The Thursday Drinking Pack will be so proud of me.
Juliette doesn’t reply. She just glares at me for a few long seconds, then she spins on her heel and walks away without saying another word.
I wash my hands, somewhat shaken by the whole confrontation. As I calm myself, a surge of sympathy for Sebastian flows through me. He’s a two-star Michelin chef, and he’s in his early thirties. He must have worked incredibly hard to achieve everything he has. I can’t believe that his own business adviser is acting like he’s slacking off for playing pool with his friends. Poor Sebastian.
All of those thoughts flee my brain when I push the door open and walk out, because standing in the dim passageway, waiting for me, is Daniel.
My heart jumps in my throat at the gleam in his eyes. Amused, heated, dark. The instant I absorb that look, I swallow, unable to conceal my own desire. These guys are like some kind of Bailey catnip.
“Unlike Sebastian, I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you on your win,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet. I watch his head dip toward mine, his body nearing, then his lips are on mine, and I stop thinking and just feel.
His kiss is slowly sensual. Sebastian’s kiss could have been passed off as a gesture of celebration, but the message in Daniel’s kiss is clear. This is a prelude to sex. I whimper as his tongue slides into my mouth, hot and insistent. His fingers slide through my hair, wrapping around the strands and tugging my head back so my neck is exposed. His lips press butterfly-soft kisses against my throat, my jaw. His teeth graze my skin and I shift, restless with longing.
Then he pulls away and I blink pressing my fingers to my swollen lips. Some of my lipstick is on his mouth. I move to wipe it away, but his mouth captures my fingers and he sucks, and my knees almost buckle as liquid, molten heat runs through my entire body. “Daniel,” I whisper. “What are you doing?”
“Congratulating you.”
“I didn’t win my match.” Why am I standing here arguing with Daniel about whether I won or not, when there’s the two kisses to think of?
“You won a game, didn’t you?” His gaze never leaves my face. “Do you want to take this further?”
“With you?”
“With Sebastian and me.”
I swallow nervously. There’s no dancing around the topic now, no way to pretend that I’m not interested in both of them. There’s no hiding from my desire and my forbidden longings.
“Both of you?”
He just nods.
Shit. I just ended a relationship. What am I doing, playing with fire the way I am? I shake my head back and forth, frantically. These guys have crawled in and staked claim over my libido. I need to dislodge them. A threesome is a ridiculous idea.
“When?”
This time, he smiles, a surprisingly sweet smile that softens his face. “Friday night, my place?” he asks. “Sebastian is usually done working at ten.”
Ten at night. There’s no way to pretend that this isn’t a booty call. Every sensible voice in my head is screaming at me to turn him down.
“Ten,” I whisper, quieting those thoughts with ruthless efficiency. “Okay. I’ll see you there.”
13
Daniel
If your opponent is temperamental, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
I wake up Friday morning with a smile on my face. I can’t wait for tonight.
Bailey had been so beautiful on Wednesday. Her face had been flushed with triumph, her smile victorious as she watched the eight ball roll into the pocket. My dick had hardened when I saw Sebastian kissing her, and I had to kiss her myself and taste her sweetness. And just as I’d anticipated, it had taken real effort to pull away from her after that kiss. I had to struggle to keep from sweeping her out of the club, into a cab, and to my house.
My smile fades as I scroll through my email. One from my Uncle Cyrus jumps out at me. ‘Call me ASAP’ is the ominous subject line, and the body of the message is empty. Damn it.
Wandering into the kitchen, I pour myself a cup of coffee before I dial his number. When he answers, he sounds apoplectic with rage. “I thought I told you to stay out of the news,” he snaps.
“Hello to you too, Cyrus,” I say coolly. “I have no idea what you are talking about, so perhaps you can fill me in.”
“I told you to keep a low profile,” he rants. “I warned you that we are at a crucial state in the negotiations.” I can feel his glare sear at me through the phone. “Your photo is in the New York Times.”
“Hang on.” My laptop is in my bedroom, so I head back there and turn it on. We don’t talk as I navigate to Google and search for ‘Daniel Hartman New York Times.’ Before I manage to find it, a beep in my inbox announces an email from Sally in Corporate Affairs, who manages my public presence. She has a link to the article in her message, but there’s nothing in her email that expresses concern.
Okay. If Sally’s not worried, Cyrus is overreacting. I sip at my coffee and scan the article. Sure enough, it’s a completely harmless piece on the history of the Maxwell Club, and I’m only mentioned in passing. I remember the journalist who has written it, a young guy called Oliver. Marty, the club president had introduced him around about a month ago, and Oliver had several fascinating things to say about the club history that I didn’t know about.
“Cyrus,” I sigh into the phone. “This article isn’t even about me.” I glance at the alarm clock. Ten after six. “Did you wake up at the crack of dawn to yell at me about this?”
“Your photo is in the paper,” he repeats. “I thought I told you to stay out of the tabloids.”
I lose my patience. “The New York Times is not a tabloid. All I’m doing in the photo is playing pool with a group of people. Even in Kansas, I’m sure that’s an approved activity.” I need to calm down. In my head, I count to ten before continuing. “I told you I won’t do anything scandalous. I never promised to quarantine myself until Ryan Communications’ board made up their mind about our offer.”
“Fine,” he exhales. “I’m going to be in Kansas City tomorrow playing golf with Wayne Ryan. I’ll smooth this over.”
There’s nothing to smooth over, Cyrus.
“Which reminds me,” he continues, not noticing my frigid silence. “Sophie said you were unavailable, but I have some numbers about this deal to go over with you. I’m booked solid in meetings until eight in the evening. Let’s meet after that?”
“Nope, that’s not going to work. I’m busy tonight.”
“You are?” His voice sharpens with surprise.
“Yes, Cyrus,” I say with forced calm. “It is Friday night. Some people use the onset of the weekend as a way to wind down.”
“What can be more important than this deal? Is it a woman?”
“That’s none of your business,” I snap. “Send me an email if you absolutely need me to look at something, but I’m not available to meet tonight. And in the future, when Sophie says I’m busy, you should listen to her.”
I hang up on him, then I stare into space, my pulse still pounding from my phone conversation. I’m thirty four, and my uncle wants to ground me for the good of the company. And the last minute meeting about some mysterious numbers? I know Cyrus well enough to know that this is just another attempt to control me.
And in the past, you’ve allowed him, my conscience reminds me. Cyrus is acting this way because you’ve set a precedent. What’s different about tonight?
The answer is stark in its simplicity. Bailey. Bailey is what’s different. I’m fascinated by her. Fantasies of her in my bed, writhing between Sebastian and me, moaning, whimpering as she succumbs to pleasure fill my head. I wonder what tonight’s going to be like. Will she show up interested in exploring the obvious sexual energy that flows between the three of us?
Or will she be coy? I can’t see her in that role. She’s completely unaware of her appeal, but at the same time, she’s not shy, and her joke about stea
dy long strokes suggests she’s not a blushing, virginal type. Thank heavens, because the things I’m thinking of doing with her over a pool table are far from innocent. I can’t even enter my rec room anymore without sporting a semi.
As I eat breakfast, I’m not thinking of Bailey and sex, though I wish I were. Instead, I’m thinking morose thoughts about Cyrus and the sacrifices I’m expected to make for Hartman & Company.
I became the CEO of the company seven years ago when my father died of a heart attack. Since then, everything’s come second to running the firm. I haven’t dated anyone seriously - I don’t have the time. The crazy adventures I used to have with Sebastian have all been shelved for more profitable pursuits. Friends have fallen away, to be replaced by lackeys and sycophants.
I hate it.
I’m definitely feeling rebellious, though this is not the time for rebellion. The deal with Ryan Communications will help our top line growth over the next decade. It’s an important deal for Hartman.
It is, in short, the absolute worst time to be contemplating a threesome. If my sex life somehow becomes public knowledge, there’s a real risk that the deal will fall through. Sebastian, I trust with my life. He’ll be discreet.
From everything I’ve found out about Bailey, she’s motivated, dedicated and amazing at her work. She’s in the tenure window at NYU. She’s unlikely to sell me out to the tabloids. My gut tells me to trust her.
Yet I don’t know her at all, and I wonder if I’m being a fool to want her.
14
Bailey
In Wales, it's common for a man to gift his lover with a carved wooden spoon, as a symbol that he will never allow her to go hungry.
from Bailey’s Journal of Interesting Facts from around the World
I’ve masturbated more times than I can count to relieve the pressure. Each time I close my eyes, I see their faces, and I hear their voices. I want more.
Yet my desire isn’t the only thing that matters. I’m still unconvinced that they really want me. Sure, they say they do. But when they see me naked? There are rolls of fat. Things are squishy where they should be firm. I look nothing like a model.
Two kisses, and a whispered invitation, and I’m going over to Daniel’s place to have sex. Shouldn’t I be more interested in finding a more conventional relationship with guys that are more in my league?
“What should I do?” I ask Gabriella, who has become my unofficial threesome coach. “What should I wear?” It’s Friday night, and she’s at Piper’s apartment, watching me fret with an amused expression on her face.
“You like adventures, don’t you Bailey?” she asks. “Go have one.” Then she grins wickedly. “And it doesn’t really matter what you wear - it doesn’t sound like it’s going to stay on for long.”
I throw a pillow at her. “You are not helping.” I smooth my palms against my jeans. “I’m really nervous about this.”
“Why?”
“What if I don’t know what to do? What if it just sucks? What if they just laugh at me and tell me they were joking about wanting to sleep with me?”
She rolls her eyes at me. No doubt she thinks I’m ridiculous, fluttering around like an anxious sparrow, picking up everything in my room and setting it down, not knowing what to do with the restless energy that’s running through my blood.
“I’m not even going to dignify that last question with a reply,” she retorts. “As for the rest, if it sucks, don’t do it again. And what to do?” She forms a ring with the fingers of her left hand, and mimes her right thumb pumping in and out. “Surely you know what to do?”
“Stop laughing at me,” I say crossly. “I know all about…” I mirror her gesture. “I just don’t know what to do when you add another hand to the mix. Or another dick.”
“Have you ever had anal sex?”
“Whoa,” I feel my face turn fiery. “Way to be direct, Gabby.” She’s identified the heart of the problem. I don’t think I have enough sexual experience for something as adventurous as a threesome. Trevor was a missionary man, with an occasional bit of oral when he was feeling extra-frisky. Ivan would sometimes spank me, but that was in the early stages, and it was never more than a swat or two.
“Well?” she persists. “Have you?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Never.”
“Are you opposed to it on principle?” she asks curiously.
I snort. “Gabby, I’m contemplating a threesome here. No, I’m not opposed to anal sex on principle. I just haven’t…”
She shrugs, unconcerned once more. “In that case, just be honest with them, Bailey, and everything will be fine. Being an anal virgin isn’t a sin, you know.” She laughs. “In fact, I’m sure the opposite is true in some parts of the country. Isn’t having anal sex illegal in parts of the country?”
“Sodomy is still against the law in fourteen states,” I quip, then I become serious. “Should I go, Gabby?”
“I can’t make that decision for you, Bails,” she says. “But ask yourself this. Are you hesitating because you don’t want them or because you are scared?” She curls up on the couch and bends forward to lift Jasper into her lap. “You want to know what I think?”
“Do I?” I ask wryly, more than a little afraid of what she might say. “Okay. Hit me.”
“Remember I love you,” she warns. She gestures at me. “But seriously, look at what you are wearing.”
I look at my outfit. Black t-shirt, dark wash jeans. That’s the uniform on days I don’t have to teach. When I have students to deal with, I upgrade to a black pantsuit. “Let me guess, you don’t like black?”
“I like black just fine,” she responds. “You, on the other hand, dress in boring clothes and date boring men. You’re smart and you’re bright and you are really pretty, but you like to hide all of that, because it’s easier to do that than to risk failure by putting yourself out there.”
I stop and look at her, stung by her words. “That’s not true. It isn’t my fault that Trevor was a jerk.”
“No, but it’s your fault that you moved in with him anyway.” She waves away my protest. “Look, forget Trevor. Tell me, do you think these guys are attracted to you?”
I think about the feel of their lips on mine. “For the moment.”
She glares at me. “Stop putting yourself down. You are beautiful and you are interesting. And if you want to have a threesome, just do so. Own that shit.”
I exhale. “Okay,” I agree. “I’m going over.” I glare at her. “Now, come help me decide what to wear before I lose my mind.”
Gabby helps me pick out a swishy, green printed skirt with a hem that hits just above my knees and a white v-neck t-shirt that reveals more cleavage than normal. “Remind me to take you shopping,” she says, sifting through my closet. “Where are your slinky dresses?”
“College professors and slinky dresses don’t go hand in hand. Just be glad it’s not black.” I look in the mirror, my brow furrowed. Clothing can serve as both armor and a message, and I hope my outfit says I’m casual but flirty, open to the possibility of something happening, but if it doesn’t, no biggie.
It’s best that I don’t dwell on what I’m doing. Two weeks ago, I left my boyfriend of eleven months. My stuff is still at his place - I haven’t been able to make myself call him and arrange a time to pick it up. I’m still living out of the suitcase I packed that night.
Yet, I appear to be on my way to participate in a threesome. Sometimes, I can overthink things, but at the moment, I’m just operating on instinct. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed my thirst for adventure to guide my choices.
I’ve left myself plenty of time on the subway, and I arrive ten minutes early to Daniel’s tree-lined neighborhood. Rather than knock at the three-story brownstone, I just pace on the street outside. It’s late enough that no-one is around. There’s a slight chill in the air, and I pull my coat tight around me and wince at the wind that sneaks up around my ankles and makes me shiver. Warm light spills out fr
om the windows. It appears to be a surprisingly normal neighborhood, until I remember that we are in Manhattan, and each of these townhouses is probably worth more than ten million dollars. I’m in Billionaire World. This is strictly one-percent territory.
Finally at ten, I lift my hand and bang the carved lion knocker. The door is opened instantly, and Daniel smiles at me. He’s casually dressed in a faded linen shirt and grey slacks, but it doesn’t muffle the hotness, not even a little bit. It just makes him look more approachable. Dangerous. “Bailey,” he greets me with a pleasant smile. “Come on in. We’re in the kitchen.”
I follow him through the foyer that’s almost as large as Piper’s entire apartment. In the massive kitchen, Sebastian is by the stove, chopping some peppers with easy competence. “Have you eaten?” he asks as I enter. He’s casually dressed as well, a black t-shirt, worn jeans, and bare feet. If you’d told me before this moment that I’d be turned on by a man’s naked feet, I would have laughed.
I’m definitely turned on. Cue the laugh track.
“No.” I was too nervous to eat earlier. Now the aroma wafting from the wok causes my stomach to growl.
“Good, us neither,” he smiles. “This should only be another five minutes or so.”
“Pull up a seat, Bailey,” Daniel says at the same time, gesturing to the table in the center of the room. “Make yourself at home. Can I take your coat?”
I shrug off my practical black jacket and hand it to him. This whole situation is so surreal. A two-star Michelin chef is cooking a meal for me and a billionaire is hanging up my jacket, which cost less than a hundred bucks at Target. A giggle wells up in my throat, and I just can’t hold it back. I snort out aloud, a distinctly unladylike sound.
“What’s funny?” Sebastian asks.
“I’m just wondering how many people in New York would give up their first born child for this experience. Sebastian Ardalan cooking a meal for them.”
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