A Smile as Sweet as Poison

by Helena Maeve

  Ward hummed something that might have been agreement. “No, nor did I… Maybe I should finger you into another orgasm, hmm?” He held Hazel tight around the waist when she tried to squirm out of his lap.

  She groaned and pushed at his chest, but not nearly hard enough to break free. Her safe words came to mind as something of an afterthought. By the time Ward fastened his lips to her neck and bit down, she had already dismissed them.

  “I think she likes the sound of that,” Dylan chuckled darkly. “Greedy bitch.”

  Yes. For you, for both of you. She didn’t have the voice to say it, but she didn’t want to hide it. She was theirs. And you’re mine.

  The thought unlocked the tension pulsing through her limbs as Ward pulled away with a self-satisfied grin. “All right, that’s enough,” he said, looking over her shoulder to Dylan. “Your turn.”

  Dylan wasted no time hoisting her up and pulling off her clothes. Hazel shivered, but not out of shame. She found herself tottering into his arms as if she were a marionette without strings. Dylan palmed her ass with a proprietary hand, grinding his hips against hers so she could feel the swell of his dick. He was turned on. Watching her with Ward had turned him on. It should’ve been obvious, but Hazel still felt a flicker of selfish delight at the thought.

  “Over the table,” Dylan ordered roughly. When she didn’t move fast enough, he gripped her arms and helped her along.

  The long oval of the dining table was tucked under one of the wide, many paned windows between kitchen and living area. It creaked loudly as he bent Hazel over the edge. A flash of panic shot up her spine—what if the legs gave out? What if she was too heavy? Self-sabotaging doubts evaporated with the first smack of Dylan’s open hand on her ass.

  The echo ricocheted off the walls, far louder than Hazel’s sharp inhale.

  “Count ’em.”

  Hazel knew the drill by now. She bit off a “two” as soon as Dylan swatted her other hip, bare toes curling into the hardwood floor. She seized the table with both fists by the third stroke and had a grip on her wayward thoughts by the fifth.

  Dylan rubbed her abused skin after a neat half-dozen, almost tender in his caresses. That didn’t mean they hurt any less.

  “Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked, the polished cadences of his voice veering to nonchalant.

  Hazel nodded.

  “Use your words,” Ward taunted, coming up to the other side of the table. “Beg for it.”

  “Please,” she choked out. “Please, fuck me, Sir…” Her cunt still pulsing with the lingering aftershocks of her orgasm, she was neither ready or unwilling when Dylan gave her what she craved.

  He slid into her fast and hard, before she’d even registered him opening his fly, let alone rolling on a condom. She saw the flash of the wrapper on the floor when his first thrust had her rising up on the heels of her palms, elbows locking as her whole body went rigid beneath his.

  It hurt. It was startling, a brush of discomfort to counter the mind-bending sensation of being filled.

  It was fucking perfect—not least because when Hazel’s gaze finally focused, she registered Ward leaning casually against the brick wall and stroking his cock. Between leaving the couch and joining them, he’d shed his shirt and pants, kicked off his boxers. But for the silver watch around his left hand and his St. Christopher medallion, he was completely naked.

  Hazel all but forgot to breathe at the sight of him. She couldn’t make sense of it. How had she wound up here? How had she gotten so lucky?

  I don’t deserve you.

  Dylan pressed a hand between her shoulder blades, doing away with the notion before Hazel could trick herself into self-pity. She went down to her elbows when he bid her, jerked back and forth between the edge of the table and the hot press of his hips against her stinging ass. Tired as she was, his every grunt kindled a spark of want in her belly.

  “You like that?” Ward wondered, distant but oddly intent.

  Was he watching her, or Dylan, or the two of them together? Did it even matter?

  Hazel licked her lips. “Feels so good…” You should try it. Go to your belly for him. Let Dylan plow into you like does me. Her inner muscles constricted with a surge of arousal. Dylan choked off a groan.

  When he spoke, his words were for Ward, not Hazel, “Let her finish you off.”

  “What makes you think I want her mouth?” Ward shot back.

  “Ward,” Hazel panted, not a plea or a rebuke, just the sound of his name, a single syllable rolled against the roof of her mouth like fine liqueur.

  That short-lived, tell-tale note of dissent didn’t stop him pushing away from the wall and doing what he was told. His groan when Hazel took him in hand was sanded down to a sigh as soon as she started working him with lips and tongue, her cheeks hollowed around his length.

  There was a name for this, Hazel knew, for taking two men at the same time, one at either end. In her most recent quest to protect what was left of her privacy, she’d come to grips with all kinds of derogatory takes on sex acts women performed for pleasure. Yet even with a knee on the table, balancing awkwardly on one foot as Ward thrust into her mouth and Dylan fucked her cunt, none of it felt as though it was being done to her.

  Hazel clenched around Dylan as his pace began to flag, milking him for all she was worth in the last precious moment before his orgasm hit. It should have ended there, with the sound of his harsh, gasping moans, the bruising clutch of his fingers on her hips.

  It didn’t. Ward cupped her cheek as he pulled out, seizing his erection with his free hand.

  “Close your eyes,” he gritted out, one last warning before he climaxed. Thick, creamy ropes spattered Hazel’s lips and chin, branding her.

  She couldn’t resist licking them off any more than Ward tried to stop her from grasping his cock and pulling him back into her mouth. She was going to worry about her burgeoning oral fixation later, once Dylan eased out. Once he stopped circling her clit with the tips of his fingers.

  Hazel made a vague, protesting noise in the back of her throat, but it was no use. Another wave of pleasure threatened to engulf her, tendrils already rippling over her skin. She should have been too tired after hours in the cramped Cessna, after the emotional turmoil of the past few days.

  Dylan’s breath on the back of her neck should’ve been a case of her hand being forced, no matter how sweetly he coaxed her to her peak.

  And maybe all of the above was true, but Hazel still found herself gripping the edge of the table and arching her spine as she came again, shaking violently between Dylan’s talented touch and Ward’s soothing caresses.

  When it was over, her limbs lax with exhaustion and the warmth that only a good lay could provide, Hazel was just glad she hadn’t slid down to the floor like an amoeba.

  “That’s my girl,” Dylan whispered, words muffled against her shoulder as he wiped off the worst of Ward’s cum from her chin. “Why’re you grinning? Was it a good one?”

  It was, but, “I didn’t black out this time,” Hazel slurred. Thwarting unconsciousness for a change didn’t mean she wasn’t utterly spent.

  Somewhere above them, on the other side of the able, Ward snorted. “Suppose that’s to say we need to try harder next time.” He was gentle as he unclasped her fingers from around the table’s edge.

  Dylan, too, took great care in slipping his softening cock out of Hazel.

  “Think you can stand?” Ward asked.

  “No.” But she did it anyway, leaning a little into Dylan’s chest both to soak up his body heat and to steady herself. “Bed?”

  “Let’s,” Dylan agreed.

  There was no question of Ward staying behind, no hesitation as he slid a warm hand into Hazel’s and drew the tips of her fingers to his lips. Fatigue was sure to catch up to them soon, but while they were still running on fumes and adrenaline, and mutual desire, Hazel gave his hand a squeeze and tugged Ward against her body, guiding their joined hands to Dylan’s hip.

 
; At last, she understood. It was okay to want this.

  They would figure out the rest.

  * * * *

  “Hazel… Sweetheart, wake up.” Dylan’s voice was soft, but the clasp of his hand on her shoulder proved insistent.

  Despite her better judgment, Hazel rolled away from the arch of Ward’s spine, blinking in the faintly bluish light streaming through the bedroom windows. “Mm, what?” She wanted to quip something clever about randy men and keeping it in his pants, but the expression on Dylan’s face stopped her short.

  He held up his cell phone. “It’s Sadie. She tried calling you—”

  “Shit, my battery must have died. Piece of shit phone…” Hazel pushed herself up against the pillows, brushing a strand of hair out of her mouth as she held out a hand. “Thanks.” It didn’t occur to her to ask what Sadie wanted, or why she’d made the leap to calling Dylan when Hazel didn’t pick up. “Hey…”

  Sadie’s greeting was a watery sniffle. “Shit, you were sleeping, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, it’s like…six in the morning.” But that didn’t seem to matter. “You okay?” Hazel asked, searching Dylan’s gaze for some hint of what was up.

  He shook his head as if to say, I don’t know more than you do.

  “Yes. No…” Sadie took a deep breath. “Wedding’s off.”

  “Crap. What happened?”

  “Frank. He, uh, he called it off. Sort of…” She trailed off on a sob, a blustery gust of wind whooshing down the line as she struggled to get herself under control.

  Hazel dug her knuckles into the mattress and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Sadie, I’m sorry. Are you okay, babe?”

  Hitching sobs were her only answer.

  “Oh, hon. Calm down, now, it’s going to be all right. Deep breaths, okay?” Hazel struggled to keep her voice low and even. “Can you tell me where you are? I—I’ll come get you…” She had become so caught up in her own drama over the past week that she had forgotten to keep in touch with her best friend.

  I told you so was meaningless when Sadie had a history of throwing herself into love affairs without a single thought for what was practical. Hazel discounted that small voice at the back of her mind that whispered, perhaps you’re not so different after all…

  “Sadie? You still there, hon?”

  “I drove up to Mulholland.” Sadie let out a shaky laugh. “I wanted to chase the dawn, you know? Like we used to do.”

  “I know, babe. You took my car, huh?” Hazel met Dylan’s gaze and murmured, keys. “You better remember to fill up the tank before you bring her back.” She grabbed the first shirt she found in the dresser drawer, maneuvering awkwardly around the cell as she tugged it on hastily and fumbled for a pair of sleep pants.

  Dylan was already rousing Ward, speaking to him in urgent tones. She couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  “Isn’t it chilly up there?”

  “Kinda…”

  She could hear Sadie’s teeth chattering. “Listen, stay right there and I’ll come get you. We can get breakfast. You feel like eggs? I sorta feel like eggs…” Talk to me. “Sadie?” All efforts to keep her cool evaporated. “Hon, you still there? Sadie?”

  Dylan fell into step beside her, already clad in jeans and a shirt. “Ward’s BMW is faster,” he said and wrenched open the loft door.

  Until then, it hadn’t occurred to Hazel that he might be coming along.

  She couldn’t thank him, too consumed by the weight of the silence on the line. She swayed in place. “Sadie?”

  Please.

  Ward pressed a hand to the small of Hazel’s back. “Let’s go. It’ll be okay.”

  She had to force her feet into motion.

  No answer came from Sadie’s end. The howling wind surging over the twisty, hairpin turns of the deadliest road in the Santa Monica Mountains challenged that belief.

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  Feint and Misdirection

  Helena Maeve

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Imogen contemplated whipping out her phone to check the time. If anyone saw—if the bride saw—she’d never hear the end of it. The tux had already raised a few eyebrows, but most of the guests had seemed content to chalk it up to eccentricity and moved on. Only Imogen’s mother had pursed her lips tightly and said “how nice”, in the kind of voice that implied the reverse.

  She was striding toward Imogen now, a slice of wedding cake in one hand and her indignation clasped firmly in the other. It would’ve been too much to ask that she leave it at that.

  Imogen cast about for an escape—or failing that, a glass of liquid courage. Finding none, she dug her oxfords into the ground and smiled with false cheer. “Good cake?”

  “The icing is runny and the sponge is too sweet,” her mother said, reverting to Vietnamese as she often did when criticism was forthcoming. She was all about saving face, if not necessarily Imogen’s. “You didn’t bring a date?”

  This was well-trodden territory. Mrs Dao had begun with casual hints, veered into outright insistence and had finally reached the stage of constant harping, which explained why Imogen hadn’t seen her parents in months.

  Imogen shook her head. “I didn’t want to steal Sherry-Ann’s thunder.” Not that it would’ve been possible. Her childhood friend had elected to tie the knot in nineteenth century crinoline and serve caviar at the banquet. Her band of choice involved a banjo, a qin player and two saxophonists—an experimental ensemble from VanderCook whose version of The Way You Look Tonight was surprisingly not bad. She was bound for a honeymoon in Antigua on a flight later that evening.

  Imogen hated her like she hadn’t hated anyone in a long, long time.

  Mrs Dao pursed her lips. “Hmm,” she said, not even a word and yet so pregnant with disapproval that Imogen felt her insides churn.

  She hated this. She felt like a teenager again, seeking her parents’ endorsement on boyfriends or boxing lessons when they had already made their opinion known. Loudly.

  “What about that brute of yours?” her mother prompted, just when Imogen thought she was off the hook. “Couldn’t he come?”

  “His name is Russell,” Imogen sighed, in English. And he wasn’t a brute, though the thought of his thick biceps stretching a formal dinner jacket was enough to trigger an absent-minded smile. “I didn’t ask him.” The intention had been there for the space of a heartbeat, before he’d pulled out and started hunting for his clothes.

  There hadn’t been a good time after that. Imogen shoved her hands deep into her pockets and cast her gaze at the couples crowding the dance floor. Anywhere was preferable than looking at her own mother, whose silent censure was enough to make Imogen squirm. She was almost relieved when the levees broke and her mother smacked her rouged lips together.

  “I don’t know why you persist in keeping such company,” she sneered. “He is a no-good thug, who hits you—”

  “And I hit him back,” Imogen interjected, bristling. “It’s called sparring, Ma.” The way her mother had said it made it sound like Imogen was a battered woman.

  “It’s inappropriate,” her mother insisted. “You wonder why you don’t have a date? Who wants a girl who gets into fights?” She sighed pointedly, reaching up a hand to brush Imogen’s hair off her brow. “A girl with such ugly bruises? You will attract the worst sort of man. Is that what you want?”

  “No…”

  But one paltry victory was not enough to curb her mother’s diatribe. “And would it kill you to wear some makeup? You can see every bump and scratch… Perhaps if you just tried to behave like a lady, you could—”

  “What, Ma? Find a husband to give my life meaning? How’s that worked out for you?” It hadn’t escaped Imogen that her father was imbibing by the bar again, his face flushed and his collar undone. He’d been there since they’d arrived at the restaurant. All the same, the outburst cost her.

  Her mother pressed her lips into a tight, red line
, her gaze shuttering.

  It was impossible to go through one of these events without someone commenting on how similar Imogen was to her mother. If only she didn’t crop her hair short, if only she wore a dab of lipstick and a proper ao dai, they could be sisters. The compliment always fell short of the mark. Imogen knew she had inherited her mother’s austere features, but her prominent mouth and nose belonged to her father’s side of the family. The proportions of her face had always seemed a little off to her, even as a little girl. Getting her nose broken twice hadn’t helped any. These days she wore her welts with pride and no foundation, but that was a personal choice.

  “Ma,” Imogen started, casting about for something to say that would take the sting out of her retort. It was too late for that.

  Her mother drew herself up a little taller and said, “Perhaps if you tried to behave like a lady, you would be happier.” A slap across the face would’ve hurt less than watching her spin on her heel and depart into the joyous swarm.

  Imogen ran a hand through her hair, wishing she had something to kick without causing a stir. “Shit,” she mumbled to no one in particular.

  As if in answer, her iPhone shrilled to life in the pocket of her dinner jacket. Imogen rushed to answer without checking the caller ID. “Is it time?” Anticipation mixed with relief in her voice, blending into a murky cocktail.

  “You said you wanted me to call to—” Russell sounded wary, but by now he should have been used to Imogen interrupting him. They had known each other a year, been working together for six months. They were practically married.

  “I’m leaving right now,” Imogen promised. “Be there in thirty minutes.”

  “Don’t run anyone—”

  But Imogen had already hung up. She glanced around for a sign of Sherry-Ann or the groom, but couldn’t see them.

  Her mother had immersed herself in conversation with the ladies from her bridge club. That only left her father, whom Imogen dreaded approaching because he had a habit of roping his audience into lengthy and not always truthful sagas about childhood years spent running between rice paddies. Imogen knew for a fact that he had been born and raised in Hanoi, and the only rice paddies he’d seen had been in propaganda films, but she no more wanted to dispel his cloudy fantasies about youthful misadventures than she wanted to pluck holes in her mother’s delusions about marriage.