Love Under Two Bad Boys

by Cara Covington

  “I’m in good and tight, Jeremy. Take us there, lover.”

  Jeremy began to thrust hard and fast and deep, and April had no time to think, to react, to even breathe. He pounded into her, and as he did, as he kept his lover in his ass, his cock flexed and hit all the right spots inside her. She mewled and whimpered and grunted. And then she begged because she needed to come, she needed to feel that enormous wave of perfect pleasure, of perfect drowning to self. She needed to revisit that perfectly amazing ecstasy she’d felt when Marc had fucked her, earlier.

  This time, it was more. This time, it was bigger. Her men shouted and swore and prayed and emptied themselves, hurling her into the fiercest, most astounding orgasm she’d ever known. On and on the waves exploded over and through her, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t see, and didn’t even care.

  For one glittering instant she wondered if she would survive this physical and spiritual eruption of pure bliss. I hope this isn’t the end. I need more. I need all.

  From the sound of the unintelligible masculine rumbling and the way in which they collapsed with her in their midst, clutching, sweating, kissing, she knew beyond a doubt they felt the same way.

  * * * *

  I’m dead. I have to be dead. A little surprised I ended up in heaven, but hey.

  April moved, kissed Jeremy’s left shoulder, and his cock actually flexed, eager for more.

  Guess I’m not dead, after all.

  “How are you doing there, lover?” Marc’s question, Jeremy knew, was directed at him as he was currently in the middle of this pile of bodies and the recipient of his first ménage.

  “Just trying to reason out if I’m alive or dead.”

  “I think we both were dead—and now, thanks to our woman, we’re not.”

  Marc’s words had never been truer. That was exactly how he felt, with April’s soft yet strong body beneath his, his cock still buried deep inside her. Marc had already taken his weight back. When he pulled out and off, Jeremy closed his eyes for one second to savor that sensation. Then he opened them and looked down at his woman.

  “Are you feeling squished?”

  “No, I love this part.” She stroked her hands down his back, seemingly not caring that he was covered in sweat.

  Women were so different from men. For men, it was the physical, the sensation, the reaction of the cock and the scrotum to stimuli, the friction, the scents, the sights, the sounds. He knew there was a fast track from his brain to his cock, and it was a well-traveled path.

  Lovemaking was just as exquisitely physical for women, too, but it was also more. Women could derive sexual pleasure from things men couldn’t even fathom. He’d done some research on the subject when he’d been trying to decide if he was simply bisexual or if he was actually transgender. Maybe he’d been a woman born into a man’s body, and so he’d studied up on things.

  Three things stood in his memory now from that long ago intellectual journey. He’d learned that women were aroused by cradling their lovers between their thighs, by having given release unselfishly, and by the thought of nurturing their lover’s child inside their wombs and under their hearts.

  He’d decided in the end he definitely was a bisexual man, mainly because he didn’t care who he rubbed his cock against or into or whose lips surrounded his greedy dick. It was absolutely the physical excitement that drew him and held him and, well, pretty much took over a corner of his brain full time. Face it, man. You’re just a dirty little slut.

  Jeremy felt totally fine with that self-assessment.

  “Hang on, sweetheart, we’re going over.” Jeremy reversed their positions, happy as hell this bed was definitely big enough to do that in and not land on the floor.

  April folded her arms on his chest and rested her chin on them. Her breath feathered across his face. Her smile turned sly, and a heartbeat later, she flexed her pelvic floor muscles, giving his cock a nice little rippling squeeze.

  “I love your muscle tone, April Bixby. You been working out, girlfriend?” And he gave her his best overinflated ogle.

  “Not in the way I think you mean, boyfriend. That’s actually the first time I’ve ever used my Kegel exercise to caress a lover’s cock. Worked, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah. But then, you just have to look at me, woman, to get me hard.”

  The shower came on, and Jeremy got even hornier. How could he not? The combination of reality—the woman on him, whose pussy currently gloved his cock, combined with imagining Marc gloriously naked in the shower, sent him soaring. Then the shower turned off, and within a couple of minutes, Marc was there—hair not quite dry, body glistening with dampness, cock hard.

  “Uh-oh. Marc has a certain gleam in his eye.” Jeremy met April’s gaze. “One of us is about to get very, very lucky.”

  Marc chuckled, and Jeremy felt April’s nipples harden.

  Marc joined them on the bed, crawling up until he snuggled up to Jeremy’s right side. He put a hand on April’s head, stroked her hair, then leaned in. Marc’s lips met his, and Jeremy let himself sink into the kiss. Their exchanges always carried an edge. Kissing this man—kissing any man—was different than kissing a woman.

  Marc had declared his position as the alpha between them from that first moment, and Jeremy discovered for the first time what it was to love and be loved without reservation or doubt. To have someone he could trust with his darkest self, someone who would give him what he hadn’t even known he’d needed, until he did.

  He sucked on Marc’s mouth and used his tongue to slip and slide and stroke. Marc lifted his head, grinned, then turned and kissed April. This pleased Jeremy beyond measure—that watching his two lovers only excited him, only drove his arousal even higher.

  “While I was in the shower just now, I imagined just the naughtiest thing, Nancy Drew. And I was wondering if you had enough energy in you for one more little bout before we crash?”

  “No bout with you is little, Marc. What did you have in mind?” April’s gaze heated, and a nice little gush of moisture coated his cock. Jeremy shivered as his arousal ratcheted even higher.

  Marc gained his knees then lifted April off Jeremy.

  “While you and I indulge in a good, old-fashioned sixty-nine, Jeremy is going to play with your anus, beginning the process of readying you for our cocks.”

  “Oh, yes, please.” April sighed as Marc laid her on the bed, her head by Jeremy’s feet. Marc reached over to the bedside table, grabbed up a tube of lube, and tossed it to him. Then he got into position and began to nuzzle April’s pussy.

  Jeremy watched the way she reached for his lover’s cock, the way she fisted him and then swiped her tongue along the end, slurping up that tiny glistening gem of Marc’s pre-cum. He took a moment to give his own cock a hard fisting, taking himself to a greater plane of arousal.

  Then he helped Marc place April’s right leg over him, leaving her open in such a way that they could both touch and tease and maybe, just maybe, taste. Jeremy had his own image in mind.

  He watched and listened as his lovers ate each other, and the sounds and the smells of raw unbridled sex, his favorite perfume, heightened every libidinous sense he possessed. His lovers groaned, using those sexy vibrations to send each other toward the heavens. Jeremy opened the lube, coated his fingers, and then gently stroked them over April’s rosette. Smooth and tight, this first feel of her here thrilled him. Marc’s mouth was right there, devouring her nectar and yes, his own, and he could imagine the taste of them both. He cast a glance of Marc’s cock disappearing inside April’s wonderfully wicked mouth and could imagine the sensations his lover now felt.

  So Jeremy stroked and pressed, added more lube and worked one finger, ever so slowly, closer to penetrating her. He felt them both shivering, both close to climax.

  Hungry, horny, he kept his finger right there then moved and added his tongue to the mix, slurping up April’s juices, his own and Marc’s too as he kissed them both with absolute fervor and greed. He pressed his throbbing
cock against April’s spine, gratified when she gave a tiny upper body wiggle, caressing him.

  He felt them both begin to crest, and he pushed his finger all the way into his woman’s ass. Her screams of ecstasy and Marc’s growl of completion sent him over the edge. He rubbed and came against her back and had a sense that, rather than being dead, as he’d jokingly imagined earlier, he felt really and truly alive—and was on his way to reclaiming his full spirit.

  Chapter Ten

  The sound, that of the terrified cry of an animal in pain, woke her.

  On her left, Jeremy lay snuggled against her back, his breathing deep and even and bathing her neck. Marc lay on her right, with her hand on his chest and her head by his shoulder. Marc’s sleep had become fitful. As April came fully awake, she understood he was shaking. Her first thought was that he’d fallen sick in the night. But he didn’t feel feverish or clammy. He was just shaking, shaking and making horrible, torturous sounds.

  Then she remembered about the nightmares he’d mentioned. And because she’d heard about and read about people suffering with PTSD, rather than climb all over him the way she wanted to, hold him close as her heart demanded her to, she called his name.

  “Marc? You’re okay, baby. You’re dreaming. Wake up, now, Marc. Come on, baby. Wake up now. Let it go. Come back to me.”

  Behind her Jeremy stirred—just as Marc’s body stopped moving and went rigid for a long moment. Had he shaken whatever that nightmare had been and slipped back to sleep?

  His deep inhalation and even deeper exhale told her he lay there, awake, and still stiff as a board under her hand.

  “Did our man have a nightmare, sweetheart?” Jeremy’s soft voice preceded the click of the light on his side of the bed.

  “I think so.”

  “Sorry I woke you. I’m fine. Go back to sleep, both of you.”

  Marc didn’t sound fine. He sounded don’t-ask-me-what-that-was-about with a healthy portion of and-leave-me-the-hell-alone tossed in for good measure. April snorted. As if.

  “Marc, you can’t control your dreams, so there’s nothing to apologize for. However, if you share your nightmares with us, if you talk about them, they might just begin to lose some of their hold on you.”

  “Should we have been calling you Doctor Nancy Drew all this time, then?”

  She blinked at the slight bite in his words. She opened her mouth to send a volley right back, but Jeremy beat her to it—and he didn’t sound too impressed with their lover, either.

  “No, asshole. You should just accept that April and I both care about you, probably more than is healthy for either one of us or, at this moment, you deserve. So, come on, macho-man. Spill it.”

  Marc swore then scrubbed his face with his hands. “Now I am sorry because that was just me being all kinds of fucked up.” He sighed. “I really can’t make sense of tonight’s episode of mental torture.” He paused for a moment, and April sensed he was gathering his facts. “In the nightmare I just had, there’s a bright light, and I can’t see, but I know someone’s there. That part I’m pretty sure actually is a memory because it’s how they’ve all started off, not just near the end of my time there but from the very beginning. While I was a prisoner, someone new arrived at wherever I was, someone who spoke English—and I’m positive that man was an American. But then tonight, the light spun away from me to whoever it was that came—only all I can see is a blob. But I get the sense I should know who it is.” Marc sighed. “Like I said, I’m all kinds of fucked up.”

  “Maybe you should think about hypnosis,” April said. He’d suggested that to her, and she’d rejected it. For herself. But she thought it might help him.

  “No, baby. I had an…interesting interval between when I handed in my notice and when I was finally free to go. I’d really rather not let anyone else near my head at least for a while.”

  “Then I think you need to let us know when your nightmares happen, every time they happen,” April said. “And then you need to tell us about them.”

  “I think so, too.” Jeremy reached over and caressed Marc. “Maybe just the action of you talking about the dreams, even if they don’t make sense at the time, will help.”

  “Well, at this point, it sure as hell can’t hurt.”

  Marc turned on his side, facing her, and April moved in closer to him and laid her head in the nook between his shoulder and his chest. Jeremy snuggled in, too, and was able to put his arm over her and rest his hand on Marc.

  “It was kind of weird,” Marc said. “It was almost as if as soon as the light hit the blob, I was no longer in that small village. It was as if the blob was on a stage or something.”

  “That is weird,” April said. Behind her, Jeremy had gone still, and she wondered if that was in reaction to something Marc had said or if it was just so he could pay attention now that their man was opening up to them.

  “Weird…and different. That’s the first time that element has been in my nightmare. Maybe I’ll look online tomorrow for a book about dream interpretation.”

  “That’s an idea. But I have another one I’m just going to put out there. Just something for you to think about.”

  She waited for Marc’s reaction. She didn’t have to wait long.

  “It’s okay, April. I promise I won’t bite your head off again.”

  April nuzzled him. “I don’t know what you know about Healing Rides. It’s a program funded by Grandma Kate, and it’s about Equine Therapy for traumatized or disabled children and adults. They’ve also taken on a few clients with PTSD. The program is run by Dr. Charlotta Benedict—your cousin by marriage and a licensed psychologist.”

  “I don’t know much about it, but I did meet Shar.”

  “Maybe you could talk to her, casually, even. She might be able to give you some insights into what you’re going through.”

  “I’ll think about it. But for right now, it’s not even the butt crack of dawn. We need more sleep.”

  “Yeah, we do. Goodnight—again.” She kissed Marc’s shoulder and wiggled her butt against Jeremy, who kissed her shoulder. As she felt herself sinking into slumber, she made a mental note to get Jeremy aside in the morning. She sensed he was holding back. If these two men really wanted a future, if they wanted to build something real, then holding back, especially when one of them was in need, could not be allowed.

  * * * *

  If there was one thing Congressman Philip Kardigan had learned during his time in public service—beginning with that first city council election and right on through his five terms in congress—it was how to listen.

  A lot of his fellow legislators believed if they twisted their words, if they used just the right catchphrase, delivered with just the right intonation, and a high degree of fervor, if they spoke them over and over and over again, they’d be golden, untouchable. They were convinced that success lay in finding those words, phrases, and expressions and then filling the space with as many of them as their minds and mouths could regurgitate.

  Kardigan had always employed a different approach and used an entirely different gambit. He listened. He gave whoever he was with his full attention, behaving as if the person speaking to him was the only human being on the face of the planet who mattered and that whatever was being said the most fascinating dialogue, ever.

  But that didn’t mean he stayed silent. No, he, like all his fellow legislators, had the words, the right words, but even better, he knew when to use them and then when to just shut up.

  Kardigan’s skills and his instincts were being tested now, just as they would continue to be tested as he carefully, and without fanfare, continued to map out his strategy and build his war chest. As he quietly, and carefully, mapped out his presidential campaign.

  His gut instincts told him the latter was within grasp at this very moment while his intellect decreed that the former needed but a few final touches to make it airtight.

  The man sitting across the table from him was a man known by many on the right si
de of the political spectrum. A self-made billionaire, he’d gotten his start when his grandfather died and left him a fortune but one that he’d multiplied more than fifty-fold. August Tremayne was proof of that old saying, all you need to make a lot of money is a lot of money.

  Kardigan was betting this man would be the one who would help him prove that other old saying—all you need to get ahead in politics was someone with a lot of money paying for the ticket.

  “I’m damned tired of giving my money to help your compatriots get elected only to have them forget their fucking promises,” Tremayne said. “They always manage to say the right things, but in the end, their actions sure as fuck don’t match their words.”

  “Mr. Tremayne, I absolutely understand your concerns. I also know you’re a careful and an intelligent man. I know that, where I’m concerned, you’ve performed your due diligence, or I wouldn’t be here in your home, eating this very good meal, and sipping this superior pinot noir at your table.”

  “I’ll admit I’ve given you more than a pass.” He took a moment, his gaze on his wine glass as he rotated the stem between his thumb and forefinger. “You’ve never changed your tune when it comes to putting this country first. I agree that we’re spending too much treasure, both in blood and in gold, in areas of the world where we’ve no real interests. Your long-held desire to bring our people home from these Godforsaken cesspools? That’s a policy I can get behind. If the rest of the world falls apart, well, that’s their problem.”

  “The reason I was so pleased to receive your invitation, Mr. Tremayne, is because our aims and goals match perfectly.”

  Kardigan took a moment to dab at his lips with the expensive linen napkin then set it aside. He sat back and met Tremayne’s gaze. “I’ve performed due diligence, as well. I’ve investigated your holdings because it’s true that where a man’s treasure lies, that’s where his heart is also. Did you know, I’ve turned down donations from Patrick Summers and Eric Martin?”