by Kent, Julia
And now Josie...
She wagged a finger in Josie’s face. “No more foursome tests. Or jokes. Or—ewww.” She shuddered. “And no more going behind my back to tell them how I feel.”
“Someone has to.”
“Has to what?”
“Tell them how you feel. And frankly, if you won’t do it, I will.”
Laura plunked her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. “Why? Who appointed you the keeper of my feelings?”
“Ryan.”
Jolt. “You don’t see me sabotaging your relationships!”
“I’m not sabotaging anything, Laura! I’m saving your relationship. S. Relationships. Well, it’s one, but with two guys. Where is Miss Manners’ Plural Guide to Threesomes?”
This was getting out of hand. “To answer your original question, no. I don’t have to kiss one and then the other. I asked.”
“You asked!” Josie clapped her hands gleefully. “Did they hand you a neatly printed manual on how to have a perma-threesome?”
Glare. “I wish you came with a user’s manual so I could find your off switch.”
Smirk. “You’re not the first person to say that to me.”
Sigh. “And I won’t be the last.”
Josie reached for her hand, the gesture one of caring. “Laura. Seize this. Accept it. Yes, it’s crazy. No, no one has words to describe it. And yes, I did go behind your back and tell them about you—because someone needed to. They’re really great guys. You know that. Don’t blow this.” She released her hand and stood.
“Are you really jealous?” Laura squeaked out, surprised by Josie’s tenderness.
“Jealous? Hell, yes. I don’t want to take it away from you, of course.” She grabbed an apple and headed toward the door. “I just wouldn’t mind finding two guys like that for myself.”
The door shut on her words. Sip. The coffee tasted better than normal. Calming and soothing yet putting her on alert to start the day. Stretching, her arms reached high and her shirt rode up a bit, exposing a thin expanse of belly flesh. Not wearing a bra, her breasts rubbed against the thin cloth of her cotton jersey, her pajamas loose and comfortable. The day was about to start and work loomed large.
Last night she’d left their apartment after watching a stupid comedy she’d picked simply because she’d already seen it the previous week, with Josie. Picking something she’d seen made sense, giving her the mental space to go through an hour and a half squished between Mike and Dylan, trying to figure out how to just be as, well—three.
Those ninety minutes, followed by gorging themselves on an amazing tiramisu Dylan had hand crafted, were like living in parallel. Half of her just enjoyed every minute, the domestic normalcy easier to sink into than she’d imagined.
The other half was the problem: judging. Questioning. Analyzing. Poking.
Doubting.
If she could just quell that half of her then this could work. Really work.
Where was her off switch? Her user’s manual? All she needed was the good half. The half that believed, that turned toward healing and tenderness and love in whatever form it took.
Meanwhile, both halves needed a shower. She had another threesome in mind right now: her, Mr. Showerhead, and Bob, her battery-operated boyfriend. That was a threesome both halves of her could get behind.
And now she didn’t have to fantasize about faceless lovers with their hands and mouths all over her. She had a very real memory to draw on.
And a very real promise of so much more. Hers for the taking, in fact, if she just reached out.
She reached out, alright. Turned on the shower, grabbed Bob, and slipped out of her jammies as the water heated up. The first spray of water hit her, tickling her shoulder with little wet pin pricks, and soon her head was under the water, her hair soaking fast as the water wended its way down her body. Ah, how different her hands felt against her own skin today. No sex last night; they’d ended the evening with warm hugs and tentative kisses, each man waiting his turn for a moment with her. It had been sweet. Mellow.
Just right.
As a smile played across her lips and she reached for the shower head, she marveled that something so simple— dinner, a movie at home, a homemade dessert, two kisses—could complete her so readily. She inhaled deeply as the spray tickled her clit, the shower head doing its magic as she balanced it in her right hand, left reaching for good old Bob. This Bob (ah, she had a drawer full of electronic boyfriends...) was purple and shiny and sleek. No need for a clit attachment when she had a shower head. And now, she no longer held Bob and the spray nozzle, but instead that was Dylan’s mouth.
Mike’s hands roamed her back, soaping her as his torso slid along her rib cage, hard muscle hot and wet, the spray bouncing off skin the color of sun-kissed honey, his face wet and eyes intense, mouth reaching down for hers as his fingers slipped between her legs and began to stroke her.
Now Dylan’s mouth was on her, kissing her hips, her ass, desire pooling and expanding deep inside, eager to clamp down on him as he thrust inside her, little sighs and groans in need of a reason to be made. Ah, those abs, wet and slick and rubbing against her breasts, lips on hers, tongue exploring as Mike’s hands did their magic on her clit, tracing lazy circles that took her breath away again. Again. And again, hitching higher as he built an orgasm from scratch, like a fine artisan plying his trade, infusing the final work with a delicacy and craftsmanship only one, lone man could spin. A lone man with eyes that cut through her flesh like a hot knife in butter, hands melting her skin to a core of need that pulsed, red and eager for more of him. Of them. Of all three as one.
Bending slightly, Mike used his muscled thighs to pick her up, water making their skin slick, the friction adding to her craving as he pulled her pussy to his erection, lifting her enough that she could wrap her legs about him as Dylan’s mouth made its way down her collarbone, over her pink rose petal nipples, down to her abdomen and around to play with her back. Completely taken by surprise, the pressure of Mike’s eager rod nudging her clit was what she expected but instead he slipped fully within her passage, her body stretching to take him in as she was weightless, arms wrapped about his neck and face pressed against his wet pecs, gasping for time and air and a split second she desired to accommodate the new—
Thrust. She arched her back, consumed by this, her eyes catching Dylan’s hands on Mike’s shoulders. Nodding, Mike slipped out of her as she moaned, “No!” Dylan’s warm mouth took hers as they turned her about, Mike’s slippery front to her back, Dylan dropping to his knees, mouth descending on her womanhood as if it were the source of oxygen and all life. His tongue flicked up boldly as Mike’s pulsing rod entered her from behind, the twin sensations making her nearly slip and fall in the water’s embrace.
Tickling her labia, Dylan used his hands to roam her ass, her legs, her knees and feet as Mike pounded her from behind, his hands on either side of her, pushing into the shower wall, she jolted up, slightly, with each thrust, the press against her cervix maddening and layered, building a climax she knew would make her gush. Her body expanded, limbs combining and morphing into one big pleasure center, the division between her body and Mike’s and Dylan’s becoming less distinct with every tongue touch, every impaling, every caress. As Dylan zeroed in on her clit with tight, quick laps and Mike’s legs grew thicker with exertion she felt an implosion beginning, her hands raking Dylan’s hair as she began to scream.
“Oh, God, just right there. Like that. Oh! Oh! Oh!” Mike lifted one leg onto the side of the bathtub and shifted her hips just so, the new focus making her entire body seize up and then explode with a scream she had never heard, a rush of water from her pussy the gush she knew would come, her squirting erratic and a sign of intensity. Mike groaned, too, then jerked, his body pouring its seed into her, though he pulled out abruptly as she flailed and moaned, too caught up in a climax that was now out of her control.
Dylan slipped in her, filling the hole Mike left, his co
ck sure and enormous, angled differently and touching on a spot that—
“Ah!” she cried out, amazed there was more. “More?” she rasped, Dylan’s thighs holding her up, her face kissing him as his arms snaked around her, Mike slumped against the wall, his orgasm finishing as Dylan took her now, the two sharing her and—
Bob shot across the bathtub and skittered to the drain. She threw her head back as the massive orgasm wracked her body, her legs no longer trustworthy, her arm grabbing the safety bar just in time as her neck tightened with the force of wave after wave of orgasm, anus clenching and opening as her pussy pushed against it, the deep muscles exorcising her pent-up desires. She imagined the three of them, spent, all sitting under the spray and twitching as the leftover neurological impulses wiggled their way out of their bodies, this drawing of three giving life to fantasies most people could only nurture, well—
like this. The shower head hung on its hose now, the spray aimlessly pointing here and there, Bob resting on its side, half dead, buzzing uselessly against a metal drain circle it could never make come.
She slouched down and pulled her knees against her bare, wet breasts. Hands combing her long, wet hair, she sighed.
When she really could have both Mike and Dylan right here, right now, like this, what on earth was she doing with such pale imitations? Was that part of Josie’s point? Reality was scary. Far safer to whack off in the shower and imagine it all.
Reality, though, had given her this—the most intense shower experience of her life. Drawing on what she knew was real, was possible, was achievable had made her—well, it had made her want the real thing.
God damn it.
She hated when Josie was right.
The phone rang. His phone never actually rang these days; just texts. The ring tone was so unfamiliar he ignored it the first three times, then realized what it was. A comedic moment of bumbling to fish the phone out of his pocket, then he answered.
“Hello?”
“Mike?” Laura. Ah, Laura’s voice. It had been a week and they were trying to find a time they could all get together. Fall was approaching and ski prep was in the first slow, languid stages. Ad campaigns and supply orders and a host of issues he’d never dealt with as just an employee were keeping him busy on the mountain. Man, did her voice sound nice.
“Hey, there,” he answered, voice going low and sultry. Lots of parts of him felt sultry suddenly. Good thing he’d already run a quick six miles today.
“How’re you guys doing?”
“Dylan’s working out right now. Lifting. I don’t know much about his schedule beyond that.”
“Where’s he lift?”
“At the Y in Cambridge.”
“That’s not far from my apartment.” He’d never seen her apartment, he suddenly realized. His admin brought him a spreadsheet with a bunch of numbers and pointed to a place for him to initial. Tucking the smart phone between his shoulder and cheek, he listened while he scribbled.
“Yeah? Maybe you can go catch him and outlift him.” Laughter greeted that one.
“I’m pretty fair at it, but no way I can match him.”
“Can you bench your weight?” Few women could.
“Nope. Close, but nope.” She hesitated. He could feel some sort of change in the conversation’s tone, from light-hearted and just touching base to something more guarded. Was it something he said? Weightlifting didn’t seem to be emotional minefield territory, so he doubted it was that. Why did everything these days have to be so rife with issues? Breathe, Mike. Breathe. Just wait her out.
His silence provoked her. “I can bench about fifteen pounds less.” Again, that weird hesitation. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and pointed a delivery guy with boxes on a dolly to his destination. This sort of split attention drove him nuts. Focusing on one thing at a time was key to feeling more grounded, and right now he needed to be centered. Whatever was going on in some subtext he didn’t understand with Laura, he needed to be on his game.
“I used to bench double my weight,” he added, then stopped short. Weight! That was it. They weren’t talking about abstract numbers here. She thought he expected her to say how much she could bench? Which would clue him in to her weight? Women really were that sensitive some times. Diffuse it, Mike. Diffuse it.
“Dylan can bench about a thousand pounds,” he said, grinning.
“What?”
“Yep. Carrying that ego around...” She laughed. Score.
“It’s almost a fourth partner,” she joked back. Warmth spread through him, unexpected and welcome, his throat thick with emotion. If she was going to make threesome jokes, this was deepening nicely. Jill had told him a long time ago that she began to really accept their relationship when she could wisecrack about it.
“Hey, Mike? The wax guys are on the line—they said there’s a problem with the order,” his admin, Shelly, interrupted. Full-figured, energetic, and highly opinionated, she was only nineteen but had been in the back office for three years, practically running the show. Now she tapped her foot and managed somehow to convey urgency and ignore him all at once as she worked on her smart phone. “Seriously,” she added. “They won’t talk to me. Only you.”
He held up one finger in Shelly’s direction. “Shit,” he muttered. “Sorry, Laura—I’ve got a work problem here.”
“A work problem? As in, you have no snow and can’t work?”
“No, a supplier needs some attention.”
“I didn’t know you were so heavy into the business side of things.”
You have no idea. “Oh, I help out with inventory sometimes,” he explained. Shelly shot him a “what the fuck” look and he started to feel unmoored. This was veering into dangerous territory, fast. He wasn’t ready to tell Laura about the money. Soon, but not just yet.
Torn, he paused, wishing he could just take a thirty-mile run and think. Think it all through. Telling her was the obvious, right choice, so why not just say it? What was holding him back? A part of him feared, deeply, that he would regret this one day. That she would find out the truth and hate him.
That these secrets were eating away at his soul.
“I’ll hurry then—I just need a few seconds more. Can you and Dylan come over to my place for dinner tomorrow night?”
The warmth returned. “Of course,” he gasped, surprised by the offer.
“I’m not as good a cook as Dylan,” she added. Shelly twisted her wrist in repeating circles, pushing Mike to get off the phone. Hell of a time for this!
“Whatever you make, we’ll savor,” he said. “What time?”
“Seven?”
“We’re there. See you tomorrow.” As he said the words, Shelly reached up and plucked the phone from him, slamming the red button to end the call.
“Hey!” he shouted, pulling himself up to his full height. Who did she think she was?
Shelly didn’t even bother looking at him. “Yeah. Right. Like that’ll intimidate me.” Her snort followed him as he marched away to talk to the wax dudes. Madge’s granddaughter was a chip off the old—well, the old.
What caught Dylan off guard most was how pink her apartment was. He hadn’t pegged Laura as one of those pink girls, but the apartment practically glowed. Not in a sickly-sweet Barbie dream house kind of way, but more like IKEA had decided pink was the color of the season and Laura had happened to decide to decorate her entire place that year. Even the bathroom had some shade of pink that dominated.
It wasn’t a show stopper. Chuckling as he dried his hands on a pinkish bath towel with blue and lime highlights, he paused to stare at himself in the mirror. This was really happening. Mike had been wrong. Mr. Doubt Everything had come back this morning from one of his killer runs and declared that the situation with Laura was tenuous at best, and that they needed to pour their hearts out tonight at her place and just tell her about the billions.
“You’re nuts,” Dylan had told him flatly. He was off for the day and ironing work shirts while decid
ing what to wear that night. The ratty Rush t-shirt or the ratty Dead shirt? Hard to decide.
“Not nuts,” Mike retorted. “Sane. Rational. Reasonable. We’re skating on thin ice here by not telling her. And if it comes out before we’re the ones to sit down and talk about it with her, all hell will break loose.”
“How will it come out, Mike? She doesn’t know anyone we know.”
“The workers at the ski resort figured it out.”
“That’s because there are financial people there who had to know who owns the place, and they sniffed the money trail back to you. But they don’t know about the trust fund, right?” Mike’s uncomfortable silence had sent a chill down Dylan’s back. “Right?” he said sharply.
Mike had looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “Someone there knows. They had to. I couldn’t buy the entire resort outright and I needed to give financial statements proving the steady income. I’ll finish paying it off next year, but there was no way to do this without disclosing it.”
“Shit.” Dylan hadn’t known that.
“So we need to tell her.”
Dylan argued back. “Not yet. We need one night to just...be. Last week was perfect. Tonight can be more perfect.”
Mike’s skeptical look had nearly broken him. Truth be told, he just wasn’t ready to look into Laura’s sweet face and declare he was a billionaire. That Mike was, too. Oh, yeah, we lied about this one little thing...we make more money than most major movie stars do in a career. Only we make it per year. You’ll never have to worry about money again with us.
And—smack. He imagined the slap. Because it felt like one, in his gut. If roles were reversed he’d feel betrayed and pissed and all the things he imagined she had felt until last week. The roller coaster of their relationship was making everyone queasy, and taking a break was helping to settle everyone into a comfortable place where they could just proceed. That’s what he wanted more of. Not secrets and reveals and heart-felt explanations and angst-filled pleas.
And sex. He wanted sex. Letting that be secondary had been hard. Hell, he was hard. All the time now. And lavender-scented hand lotion wasn’t the best girlfriend these days, no matter how nice it smelled. It couldn’t sigh, or groan his name, or dig its fingers into his shoulders at the just perfect moment when —