by Helena Maeve
Imogen joined him in that sentiment. “That was days ago,” she pointed out, recalling Russell’s attempts to coax her out of her head during the brief stints when he was allowed inside the ring. She’d chalked it up to a tease, something he only said to help her along, just like the nonsense they had whispered to each other in bed before and since.
Jaime’s face fell. “Oh… If you want something else, I can make—”
“Pizza’s fine. I’ve never had home-cooked pizza before.” Imogen smiled. “I’m also not much of a cook, but if I can help…”
“Don’t worry,” Jaime said, “neither am I.” He seemed to know better than to wait for Russell’s reply as he led them into the kitchen.
Imogen had been there before, mostly to fondle Jaime’s Krüps espresso machine in the mornings. She was familiar with the granite countertops and the glossy, pressure-latched cupboard doors. What threw her for a loop was the chaos that had overtaken every available surface since the last time she’d visited. Powdery stains of white flour dusted the workspace, the remains of several peeled tomatoes clumped together in a sad, fleshy pile on a chopping board. Everywhere she looked, there were countless, unused stainless steel pots propped awkwardly one inside other.
Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she glimpsed Russell crack a smile, but it was a gone and you’ll miss it kind of moment.
“So I found this recipe online,” Jaime was saying. “And they made it sound easy, so I went to Whole Foods and I got…all of this stuff.” He waved a hand to describe the ingredients scattered across the kitchen island. “But their instructions are lacking. Or maybe they just assume you know what it means when they say sauté onions until golden brown. I got distracted for five minutes and there was char in the pan…”
Imogen rucked up her sleeves. “Have you made the dough yet?”
“Yeah, that’s resting. I had to Google to find out what that meant,” Jaime added, flushing all the way to the very tips of his big ears.
“So you need to start chopping mushrooms?” It was by far the easiest task Imogen could think of, so she called dibs before anyone else could.
If she didn’t acknowledge the tension in the room, she could almost pretend that it wasn’t there. Jaime was a bright, slightly neurotic bundle of nerves, but at least he chattered constantly as he worked, complicit in feigning that all was precisely as it should be. It worked, until Russell set his bag aside and crept to the sink to wash his hands.
He was suddenly directly between Jaime and Imogen and no amount of staring at the floor could do away with the literal obstacle he presented.
“James?” Russ said, for once lacking in audible contempt.
Jaime looked up. “Yeah?”
“You have a nice place. Also, I think your sauce is boiling.”
“What? Oh, shit!” Jaime made a beeline for the cooker, donning his mitts in the process.
Behind his back, Russell offered Imogen a wink. She didn’t know if it was supposed to be reassuring—the sauce had been salvaged, but dinner was by no means achieved and the rest of the evening seemed to hang on a knifepoint. One misstep and they’d picking up the tatters of could-have-beens off Jaime’s floor.
Russell offered to take charge of kneading the dough and rolling it out into a shape only vaguely approaching a circle. No one stopped him, though Imogen found herself stealing the odd glance at his strong hands manipulating the soft mélange, the tendons in his forearms standing beautifully to attention, and caught Jaime doing the same. Whether that was worry etched on his face or interest, she didn’t dare say.
Between the three of them, they managed to get the pizza assembled into something that at least vaguely approached the recipe on Jaime’s laptop. It was the best they could do.
“I feel like I should cross myself,” Jaime said, closing the oven door. “Would anyone like a glass of wine?”
Imogen nodded heartily. “Or a bottle, whatever works.” Walking on eggshells wasn’t all that relaxing. She felt like an elastic band pulled taut, about to snap. It didn’t matter that Russ squeezed her shoulder as they retired to the living room, or that Jaime had dimmed the lights, making the imposing, wide room seem almost cozy.
“So…how was work?” Imogen asked, wincing.
Jaime had already decanted the wine out of its bottle and into a crystal carafe with a rosebud bulb. He finished pouring three glasses before replying. “Dull. Then again, I admit I had trouble concentrating.”
“Did we tire you out?” Russell asked, sprawling with knees apart on one of the three wide butter-yellow leather couches.
“A little,” Jaime replied, “but don’t worry. I bounce back quickly.”
Russell smiled, but his smile was all teeth. “Not worried.”
“Good.”
Here we go again. Imogen sipped at her wine.
“I saw you brought something,” Jaime recalled. “Was it wine? I can bring another set of glasses if—”
Russ shrugged, waving a hand toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you have a look-see?”
It was a challenge and Jaime obviously couldn’t let it go. Imogen watched him set down his glass and dutifully troop back into the kitchen. She waited until he was out of earshot to snarl, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Flirting,” Russ answered with a straight face.
“Were you raised by wolves or something? He’s obviously uncomfortable—” She had to cut herself off as Jaime returned from the kitchen, bounty in hand.
“Huh,” he said, examining the contents of the bag. “Not bad.”
“Thanks,” Russell shot back.
“I’ve got ones that attach to different weights. They’re awesome.”
“I’m sorry,” Imogen interjected. “Are you two bonding over sex toys?”
Russ snickered. “Don’t be so prudish. Call them what they are.”
“Nipple clamps.” It wasn’t the name that bothered Imogen, but the sudden and apparently sincere enjoyment Jaime seemed to be getting out of prying them out and studying them with the attention of a connoisseur. Not a second ago, he had been fiddling with his shirt cuffs whenever he thought Russell wasn’t looking and smirking defiantly the rest of the time.
Imogen shook her head, sighing. “Boys and their toys…” She downed the remainder of her wine. It was all she could allow herself this evening. “To be honest, I’m not convinced. Maybe I need a demonstration,” she ventured boldly.
The boys fell silent.
“Well, don’t everyone jump up at once,” Imogen said, reaching for the hem of her T-shirt and pulling it over her head. She slid a hand into her hair both to quell any riotous curls and because she didn’t know what else to do. Nerves and sex were not a new combination, but it was one she hadn’t felt so keenly since she’d turned seventeen.
She watched Jaime swallow hard, his throat bobbing as he glanced at her bare chest. She could get away without wearing a bra even at the ripe age of twenty-eight, because puberty had come and gone, leaving her with two mosquito bites for breasts. Anxiety about not being womanly enough to hold their attention faded fast as Jaime took another swig of wine and crossed over to the couch.
“Hey,” Imogen breathed, anxious but also excited because Jaime’s gaze had darkened with promise and his hand cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in. She went, of course. She went without resisting, feeling her skin bloom with goose pimples. It wasn’t the cold that made her shiver.
Jaime bent to kiss her mouth. He wasn’t much broader than she was, his hips and shoulders narrow, his hands delicate as he tipped up her chin, forcing her to arch her neck. It put her on display as she curved her spine, letting her lips part. More importantly, it put her on display for Russell’s pleasure. The thought was heady, overwhelming. It left her bare to Jaime’s tender touch as he traced her lips with his thumb.
“You want this?” he asked, low and dark, ostensibly referring to the padded nipple clamps dangling from his fist. But Imogen could make out
another question, unspoken but audible. You sure you want to do this tonight?
She didn’t have to think about it. “Yes,” she breathed, meeting Jaime’s hooded gaze.
“Your safeword?”
“Red,” Imogen answered, proud to remember their conversation the other night. A ripple of excitement washed through her at the thought that they would push her to the extreme of needing to use it.
Jaime glanced at Russ. “You know what that means?” He was right to ask. Imogen had gone to bed with Russ before and she hadn’t concealed that detail from Jaime, but there was a world of difference between a quick lay and giving herself over to him completely.
Russ nodded, gaze flickering between Imogen and Jaime and back, latching onto her as she thrummed with pent-up need, yearning to be touched.
Jaime took pity on her, in a manner of speaking. He tightened his fingers in her hair, tugging lightly to draw her attention to where it belonged—to him—and away from Russ. The nipple clamps landed beside her on the couch, disappointingly not on her breasts. Jaime must’ve had other ideas.
A moment later, as Jaime used his free hand to unbutton his jeans, Imogen understood what he had in mind. Disappointment morphed into anticipation.
“Suck,” he ordered, liberating his cock from his boxers and roughly tugging her in.
Air left Imogen’s lungs in a feverish exhale. She dipped forward so quickly that she nearly whacked her nose against his belly. Jaime was barely half-hard, but she knew better than to grasp him in her fist. He liked it best when she only used her mouth to coax him to full hardness. Imogen had no desire to let him down.
She sucked the cockhead between her lips, letting her tongue tease lightly around the flared crown. Jaime’s answering hiss told her she was on the right path. He liked to be sparing with praise until he deemed her deserving, but Imogen could feel his hips twitching against her hands as he fought to keep himself still. He liked this. He wanted to fuck her mouth. She hollowed her cheeks around his cock, making a tight sheath for him to move into, but Jaime resisted, pumping his fist around the base of his erection to stop Imogen taking more than a paltry two or three inches into her mouth.
She groaned, frustrated, and let him slip out altogether. She knew he wouldn’t let her go far and she wasn’t disappointed when she felt fingers tighten in her hair. If she fought him in earnest, it was obvious who’d win, but Imogen didn’t want to buck his hold, only to make him take charge of her like she knew he could.
“I said suck,” Jaime growled when she defied him for a third time.
Imogen tore her mouth away with a snarl. “Fuck you.” It was all play, but on some level, in the depths of her wicked reptilian brain, she meant it. Fuck you for thinking you own me. Fuck you for thinking you ever could.
She saw the slip of fury in Jaime’s gaze, that charming vein at the corner of his eye standing in sharp relief. That was really all she got to see before Jaime flipped her over, robbing her of breath. He slammed her into the back of the couch and nudged her knees apart with his own. She caught herself with both hands digging into the leather backrest and knees quivering like pool noodles.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Russ tensing, like he might have been thinking of interfering, started to think of recovering her breath to tell him there was no need. She never got the chance to put her plan in motion.
Jaime swatted her clothed hip with an open palm, the echo of the smack ringing out loudly in the otherwise silent living room.
Imogen gasped, a surge of heat roiling through her body like a squall before converging right into her clit. She rocked her hips into Jaime’s lap, seeking if not more friction, then at least another smack.
He had other ideas. He gripped her by the throat, his palm flat against her sternum and his fingers only lightly teasing at her windpipe, until Imogen got the message and obediently sat up with him. “You want to be punished? Keep that up and you’ll feel it for a goddamn week,” he growled in her ear, as sweet a murmur as you’re beautiful, I love you.
He was so good about giving her precisely what she wanted that Imogen felt compelled to push the envelope just that much further, to see if he would follow. “You don’t have the guts,” she taunted, feeling her wetness soak into her underwear. Thank goodness she’d brought another pair.
Jaime huffed out what might have been a laugh. “Sweetheart, you’ve got no idea what I’m capable of.” If he meant it as a threat, then it had precisely the contrary effect.
Imogen spread her legs a little wider, moaning as she felt him pinch at a pebbled nipple. She wanted to touch herself so badly, but she knew it would be better if she waited. Jaime dug the tip of his fingernail into her nipple and twisted, eliciting the first of what Imogen knew would be many startled cries. It was just as well that the walls of his ivory tower were soundproof.
It was hard following that up with a laugh, but Imogen tried, even if she felt slightly hoarse when he buffeted her other breast with similar force.
“Not enough for you, hmm?” Jaime’s breath was warm against her ear, but she could hear the strain of effort as he tried to resist bending her over and having his way with her. He wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the build-up, but he was easily the more stubborn between them. “Let’s see what we can do about that…”
Imogen felt dangerously close to caving when he sat her back into his lap and stroked both hands across her chest. He took his time pinching and teasing at her nipples before clipping the tight, plastic pincers on. The sting of the clamps was at once excruciating and mind-blowingly arousing. Imogen squirmed, gasping for breath even as she sought Jaime’s lips.
“Kiss me,” she begged. “Please, kiss me…”
“When you’ve earned it,” Jaime said, a self-satisfied smirk stretching his mouth. He hooked a finger into the short silver chain that dangled over her belly. The clamps shifted, reawakening the ache with a sudden flare of want.
Imogen sobbed, clutching the backrest for dear life. She felt ready to ignite, to shatter into a million pieces and Jaime hadn’t even touched her cunt yet. She was about to plead with him for some shred of mercy when a gruff voice anticipated her.
“That’s enough.”
It was like a kick in the gut. Imogen shook her head. “No, no, please—”
But Russ wasn’t listening. “Bring her here,” he drawled and the stern cadences of his voice left no room for argument.
Imogen felt Jaime shift off the couch then pull away completely. Cool air stole across her spine, setting a small shiver in her bones as she tried to get her bearings.
There was no time. Jaime hooked a hand around her elbow and drew her to her feet on wobbly legs. Anyone so much as intimated they might’ve liked to grab her with a rough hand in her daily life and she would’ve punched them silly. Here, though, Imogen was weak-kneed and hobbled, marching toward Russell like a lamb being led to slaughter. All she asked was that her chosen butchers made it good and enjoyable.
Russell sat up slowly, sighing like a sultan who found the latest addition to his harem wanting. He didn’t have to strain to touch Imogen’s body, but he walked his fingers over her with a ponderous caress, mapping out her bruised body like he was seeing it bared for his pleasure for the very first time. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“You want her to kneel?” Jaime asked and Imogen jumped, suddenly reminded of his presence. How could she have forgotten he was there when it was his body holding her steady, his cock nestled between her buttocks all stiff and wet with her spit?
Russ shook his head. “I’ve already seen what she can do with that mouth. Let’s see the rest.” He tugged down her soft cotton pants and her underwear without preamble. He wasn’t the patient type—or, for that matter, the type to pretend he didn’t want her when the heat in his gaze said otherwise.
Imogen swayed a little in his direction, as if caught in his gravitational pull. Jaime drew her back with his hands clasping firmly around her wrists.
“Stay,” he murmured into the inner labyrinths of her ear.
She shivered, but nodded all the same because who was she to refuse when these two gorgeous men gave her orders? She trusted Russell implicitly whenever she went into the arena. She trusted Jaime in the bedroom. She knew she was safe with them.
Surrender came by increments, first with her shoulders relaxing against Jaime’s chest, then her fists opening at her sides, the fight leaching out of her slow and steady. By the time she felt Russell kiss his way along her inner thighs, she was already willing to let him proceed at his own pace.
She still sucked in a breath when his nose tickled the coarse black curls above her mound, but Russell bypassed the invitation altogether, choosing instead to brush his lips over her quivering belly. Imogen squirmed, both ticklish and needing his touch a few inches lower. He took no heed of this. Eventually, he reached her fettered nipples and, holding her gaze, flicked his tongue against a tightly compressed nub, inevitably jostling the steel clamp.
Imogen’s answering howl was only one part pleasure to two parts pain, but she in no way meant it to be a request for Russell to stop.
He did anyway, smoothing his hands down her flanks as though to calm her frayed nerves. It reminded her of his massages—even the ones that she didn’t turn into reckless romps. That trip down memory lane reached an abrupt end when Russ hooked a hand around her thigh and helped her place her foot beside his hip, on the couch. He didn’t give her much more warning than that before fastening his lips to her cunt.
“Oh, fuck—” Imogen made to touch him, to steady herself with a hand on his shoulder, but Jaime brought her arms tight across her midriff, arresting the attempt.
“Did I say you could touch?” he breathed against her ear.
“N-no.”
“Do you want him to stop?”
Imogen shook her head frantically, because that, of all punishment she might endure, was the single most dreaded outcome. Russell was a far cry from gentle, scraping his tongue against her inner folds as if he was hungry for the taste of her, but lack of finesse didn’t trouble Imogen. She curled her toes into the floor and angled her hips, the better to direct his mouth where she needed him.