by Helena Maeve
“Oh, this is my fault, is it?”
Dylan nodded solemnly. “Yes. You’re entirely to blame that I have you all to myself…”
The backs of Hazel’s knees hit the bed. Dylan kissed her hard, as though staking a claim. She reveled in the notion. Of their own accord, her hands flapped uselessly at his hips for a beat before finally catching in the fabric of his loose T-shirt. When Dylan didn’t protest, Hazel slid her palms up his spine, pushing the soft cotton as she went. It didn’t bother her to be naked when he was clothed, but right then and there, she craved the contact of skin on skin.
After a moment, an uncharacteristically silent Dylan withdrew and helped her divest him of his clothes. He didn’t smile, smug in the knowledge that he’d won big in the genetic lottery, but he didn’t shy from her questing gaze, either. Hazel raked her fingernails down his perfect chest in retribution and watched his cock jerk between them in echo.
“Let me get a condom,” Dylan murmured.
No one should look so good and be this kind. No one.
With great effort, Hazel kept her hands to herself as he put it on. Ward was big on rubbers and as long Hazel played with both him and Dylan, she knew it wasn’t fair to use separate measures for each.
The reprieve was short-lived. As soon as Dylan knotted a hand in her hair, they were kissing at a different speed, the heat between their bodies ratcheting up from tepid exploration to roiling need. It was a welcome change of pace. Her knees already weak, Hazel dropped to the edge of the bed, folding her feet under her and using Dylan for an anchor.
He let her get her bearings—for the space of a breath—then cupped the back of her neck, holding her steady as he guided his cock to her lips. She parted her mouth to him willingly, eager for the taste of him.
Enough men had landed in her bed over the years that she wasn’t fazed by the twinge of discomfort in the back of her throat or the creak in her jaw. But most of her one-night stands would never have dared to flex their fingers in her hair and guide her down without her tipping forward into the push. They would’ve been out of her bed in a heartbeat if they did.
Dylan was different. Something about the way he moaned her name as she swirled her tongue along the head of his erection sparked little fires beneath her skin. He seemed to enjoy her licking at the underside of his length, too, but not as much. Hazel switched tactics, eager to please. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so desperate to satisfy a man—
Not true.
She pulled off with a cough, eyes watering. It was the first sign of resistance she’d offered Dylan in some time.
“You okay?” he panted, relaxing his grip in her hair. This wasn’t part of the game.
Hazel shook her head, but that only made him back off even more. Alarm kindled in her chest. “What’s the matter?” she forced out, determined not to let her jitters show. They would pass. They always did. “Afraid I’ll bite it off?” She raised her head, forcing a defiant sneer onto her face.
If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you. She didn’t need a gentle hand.
For a moment, she feared Dylan might stop anyway. Her heart pounded faster as she considered of all the ways to excuse her conduct without peeling off one more onion layer on her sordid past.
Dylan saved her having to make excuses by shoving her down to the bed.
Hazel hit the mattress hard, air fleeing her lungs in a startled gasp.
Before she could get her bearings, Dylan followed, pinning her arms down as he shifted up and onto his knees. Hazel could only suck a couple of half-breaths into her lungs, the weight of him on her chest almost suffocating.
“Open your mouth,” he ground out. This time, it wasn’t a question and there was no room for lies.
Hazel did as she was told. Taste and texture were blissfully familiar, but the angle was not.
Dylan tilted his body forward and gripped the headboard with one hand. It took a few testing tries before he figured out how deep he could thrust without making her gag—he didn’t stop in between, trusting that Hazel could catch her breath without reprieve. His confidence buoyed hers.
Yes. Yes, fucking use me like you need to.
Her body was a tool—his tool—to do with as he pleased. Every rough thrust sent shivers down her spine. Every inch of pressure in the back of her throat had her pulse skipping beats. Her irregular breathing probably played a part, too, but Hazel didn’t care. Suddenly she wasn’t just a no-name waitress fleeing youthful mistakes. She wasn’t too heavy, too timid. Too disappointing.
She wasn’t anything more than what Dylan needed her to be.
His hips stuttered, rhythm crumbling as he tipped over the edge without warning. Hazel turned her head, gasping for breath as his length slipped out of her mouth. Adrenaline pounded in her temples.
Point one for condoms. No clean-up to worry about.
Chest heaving, Dylan dropped down to the bed beside her. He knew his strength too well to linger. “Fuck… You okay?”
Hazel nodded, her jaw a little sore. No need to mention it. She had no complaints, let alone for such little discomfort.
“We gotta do that again,” Dylan panted.
“Easy there, tiger.” Ward yawned in the doorway. “Ladies first.”
Dylan snickered, but it was a breathless, wrung-out burst of sound. Hazel was dimly aware of his stripping off the condom and disposing of it in the trash, her attention already on Ward. Where Dylan was tan, golden skin and raven hair, Ward was pale and rangy all over. A faint dusting of hair drew the eye down from his navel to the bulge inside his wool slacks.
“Take them off,” Hazel said.
Ward crooked an eyebrow but made no move to obey.
“Take your clothes off and get over here,” she bit out, imbuing her voice with a fierceness she didn’t particularly feel.
The bed dipped as Ward stepped closer, bending one knee to the mattress. “Quite a mouth you’ve got on you…”
“Maybe I need something to fill it,” Hazel shot back, defiant. Heat coursed through her body, the memory of their earlier play still alive and well beneath her skin.
Ward shot his friend a sardonic glance. “Hear that, Dylan? Sounds like you’re not enough for our little minx.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Hazel barely had time to suck in a breath before Dylan captured her chin in a steady hand and forced her to meet his eyes. The sweetness of the afterglow was already gone, replaced by a surprise resurgence of the hardass who regularly took a flogger to her.
He kissed her roughly, his lips warm and brutal against hers. He knew her limits too well to stop at a peck.
She didn’t see Ward slide into bed beside her until she felt his suddenly naked body against her flank. Only the chill of his St. Christopher medallion against her shoulder threatened a small shiver.
Little earthquakes pulsed in her cunt. She needed to be touched so badly that she didn’t dare ask for satisfaction. Between Ward and Dylan, she’d known no end of delays and misdirection. In just a few short weeks, they had learned how to play her body like an instrument. Hazel pressed her thighs together, humming into Ward’s kiss.
“Aren’t you sweet,” he murmured, pulling back. “All freshly plucked rose, hmm?”
“What?”
“And now she blushes…” Ward sucked her earlobe into his mouth, biting down lightly.
Electricity snaked down Hazel’s spine. “Oh—oh, fuck.”
The nibbling became a stinging prick of teeth. “I can taste him on you,” Ward whispered, so low that Hazel almost thought she’d made it up.
He was on her in the next breath, forcefully nudging her legs apart and hooking her ankles around his hips. Dylan held out a condom. Ward ripped it open wordlessly, his hands shaking a little as he rolled it down his thick shaft.
The first thrust of his cock into her was a far cry from gentle. Hazel gasped, clutching at him with her knees. She would’ve done it with her hands, too, if Dylan didn’t pick that
precise moment to take hold of her wrists. He liked her pinned down, she’d noticed.
So did she.
Ward set a punishing rhythm, his pendant sliding between her breasts with every rough motion of his hips. The metal seemed to heat from contact with her skin, but even if it ignited spontaneously, it couldn’t possibly match the blaze in Ward’s eyes. He grasped her neck, finding the gap between collar and flesh with his fingertips and settling there, each pulse beat laid bare beneath his touch.
Hazel felt the frayed ends of her self-control slip away long before Dylan slid a hand down her body and pressed the tips of his fingers to her clit. She tried not to think about the two of them touching while they touched her. She tried not to fuse her focus to the place where all three of them were so intimately connected. It was a lost cause. Orgasm spread outward, from her core all the way to the top of her head, then down again, in greater and greater waves, until Hazel could no longer control her trembling, or the litany of sounds spilling from her lips.
She felt Ward coming inside her mere seconds later, his final thrusts pushing her hips down and into the mattress.
Like Dylan, he was mindful not to crush her with his weight. They seemed to think she was fragile, somehow, and Hazel was too spent to contradict them.
Someone—she thought it might have been Dylan but couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes—brushed a hand through her hair.
“You okay?”
“Mm, tired,” she got out.
“Sleep,” Ward murmured, his body a welcome furnace against her spine. “We’re not going anywhere.”
As she slid deeper and deeper into the arms of Morpheus, Hazel mused drowsily that he seemed to mean it. Then again, it was no surprise.
They all thought they did.
Chapter Five
With Ward and Dylan in the apartment, there was no way Hazel could indulge in her favorite new pastime of surfing porn sites and predominantly loathsome forums. The break had made for a good night’s sleep but by morning Hazel was already feeling the effects of withdrawal.
“So I know this is presumptuous and out of the blue,” she started. Dylan’s back was turned while he puttered around with bacon and eggs. He was already dressed, back from his morning run before Hazel had even rolled out of bed.
At least Ward was just as much of a couch potato. He had yet to finish shaving.
“What’s that?”
Hazel bit into her toast and, mouth full, asked, “Could I have a key? I was thinking of swinging back in the afternoon, maybe fixing you guys up with some real dinner…” The excuse hardly stood up to scrutiny, but it was the best Hazel could do on short notice.
Dylan’s white-clad back didn’t give much away. His placid expression was no better help once he shut off the induction cooker and sauntered over to the kitchen island with their breakfast. “You wait on people every day. You don’t have to do that with us.”
“I know—”
“We could go out,” Dylan went on, a cheery note in his voice. “I know a great Italian place close by.”
“Black tie?” Hazel waved a hand, both to dispel her arch tone and dismiss the memory she’d conjured. It was Ward who had picked the restaurant the first and last time they all went out together. It wasn’t fair to hold Dylan responsible for that fractious experience. “Anyway, I can’t. I’ve got the graveyard shift tonight. You and Ward’ll be alone for dinner.”
“Oh.” Dylan’s face fell as he finished serving the eggs.
One of her yolks punctured, flooding the wedge of toast.
“I’ll get you a key, then.”
“I mean, you don’t have to,” Hazel temporized.
“It’s a good idea.”
Her heart did a backflip despite Hazel’s best efforts to keep her expectations low and her feet on the hard, cold ground. “You think so?”
Dylan met her eyes. “Yeah. I do.” He reached around their plates to cover her hand with his. “You know we like having you here, right?”
“Sure.”
“And it’s not just for the hot sex.”
Hazel grinned. “Speak for yourself.”
“I know Ward feels the same way,” Dylan insisted, his expression strangely serious, as though he was willing her to understand something important.
In a heartbeat, Hazel went from anticipation to a sudden curl of dread. She extricated her hand under the pretext of attacking her eggs with fork and knife. “This looks good.” Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Dylan frown, a blink and miss it kind of slip up.
“I doubt they’re as good as Marco’s,” he demurred.
“Modesty doesn’t become you,” Hazel teased. “Suit and tie, though…” She gazed at him suggestively. “That’s giving me all sorts of ideas.”
“Keep ‘em in mind for tonight—or whenever,” Dylan amended quickly.
He was good about tolerating her erratic schedule, but not for the first time, Hazel wondered how much of that was genuine and how much was simply politeness. She flashed him a smile. “Tomorrow, I promise.”
Dylan took a sip of coffee and said, “We’ll make it special.”
“Oh? What do you have in mind?”
This was new—flirting over breakfast, teasing each other without consequence. The collar was tucked away in the dresser drawer with the rest of her things and Hazel was once again her own person, forced to navigate between gentle barbs and meaningless innuendo with no crutch and nothing to corral her hang-ups.
The precarious balancing act only lasted another twenty minutes, before Dylan checked his watch and announced he had to go. He pecked her on the cheek before donning his pinstripe suit jacket and checking his hair in the hallway mirror.
“Go away, heartbreaker,” Ward groaned, unusually morose.
“Look who’s talking,” Hazel giggled.
In his gray suit and black shirt, Ward looked like one of those TV executives—actors too young and too handsome to ever warrant the position in real life. Like them, he had decided to forgo a tie. “Onward to the slaughter,” he intoned, faintly baleful, and pocketed his wallet and sleek, last-generation cell.
He was almost out of the door when he turned back to kiss Hazel and pinch her ass. She swatted his.
Ward’s laughter faded down the stairwell with the sound of his footsteps. Dylan was waiting at the bottom. Hazel heard them exchange words, their voices faint and faraway. Then they were gone, the heavy glass door at the foot of the building swinging shut with a dull clang.
Hazel was left alone, an absurd imitation homemaker to their distinct versions of Don Draper.
The spare key rested, heavy and cool, in her palm. It would’ve happened anyway, in its own time. She hadn’t forced Dylan’s hand. He wouldn’t have let her.
With a deep breath, Hazel dragged the steel door shut and locked it. Her first stop was the bedroom and the laptop she’d concealed under the bed.
* * * *
“We’re thinking Hawaii or Aruba for the honeymoon,” Sadie gushed over the counter as she refilled a regular’s mug. “Frank’s not big on sun and sand, but he loves me, so…” She cocked a hip, posing smugly.
Hazel ducked away before she could be roped into the conversation. The diner was three-quarters empty, normal for this time of the afternoon. As long as she kept her feet moving and her mind on the job, she didn’t have to think about Ward and Dylan coming home in a few hours. Would they like the lasagna she’d made this morning or trash it and order in again?
With a bright smile and a delivery of conch fritters and onion rings, she chased away the small insecurities that had crept in since the morning hours.
“Working hard for those extra tips, huh?” Travis murmured as he passed her in the aisle between the rows of red vinyl booths.
Hazel thinned her lips. “Thought you had the evening off.” The switch was the only reason she had taken the graveyard shift.
He turned, beaming. “Good memory. Don’t worry, I’ll be off when it quiets down
.”
She couldn’t resist darting a look around. Between the knitting circle and the community college students chugging down Red Bulls, the diner was pretty dead. A graveyard would’ve been more animated. “Watch out you don’t miss your chance. You know what Marco’s like.” Unpredictable, volatile, quick to berate what he saw as a cardinal offense against the ideals of the service industry—a regular manager, in other words.
Travis hummed meditatively. He waited until she’d finished refilling cups in her section before falling into step. “Sounds like you don’t enjoy working here.” A jerk of the chin indicated the tight press of Formica tables under flickering lights, the laminated menus peeling at the corners. The speakers duct-taped to the ceiling because Marco placed the virtues of DIY above health and safety hazards.
“When did I say that?”
“I read between the lines,” Travis announced with an unapologetic grin. He had a wide mouth, his cheeks unshaven.
Hazel tried to picture him in camo on an arid plain somewhere. “Can’t say I dreamed of making minimum wage when I was a little girl, no,” she confessed. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to have a job, but…”
“I know what you mean. Not exactly glamorous, right?”
Glamour wasn’t what Hazel had been thinking of, but she didn’t press the point. With The Video resurfacing and her personal details being posted online, she was finding it hard to avoid dwelling on every bad decision that had led her to this moment.
It all started with college and being away from Dunby for the first time in her life. One taste of freedom and—disaster. Maybe there was something to all those sermons Reverend McDaniels had recited over the years about wayward souls.
“But you got other options,” Travis pointed out, startling her from an impromptu trip down memory lane.
“I do?”
He nodded. “You’re young and you’re pretty… All kinds of opportunities out there for a girl like you.”