Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  The statement is partly true. At least, the words come and up both factor into my plans for tonight. Along with filthy, fucking, and fun. Not that I’m telling him but given a choice between dinner with my brother and a night of stellar, no-strings sex . . . What am I saying? No choice there.

  If I had any intention of telling him, I’m pretty sure Rory would understand. It wasn’t all that long ago when chasing tail was all that interested him, too.

  And while fucking and fun may also be Rory’s watch words, I doubt he could even imagine my levels of filthy. Not that we ever discuss our respective sex lives. At least, not since he walked in on me that one time when we were in our teens. And experimenting. I think it’s safe to say I was probably a trisexual for a while.

  As in, I’d try almost anything.

  Yeah, so he took one look and pigeonholed my sexuality. We’re close, but as an explanation, it’s easier to just let him believe what he thinks.

  Man on his knees + Kit without pants = My brother’s gay.

  Fuckwit.

  But I’m done with all that. I’m no longer looking for the next buzz or the next sexual high. I’ve been there, done that—bought the ball gag even. These days, I’m much more at home with my sexuality. That’s not to say I don’t keep my hand in, so to speak. Occasionally a fist. This is where my membership to the Lion’s Den comes in; the place where I have plans tonight.

  I prefer to keep my private life just that, and the Den suits my needs. It’s a place where many and varied tastes are catered to by way of exorbitant membership fees. So getting back to tonight, and also returning to the topic of three being more than company and a bloody good time, I have plans with a delightful couple. Lots and lots of dirty plans.

  In fact, it was at the Den where I first met my current partners in fuck, Simone and Greg. I’d taken part in a couple of threesomes before but had been underwhelmed until the night something piqued my interest.

  Piqued? More like made my interest rock fucking hard.

  It was a masquerade night—good for try-outs and people preferring to conceal their identities, but it was just a regular Friday night for me. I’d booked a room but hadn’t quite decided what I was in the mood for when word swept through the building that Dan was taking part in a scene.

  Daniel Masters is the illusive owner of the club. And much like myself, his sex life usually takes place behind closed doors. Yet there he sat in the mirror room in a chair more like a throne, with a woman to his left and a man kneeling at his feet, both wearing very little clothes. Dan’s pants were open, his cock standing proud. There was something hypnotising and erotic about the sight—the kneeling man’s masculine hand and the girl’s much smaller one, both touching the satin of Dan’s shaft, their eyes as greedy as their hands.

  The man’s head fell suddenly forward, taking Dan’s length in his mouth, his sandy head bobbing in the other man’s lap. I knew what it felt like to be sucked off by a man—the difference of a stubbled mouth and a firmer hand—but I’d never been watched. Fuck, it was a turn-on, imagining myself in Dan’s place. Imagining the girl’s hesitance and need as she watched. It wasn’t the watching crowd that interested me. It was the dynamic of the three in the scene. The way the girl’s fingers flexed by her thighs as though aching to touch herself, yet knowing she’d be denied. She was so uncertain in her role, and this called to me. Was she the third? Did she have to wait her turn? She didn’t have long to find out as Dan brought her hand to his mouth. Their eyes met, and recognition flared as he guided her fingers down his ribs and to the base of his shaft.

  Two hands. Two mouths. The dual sensations caused him to buck and hiss.

  Christ, I wanted to be him.

  It called to me. I craved her uncertainty. I craved the control.

  Because the power of three is all in the command.

  ‘Tie her hands,’ Dan demanded, pushing away the guy deep throating him. He dragged a necktie from the depths of his pocket, and once she was secured, Dan pulled her onto his lap, sliding her legs to straddle his and her cuffed hands over his head. Her back to his chest, he spread her legs shamelessly. Breathing ceased in the room, all eyes drawn to her shame—to her embarrassment. To the delicious wetness seeping from between her legs.

  ‘You’d like to service us both now, wouldn’t you?’ Though phrased like a suggestion, Dan’s words were more a command.

  ‘Fuck, yeah, I would.’ More than one or two in the crowd echoed the kneeling man’s sentiments.

  The girl moaned softly and jerked as the point of his tongue caressed her exposed slit, and in response, Dan’s fingers gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise. Both men’s actions rendered her short of breath, and I knew right then I wanted this. I wanted to be responsible for her pleasure. I wanted to command. I wanted to bend her body and her mind, all while doing the same to him.

  I wanted them both on their knees.

  I wanted to be their king.

  As I turned to the couple next to me, I knew by instinct they were thinking the same things.

  ‘Let go,’ Dan told the girl in the gold mask. ‘Let go of all the things you’re thinking. All the things you think you should feel.’

  Our trio left the room right then, and I haven’t looked back since.

  ‘You’re fucking someone, aren’t you?’ The leather sofa creaks as Rory sits upright, and I’m faced with his suspicious glare. ‘You’d blow off your family just to get laid?’ Blowing also definitely factors into my evening plans, strangely enough. I’m glad of the desk as I readjust myself.

  ‘What are you smirking about?’ he says, scowling now. ‘My fiancée gets a promotion—’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘See, I knew you weren’t listening!’

  ‘I’ll send her flowers.’

  ‘It’s no’ even that. You’ll give Bea a complex, not to mention the monumental fucking headache you’re causin’ me.’ His accent gets heavier the more annoyed he gets. It’s like that for us both.

  ‘B?’ The stupid moniker comes out as a growl. Who the fuck is B—Fin is his fiancée. She might not yet be wearing his obnoxious diamond on her finger, but at least it’s graduated from dangling from a set of bloody house keys to a chain around her neck. ‘You’re asking if I’m fucking someone when you mention two girls’ names in one breath? I swear to God, Rory, if you’re seeing someone else already—’ My words grind to a halt, and I realise my hands are curled into fists on the desk.

  ‘Keep your knickers on. Bea is Fin’s friend—her flatmate.’

  Why does that make sense? Because I’ve heard this mentioned before.

  I thought for a minute he was back to his old ways. The old Rory changed his women as often as his underwear, and his love life was the bane of my existence. Or at least bailing him out of the shit was—because he liked them female, pretty, and hot with few other boundaries. Not that I’m picking fault with casual sex, but rather his choice of partners. If I had to describe his type, I could do so in two words: crazy and bitch. Put them together and what have you got? Me bailing him out continually.

  The number of times he literally fucked our business is alarming.

  I should’ve known better than to employ a cute PA. I should’ve gone for a hairy-arsed bloke.

  And that’s why Fin is a godsend. She’s good for him, so in turn, she’s good for business. She’s also just plain good. Sweet like apple pie or, if you want to go regional, like Scottish tablet. She isn’t Scottish, but as our auld granny would say, y’cannae ha’ everything.

  Personally, I disagree, but that’s probably because I’m just plain greedy.

  Since Fin came along, Rory’s been smitten. It’s been a pretty fucking harmonious time.

  ‘Aye, Bea,’ he repeats pointedly. ‘You haven’t met her ‘cause you’ve dropped out of dinner the past couple of times.’

  He’s like a dog with a bone.

  ‘Have I?’ Do I give a shit?

  ‘According to Fin.’ He lifts one shoulder, an
d I recognise this for what it is. Something he’s doing to please Fin.

  ‘Hmm.’ I scrub my jaw with my hand. ‘Right.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Just that you’re not usually that observant.’

  ‘Are you sayin’ I’m thick?’

  I bite back the yes sitting on the end of my tongue because that’d just be childish. Rory isn’t stupid, but he is intensely uninterested in other people’s lives unless said lives impact his own. But the woman he loves is different. At a guess, I’d say Fin’s probably worried about leaving her friend when she moves in with Rory. Ergo Rory, bless his Armani cotton socks, wants to fix it for Fin.

  ‘I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to set you up with her pal or anything.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Unintentionally, my words are a little sharp.

  He shrugs again but in discomfort this time. ‘It’s just . . . I get that you’re not interested in women these days.’

  Not again.

  Bloody pigeonholed! Your brother walks in when you’ve your jeans around your ankles, and some guy has his mouth on your knob, and you’re forever gay in his eyes. Not that I’ll ever correct him. As I said, we don’t have these kinds of conversations. Ever.

  Besides, in my experience, sexuality isn’t a check box kind of thing.

  Gay?

  Straight?

  Something in between?

  I’m convinced it’s more fluid than that. And I’m sure if more people strayed from their once-a-week-missionary boundaries to test out my theory, they’d agree.

  But in the meantime, Rory and I have adopted a policy of don’t ask/don’t tell because, for one, he wouldn’t understand. And two, I’d be giving him ammunition for years.

  And then I realise he’s still talking.

  ‘Fin feels bad that she’s moving out, and she just wants to reassure the lass—Bea, that is—that she’ll still . . . ’ He scrubs a hand down his face then growls, ‘Don’t fucking look at me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ Can you actually hear a smirk?

  ‘All superior, bastard.’

  ‘How can I not look at you like a bastard when that’s what I am?’ Figuratively. Literally. ‘And I can’t help I’m superior. It’s a curse.’

  ‘Get fucked.’

  ‘Look, I expect Fin just wants her friend to know she’ll occasionally make it out of your bed to meet for coffee when she moves out.’ He smiles, and for a moment, I’m almost envious at the thought of someone keeping my bed warm. Almost. ‘She’s making a statement—that Bea will still be part of her life—by including her in on the news of her promotion and stuff.’ I expect she’ll also be at the table when they announce the big day sometime. And when they’re expecting. All those sorts of milestones.

  Because I bet she’s a whiny and needy friend—one who has to live vicariously through her friend. Probably has a face like an old boot.

  That’s the usual dynamic, isn’t it? A pretty girl and her ugly pal.

  ‘Makes sense, I suppose,’ Rory replies. ‘Bea was there for her when I . . . when I—’

  ‘When you dicked her about?’ Christ, I bet she’s also a really angry friend. She probably hates Rory’s guts, and by that notion, mine. No way am I spending my night with that.

  ‘It was a misunderstanding,’ he mutters, referring to the recent blip in their relationship. ‘I’d never hurt her.’

  ‘Not intentionally.’

  This is the story of Rory’s life—you can’t fault his intentions. Not when he’s thinking with something other than his dick, at least.

  ‘I’ll always put her first,’ he says, his eyes coming up from their fascination with the spot of floor between his shoes. ‘She’s it for me. I’ll spend my life trying to make her happy.’

  That statement is both gratifying and painful to hear, but not for the reasons you might imagine. My brother’s always been a bit of a selfish prick. Don’t get me wrong; he’s fundamentally good, but he has the nerve to talk about my ego. So it’s good—no, great—to see him put someone else first for a change. And it’s great to know he’s settled and in love. But the painful bit? Well, it fucking hurts to do what I’m about to do.

  Ugly and angry and probably really jealous, too.

  Ah, shit.

  I try not to sigh as I slide my phone from the breast pocket of my shirt and unlock the screen.

  Something’s come up. I can’t make it tonight. Rain check?

  ‘What time did you say dinner was again?’

  Chapter Two

  BEA

  One of the worst things about being in a long-distance relationship, other than the lack of regular sex, has to be watching other couples. Not like that—I’m not some kind of pervert who peeks through the gap in her friend’s bedroom door. Besides, if I were that way inclined, I could just leave out my ear plugs because Lord knows Fin and her boyfriend, Rory, are damn loud. I might have even entertained the notion that Rory is some sort of Celtic word for roar because there’s no mistaking when that man is having a good time.

  Anyway, according to the interwebz, it’s not.

  With the help of said earplugs and my long hospital shifts, I manage to mostly block out their monkey sex sounds. But what’s harder not to see, and harder still not to be effected by, are the million tiny measures of intimacy between the pair. The way they touch almost constantly as if their bodies might wither away without the physical recharge. The making out via eye contact . . . the eye fucking that leads to actual fucking . . . and the long runs I take as a consequence.

  I’m not complaining. Fin is the gold standard of roommates and quickly became a great friend. And I like Rory, too, despite the rocky start the pair had. The man loves my friend hard. Often a little too hard for my delicate ears, but you can’t have it all. Fin and I haven’t been friends very long, but sometimes, you just know when you’ve found a member of your tribe. And then sometimes, that tribe member tells you she’s moving out to live with her love. And you realise you’ll soon be taking part in the whole roommate lottery again.

  ‘You’re looking a little bleary eyed this morning.’ Fin’s voice is preceded by the shuffling of socks against the wooden floor.

  Talk of the horny little devil and she shall appear.

  ‘Do I?’ I pause, placing my glass of water on our tiny kitchen table. ‘Could it have something to do with the live-action porn being filmed in your room last night?’

  ‘I’d say sorry, only I’m not,’ she says, unsuccessfully hiding her smile, pretending to fluff her short bangs. But just like any other morning after the night before, Fin can’t help but smile.

  ‘And why should you be sorry?’ Personally, I’d be singing my satisfaction from the rooftops. I might even be a little jealous. It’s not that I don’t have a boyfriend of my own—I do. It’s just that I haven’t seen him in a while. But it won’t always be like this; we knew living apart would be hard. Three more years of specialist training and then . . . Then what?

  As usual, I push the thought to the back of my mind. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say. I hope it’ll also make Jon’s dick harder because after our last disastrous weekend together, I could really do with a good hard—

  ‘Speaking of loud,’ Fin says, filling her cup with hot water from the kettle. ‘I might’ve also heard you and Jon going at it yesterday afternoon over the phone.’

  I laugh. Hard. As in, my laughter is hard.

  ‘I wish,’ I mutter. ‘So not the same. And low blow, Finola. Low bloody blow!’

  She visibly winces, just like I knew she would at the use of her full name. As for “going at it”, and coming back to my original thought, being in a long-distance relationship is hard. It’s so difficult to watch other couples. There’s the insecurity and the lack of physical intimacy—it’s even hard to argue successfully!

  Not that it stops us from trying.

  Especially lately.

  Jonathon is . . . my long-term
boyfriend, for lack of a better term.

  The father of my unborn children.

  The man I’ve always seen myself growing old with.

  The person I can’t ever see not being in my life.

  We’ve been together forever. Though technically not together—at least physically—because our careers keep us apart. I’d followed him once before, which is what brought me here to London. It’s just unfortunate he took a job a seven-hour flight away not long after I moved here.

  It’s a brilliant opportunity, Bea. I won’t get a chance like this again.

  So I’m here while he’s . . . somewhere else.

  ‘I wasn’t prying,’ Fin says with a note of apology. ‘You guys were pretty vocal.’

  ‘Passionate, sweets, passionate.’ And it seems our passion is getting more animated with each phone call. ‘You know what they say, the best part of fighting is making up.’ Despite my sing-song delivery, I don’t feel very cheery about the prospect. Especially given the last time we were together . . .

  ‘Don’t worry, Jon. It happens to everyone . . . ’ Though not usually for an entire weekend. ‘Trust me; I’m a medical professional.’ A sexually frustrated medical professional with an unhealthy interest in dirty Rumblr GIFs, but still.

  ‘So when’s this mammoth make-up session to take place—’ Fin halts, her face suddenly stricken. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you argue so much that you need a lot of time to repair . . .’ I wave away her apology. Lord knows Jon and I have argued plenty over the past few months, and it seems to be getting worse. ‘But when will you see him again?’ she asks much more gently.

  ‘I’m not exactly sure.’ That’s what we were arguing about. It’s been months since we were last together, and he promised he’d visit me this time. My workload has increased so much lately, and I have tonnes of study on top of that. I can’t keep scrambling to meet him in random European cities at the drop of a hat. To become successful in my field of surgery takes dedication and time—I can’t just keep gallivanting off.