good at talkin’. You’ll understand better soon.”
I hoped so.
“Just…one thing.” A sense of severity and hesitation flicked in his gaze. “He’s in the middle of regressing. If he makes you uncomfortable at any point, be firm but kind. He’s not made of glass, but he does get hurt easier when his barriers are down.”
Something intense surged up inside me, an impatience I hadn’t felt before. I wanted to see Camden that way. Unfiltered, vulnerable, little.
“I don’t take this lightly,” I said.
“Good.” He patted my cheek gently. “I’ll come get you when the others arrive.”
Nerves tightened my stomach. Excitement and anticipation too. August walked down the hall, toward the center of the house, and I managed to get my feet moving to the stairs.
I didn’t know what the fuck I was getting myself into, but it was exhilarating. Another feeling I’d been missing for so long.
When was the last time I was involved in a threesome? I’d always loved those. I was affectionate in the sack, and having two men to give all my attention to never failed to satisfy.
Four doors were waiting for me upstairs, two on each side of the short, wide hallway, and August had been right. There was no mistaking Camden’s room for any other, and it made me grin. With all the other doors painted perfectly white, his was completely covered in stickers. Plus, it had his name on it.
The boy was a fan of Marvel, Star Wars, and Transformers.
I knocked twice on the door and hoped Camden was ready for a good-natured third degree about a certain NSFW account.