by Holley Trent
There were a couple of events going on simultaneously that evening. In the ballroom, guests dressed to the nines and enjoyed a seven-course dinner with complementary wines and Greek-inspired desserts. On the back lawn, the large, cabanas generally intended for use with the property’s palm tree-shrouded pool, became the outdoor equivalent of private dining booths. The cabanas were bedecked in gauzy burgundy and gold fabric with full-sized platform beds. They were large enough for a couple, or more, to lounge. Those who didn’t mind making a spectacle of themselves could leave the curtains open. People who wanted the thrill of making love outdoors, but not the audience, could draw the opaque drapes closed.
“No, I think she’ll come,” Clint said. Or at least he hoped. He’d tried not to come on so strong, but he’d always had a hard time pretending to be what he wasn’t. He’d figured he might as well go ahead and give her a taste of his true persuasion, so there’d be no so surprises later on.
No disappointments.
He believed in living in a big way. He didn’t want to leave anything unsaid or undone, if he could help it. His mantra was no regrets. He’d never be angry at himself as long as he at least tried. The prospect of being told no didn’t deter him, because it meant there was a possibility of being told yes.
He hoped Olivia would see them again after this event was over. Their job was to convince her that a continued association would be a good thing.
“Sorry I took so long,” came the sultry, refined voice that had stirred up his libido so many times already in their short acquaintance.
Olivia ducked beneath the curtained entrance with a smile on her bright, red lips. Her purple dress dipped low, hugged tight, and showed off her toned, dark-honey legs to their best advantage.
They might have looked even better wrapped around his hips, but he had just enough self-control to not say that shit out loud. His verbal filter was only as efficient as it was because of Ken’s influence over the past decade. Ken had actual home training. Clint? Well, he’d grown up with a father who spent forty weeks a year away on business and an aloof stepmother who’d installed a tanning bed in his bedroom the very day he left for college. He’d been packing up his car, when the behemoth got delivered. No one was outside to wave him off, which suited Clint fine. Thanks to his baseball scholarship, he hadn’t had to pretend to be pleasant. He didn’t even have to go home any more. He ground his teeth. Home. He’d forgotten what that felt like until he met Ken, who’d brought down Clint’s blood pressure just by taking up space. He had that sort of energy. He gave rather than took and listened more than he spoke.
Ken deserved better than Clint, but he hadn’t seemed to figure that out yet. It was part of the reason they’d come here. Ken needed more than Clint could give him. He deserved some softness, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
Ken, seated on the far right side of the cushion, held up the two wine bottles and smiled. “Hey, you’re worth the wait. Do you want to open red or white first? The staff is going to bring heavy appetizers around. I think I saw some stuffed grape leaves.”
“Red wine, please.” She kicked off her high heels and climbed onto the thin mattress beside Ken. As she crawled, her dress inched up in the back to reveal enough of her ass to hint that yet again, she’d gone without panties.
Was that a habit for her?
Clint realized he was grinding his teeth when she’d settled down and accepted the glass Ken offered her.
Possessiveness wasn’t anything new for him, and Ken had no qualms about telling Clint to “chill the fuck out” when he became too aggressively moody. He didn’t think Olivia would be so outspoken about his behavior, assuming it bothered her. He’d prefer not to find out.
Ken grabbed three of the fine china plates from the table at his left elbow and distributed one to each of them.
A staff member bearing a silver tray heavy-laden with some sort of savory rolls leaned into the enclosure and placed a serving onto each plate before he left.
Olivia set her plate on the bed to her right, curled her legs beneath her, and leaned back on the cushioned backrest. She stared at the roll and pulled her lush bottom lip between her teeth.
Clint sank slowly onto the mattress at her right and left several inches between them, though she didn’t seem to mind sitting so close to Ken that she was practically in his lap. Clint knew people naturally gravitated to Ken that way. She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it because she felt so comfortable. Clint feared invading her personal space any more would come with a rebuff, and he’d never before been so scared to get one.
It didn’t matter that she’d sucked him off just hours ago so skillfully that he’d seen stars. That wasn’t intimacy. It was a casual hookup, and really, she’d just been doing Clint a favor. It had been obvious it was Ken she wanted. He was the one who’d found her, after all.
Clint closed his eyes and tried to shake clear his destructive thoughts. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted, for Ken to win her for both of them? Maybe that would still happen, but “hopeful” wasn’t generally one of his temperatures. Either shit would happen, or it didn’t. He didn’t like getting his hopes up, only for them to be dashed by situations beyond his control. Sure, he put on a show most of the time, and people probably thought he had all his shit together, but in truth, he constantly sought control. It was easier to control other people than his own thoughts.
When he opened his eyes again, he focused his gaze on Olivia’s fingers as she pinched a tiny corner off her roll. She had to be hungry by now.
“It’s filled with meat,” Ken said and turned his roll around for them to see. “Lamb, maybe. You’d like it, Clint.”
Clint cleared his throat and pulled his plate closer, as he concentrated on Olivia’s fingers again. He didn’t know her well enough to guess the cause of her hesitation, but for any other woman, he would have said, “Let me guess. You’re dieting,” and felt no remorse about it.
But he didn’t want to offend her over a stupid fucking joke. Instead, he said, “Holding out for dessert?”
She rolled her wine glass stem between her left fingers and fixed her smoldering gaze on him. God, she was stunning. He didn’t have a type with women, not really. He’d been telling the truth when he’d said he was pickier with them. They all sort of blurred together into a samey, feminine look and shape. They were like dolls in a toy store. Perhaps they all had different hairstyles and clothes, but the base model was the same. None really stood out. Olivia just seemed more and more interesting the longer he stared. She had a smattering of reddish freckles across her nose and cheeks that stood out in spite of her artful cosmetics application. Or perhaps she hadn’t tried covering them. She didn’t need a whole lot of that gunk. If it were up to him, she wouldn’t wear any makeup at all, not even that shockingly red lipstick. Her bright brown eyes would command attention even without the eye shadow. Her pixie cut was both stylish and feminine, and the short hair drew attention to her striking cheekbones and elegant neck.
He wanted to run his fingertips along her chin, past the hollows at the base of her neck, and explore the valley of her breasts. He’d put his face there, inhale her sweet essence, and ask himself why he’d gone so long without finding the woman who could sate that hunger.
Ken was the love of his life. Really, he was. But, Clint knew from experience that sometimes a person could have more than one. Some people needed more… everything. More touch, more talk, more love.
“No,” she said at last and brought her glass to her lips. “I don’t even know what the dessert offerings are.” She took a long sip and studied him over the glass rim.
“Then what?” Clint took a bite of his own roll and grunted his approval. As always, Ken’s assessment had been spot on. It was tender lamb, and it was delicious.
She dragged her tongue across her lips and wiped away the spill of wine at the corner. Clint’s balls sent him a stunning warning. Avert your eyes, it said. If he didn’t listen, he’d be having an obvious problem in a minute. It w
as as if he hadn’t been doing little more than having sex all week. Maybe it was because it hadn’t been sex with her, and now he wanted what Ken got.
Clint kept staring as his desperate need nagged at him.
“Just wondering how to ask you something tactfully,” she said.
Another server came by and dipped a bowl toward them, this one bearing some sort of cucumber salad. Ken took a bit, as did Olivia. Clint refused. He couldn’t stand cucumber. Maybe it was because it was too phallic. If he were going to eat dick, he’d prefer it to be flesh tone.
“You can ask me anything,” he said.
She moved her salad around her plate then said, “Your name seemed familiar to me. And you looked familiar, for some reason. When I went back to my room, I did an Internet search for you.”
Now he did look away. He was pretty sure he already knew what’d she’d found. He wasn’t exactly in hiding, and there wasn’t much about his life that was a secret at this point, not even his involvement with Ken. When he’d been playing ball, he’d more or less kept his preferences his business, as did his partners. His teammates knew him as a brazen, equal-opportunity flirt. They hadn’t suspected a thing, or if they had, they didn’t speak about it.
“And?” he asked.
“And are you’re the same Clint Morstad who used to play for the Strikes? You had a baseball cap on in every picture I’d ever seen of you, so it was the bottom half of your face that looked familiar. They called you ‘Radar’ because you never missed your target?”
“Same person. That’s me.”
“Huh.”
He twirled his thumbs. Great. Was she going to ask him how rich he was? Did they need to go ahead and get that out of the way, so he could move on from her? He could find gold diggers anywhere.
She took another long sip of wine then turned her knees toward Clint.
Ken eyed him from behind Olivia, and his expression was clear: control yourself. Wait. Listen.
Clint drew in a steadying breath and hoped he could.
She furrowed her brow. “And are you the same Clint Morstad who works as a sports photographer now?”
“Just how many pages of search results did you cull through?” he asked.
“Three, maybe four. You take good pictures, assuming that’s you.”
“It’s me.”
“You were also the subject of some very nice pictures, yourself,” she said, and she did a throaty chuckle that sent blood surging to his midsection.
God.
“You looked good in baseball pants.”
“He still looks good in baseball pants,” Ken said and laughed, too. He held out his plate for whatever it was the server brought in this time. Olivia and Clint both refused.
“You still have them?” Olivia’s red lips quirked up at one corner, and her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“The ones I wore when I played for the Strikes? No. I destroyed all the souvenirs of that last, very short season. When I blew out my knee, we were oh for two, and I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. Trainer said my shoulder wasn’t fully rehabbed from the last season, but the manager put me in those first two games anyway hoping for a miracle. The only miracle that happened was that I didn’t pass out from the pain when my ACL tore.”
She gasped.
“Yeah. Felt like hell.”
“So, it was unfixable?”
“Surgeons did their best, but look. I was thirty. I didn’t have much left in me, anyway.”
“Stop fucking saying that,” Ken said with a growl that made Olivia turn to look at him. “You keep fucking saying that like you were some kind of washed-up has-been, when in truth, you were still striking out more players than all the twenty-year-olds in the league.”
Clint shrugged. “He’s so defensive. I guess it’s kind of cute.”
Ken rolled his eyes and said under his breath, “Oh, fuck you, Clint.”
“Are you happy?” Olivia traced her fork through her salad some more before she narrowed her eyes at him and canted her head to the side. “As a photographer, I mean.”
Why would she want to know that? Of all the things a virtual stranger could ask, she wanted to know if he was happy?
“With the notoriety, I mean,” she said, now softer. She wouldn’t look at him. She’d set her fork down and stared at her plate.
Oh.
He reached for her right wrist and smoothed his thumb over it. When she didn’t flinch, he turned her hand over and traced gentle circles in her palm.
“Fame is fleeting,” he said and ran his fingertip along her lifeline. “I don’t get recognized much in public any more, especially when I have a beard. The only endorsements I do now are for camera lenses and sunglasses.”
Her hand shook, and she curled her fingers. “Ticklish?”
“No, I hurt my hand, wrist, and forearm on the job. I guess that’s an angle my arm doesn’t like.”
Shit. He turned her hand back over and squeezed it. That stopped shaking, and he kissed the back of it.
“Better?”
She nodded and rewarded him with a thousand-watt grin that could have melted ice. Maybe she gave that same smile to everyone, but it made him feel like the million bucks sitting in his rainy-day CD account. He wanted to take care of that hand and all the rest of her, too.
“And you just transitioned from baseball to photography, just like that?”
He shook his head. “No. I won’t lie to you and say it was an easy transition, because it wasn’t. It took me a year to figure out what I could do that wasn’t baseball, and I’m still around baseball players for a good chunk of the year. I can’t get away from it.”
“Have you considered taking pictures of…other things?” She drew that lip between her teeth again, and this time her cheeks flooded red. He got the feeling she wasn’t referring to scenic landscapes.
“Like what?” Ken asked as yet another server dipped a tray into the cabana, and this time Ken refused the offering, too. After they left, Ken brought the curtain edges together on all sides and returned to his cozy place beside Olivia. He raised his wine glass to his lips as Olivia pushed up onto her knees and leaned into him to whisper something into his ear.
Even in the dim light, Clint could see a hint of the bottom of her ass as she stretched, and instead of palming her as was his primal impulse, he turned away and groaned.
Ken chuckled, and Olivia settled back.
“Yes,” Ken responded to whatever she’d asked.
“Are they…shareable?” she asked haltingly.
“Not even a little bit. Why would a girl like you want to see that?”
“You think I’m here this week because I’m a prude?”
Clint pressed his teeth together and suppressed the words on his tongue. She didn’t suck cock like a prude.
“Really, I’m an antisocial hornball,” she said and laughed. “I like sex, but I don’t really want to go looking for it.”
“Girl, we could have been playing all week,” Ken said in the lightly teasing voice that had attracted Clint to him all those years ago.
“So, who should we blame for that?” Clint rested his hand on her naked thigh. He felt a bit shut out of the conversation, like an unnecessary party. He didn’t want to compete, but he needed some control. No. Some balance. He struggled with balance just as much.
“Me, I guess. Someone twisted my arm for me to make my reservation, I hid out in my room, and I didn’t go see Ms. Gibson until this morning. She gave me this look like I was stuck on stupid for waiting so long for a match.”
“I see.” He pulled his hand up her thigh and let it rest at her hem. His fingers were dangerously close to where her underwear should have been. “And, how are you feeling right now? Are you ready to play again, or did you come down here to deliver me a case of blue balls?”
She laughed that throaty laugh again and grabbed his wrist then decisively moved his hand to her right breast.
What else could he do but squeeze?
Ken grabbed it and relocated it to the table. Clint nudged the neck of her dress down to reveal her naked breast. He plucked at her beaded nipple, which made her push up ever-so-slightly onto her knees as she moaned.
“I think you want to see us together,” Ken said as he moved behind her and tugged her dress up to her hips.
She sucked in a breath when Ken did something to her ass. He could have pinched or probed, but whatever he’d done, she’d liked it.
Ken leaned in and pressed his lips to the crook of her neck. Clint’s dick jumped. If that spot was nearly as sensitive on her as it was on him, then Ken was really priming her engine.
“Get her wet, baby,” Clint said, already moving his hands to his belt buckle. “I want her on my cock.”
Her heavy-lidded eyes popped open. “Here? Outside?”
“What did you think would happen if you presented yourself to us in that little dress?” At that, Clint leaned in closer and pulled her nipple into his mouth.
He closed his eyes and savored the feel, the taste of her. He swirled his tongue around, wanting to memorize her essence just in case this was the only chance he got.
She moaned when he scraped his teeth over her tender flesh and forced more of her breast into his mouth.
Spurred on by her reaction, he added his hands to Ken’s as he explored her, teased her.
Ken’s fingers brushed against his as he probed her slit. Clint massaged between her legs, both to entice her and to find out what Ken was doing. He was pressing his fingertips against her tighter entrance and rubbing between her cheeks to prepare her.
“You’ve had anal?” Ken whispered.
“Yes,” she said huskily and ground down on their hands. “But it’s been a while.”
“We should take her upstairs,” Ken said, but he didn’t stop kissing her neck and shoulders.
Clint didn’t want to stop, either. He’d freed her other breast now and alternated sucking between the two while tugging her engorged clit between his thumb and forefinger. He still wanted to taste her, to have her sit on his face so he could give her pussy a thorough going over with his tongue, but for now, he was content to have what Ken had already sampled.