by Eve Langlais
First thing Monday, I needed to make an appointment with my doctor for a lobotomy. Or at least hit the pharmacy for some of that cream that numbed gums, anything to deaden the tingles down below. “Black is fine.”
I held out my hand and curled my fingers around the heated ceramic, ducking my head as I took a sip instead of meeting his amused gaze. I tried to lounge casually, acting as if posing naked on my bed was a daily occurrence. It wasn’t, but yanking up the covers now, after he’d already seen all my goods—as well as licked them—seemed kind of moot.
“So what do you want to do today?” Pete asked.
Do? As in together? I choked on the strong java, spewing dark liquid over my white Egyptian sheets. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where would I find another set of them on sale? Because bleach was not something I used, ever, not since the incident. We’d leave it at it had taken me several paychecks to replace my wardrobe.
“It’s Sunday. I, um, usually have brunch with Brenda.” Would he take the hint and make his way home like a good boy—wagging his tail behind him?
I needed alone time to gather my wits and slap myself back to sanity.
“Sounds good. What time?”
“Soon.” The sooner the better before I caved to temptation and mauled him.
“I probably shouldn’t go wearing last night’s clothes.” He grinned at me. “We wouldn’t want to give Brenda the wrong impression.” He winked.
I winced. Way to remind me of my new sexual deviance. At least this time I’d not ruined his outfit, although it wasn’t because I’d not wanted to. His clothes had almost gone the same route as poor Anthony’s. And if he kept tempting me with those sexy boxers, he might end up leaving commando.
Here comes nympho Chloe, slut extraordinaire, destroyer of garments and champion stainer of difficult-to-find bargain sheets. If this kept up, I’d need an emergency fund to replace the goods I kept damaging. Or, at the very least, have a new rule for guys I brought home intending to fuck—please disrobe before entering my apartment or I won’t be held liable for damage.
I almost snickered at the thought. Then couldn’t help picturing it. My across the hall neighbor, Mrs. Goudry, would get such a thrill if she peeked out her spyhole and saw a parade of men—or at least two—stripping down naked before entering my place.
“Tell you what, baby. Why don’t you shower and get dressed while I pop out and grab a fresh set of clothes?”
More commandments? I should have told him where to go. I’d shower and dress, if and when I wanted, thank you very much. The fact I planned to do so the minute he left had nothing to do with his instructions and more with the fact I needed to wash the scent of sex off my skin before I tracked it all over my apartment. Instead, I just said, “Okay.”
“I’ve programmed my number into your cell, so if you need me, just call.”
Presumptuous didn’t come close to describing his actions and I would have told him so in no uncertain terms had he not taken that moment to approach me with a ripple of muscle that hypnotized me. I could only stare as he bent over and grabbed his discarded clothes.
He yanked up his jeans first, hiding his tool of pleasure. Sniff. I almost waved goodbye. Then on went his shirt, covering his male perfection. Next time, I’d have to work harder at destroying it so he’d have to go around shirtless.
Next time? Great. I already planned seconds. Hmm. Maybe thirds.
Finished dressing, Pete faced me. Seemed it was my turn for a little attention.
“Damn but I wish we could spend the morning in bed,” he growled. Well, at least that made two of us. His ardent gaze swept over my nude form and I’ll admit I preened, arching my back to push out my tits and tilting my hips in invitation. Might as well act the wanton slut all the way.
He dove on me, ravaging me with his mouth, his hands roaming my body.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
“Any chance we can call Brenda and postpone brunch?”
Way to bring me back to reality. “No,” I panted. BFFs did not blow off their Sunday morning rituals for sex.
Okay, not entirely true because my main reason for not blowing off brunch for sex was because my tummy needed fuel and MJ’s served the best breakfast in town, or the best I could afford on my paycheck.
“We can’t cancel.” Look at me. Finally saying no.
Unfortunately, he listened.
A last heart-stopping kiss, a suck of my nipple, which left me gasping and writhing, a naughty wink, and away Pete went.
But he’d return.
I couldn’t decide if the idea excited me, angered me, or frightened me. Whether I was ready or not, Pete the werewolf appeared determined to date me. Or fuck me. Or something.
I’d yet to figure out which category he fell in, but I should probably ask. Then I could lay some ground rules. Like no leaving me horny in the morning.
Seriously. What man kissed a woman breathless, teased a nipple, and then left before satisfying a throbbing pussy? It was wrong. Just plain wrong. I wanted to whimper with the injustice of it.
I should teach him a lesson by masturbating. Yeah. Take care of my own sexual needs. I didn’t need a man to orgasm. But I did need one, apparently, if I wanted an earth-shattering one.
Sigh. Hard to settle for a little O when you knew with a little patience you could get the big one. Gulping the rest of my now cold coffee down, I hopped out of bed and glanced at the clock. I had just over an hour to get ready for brunch. It occurred to me to warn Brenda we’d have company, but given her humor at my expense the previous night at dinner, I thought screw it. I’d show up with my werewolf lover and, if I was lucky, she’d choke on her mimosa or spit it down the front of her shirt. Entertainment either way.
As I showered, I couldn’t help replay events from the dinner, and despite the night spent with Pete and the planned morning with him, my mind kept straying to Anthony. Sure, he’d implied he’d call me again. That he wanted me despite his rivalry with another man. But that had been before I slept with Pete. Would he still want to pursue me if he found out? And if he did show up or call, would I tell him?
It seemed dishonest not to. So let’s assume I did tell Anthony—I slept with a werewolf—and he didn’t have a hissy fit and storm out. Then what? Could I seriously handle having two lovers? Could they?
The new laws encouraging threesomes didn’t mean men easily accepted them. Jealousy thrived, as did psychiatric practices, especially those specializing in couples counseling. Balancing the needs and emotions of a pair of people was difficult; add in a third person and it turned into a very fine balancing act. Many failed. It took a solid friendship to handle sharing.
My parents were a good example of when it could work. Brenda’s forays into threesomeville, on the other hand, were a handbook on how it could go wrong. She kept the restraining orders framed on her wall as a reminder.
But why the hell was I even thinking of them in terms of three? One man was too many for me to handle right now. Two? Not in the cards. Who to choose, though? Seeing as how I’d not tried harder to ditch Pete, I was pretty sure I’d made my choice on the winner. I think. Or did I want Anthony? No, it had to be Pete. I worked with, well technically against, Anthony. Work and play didn’t mix.
There. Decision done. I would keep Pete as my fuck friend. Nothing more.
Soaping, rinsing, shaving, and not just the legs, I erased the previous night from my skin while carefully avoiding rubbing too intently. My pussy was already swollen and sensitive enough without me compounding the problem.
I’d just wrapped a towel around my hair and another around my body when the knock came at my door. It seemed my wolf had returned already.
I didn’t bother to peek through the hole before opening. Dumb. I know. City girls should always do things with an eye on safety, but then again, I didn’t expect Anthony to come striding in holding a Starbucks coffee and a paper bag.
“Morning,” he said. He took in my attire—towel, wet skin, and slightly dazed expression—and smi
led. “A very good morning.”
A spurt of pleasure shot through me. He came back!
Keep the judgments and speeches for someone else. Right or wrong, I couldn’t help my happiness at seeing him, the heat in my crotch, or my increased pulse rate. I also couldn’t stop myself from stupidly saying, “What are you doing here?”
“I felt bad about how the evening ended. So I brought amends.” Apparently, he didn’t mean the coffee or treat in the bag.
Only once his lips pressed against mine did it occur to me to protest. Occurred but didn’t happen, as he once again melted my resistance, wiped away my reasoning, and made me reevaluate my decision to give him the brush off.
When he let me up for air, because he had to set his offerings down so he could make a proper grab for me, sanity reasserted itself.
I darted out of reach with a squeaked, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?” He opened his mouth to say more then stopped. I think he sniffed, hard to tell because he’d partially turned away from me to face the bedroom. His entire body went rigid, and damn it all, if I didn’t know he’d guessed who spent the night.
Forget the regular hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar embarrassment. It didn’t compare to pussy-caught-on-another-dick one. I blushed beet red when he faced me to say, “I see you didn’t spend the night alone.”
“I—um—that is…” Hold on one second. Why was I embarrassed or even thinking of apologizing? I’d made no promises to this guy. Hell, we weren’t even dating. We’d fucked—once.
He’d invited himself to dinner.
He showed up with Starbucks—my favorite.
But those things didn’t mean he owned me. Didn’t make us exclusive. We were nothing to each other. Nothing except extremely compatible in the bedroom.
Chin up, I found my tits and my pride. “Pete spent the night.” There. I’d said it. Take it or leave it. I refused to hide or pretend. Nor did I feel the need to excuse myself. Much.
I waited for a jealous outburst and readied myself to blast him with curse words not heard often outside a biker bar.
I prepared for him to stalk off, slamming my door in its frame. I even braced myself for possible tears. Not likely given Anthony’s usually dominant attitude, but hey, you never knew. Sometimes the toughest guys ended up the biggest crybabies.
He did none of those things. Nope. The bastard went with option D and drew me back into his arms so he could kiss me. He didn’t speak a word. Just kissed me and groped me. The next thing I knew, the towel hit the floor and his hand slid between my thighs, rubbing across my clit, making thinking almost impossible.
I retained enough wits to know we should stop. The smart thing to do was to move away. The sane option involved me saying no. Apparently, I’d inherited my great aunt Matilda’s crazy streak because instead I rode his fingers on my way to nirvana.
It didn’t take much for my pussy to get slick. My body, already sensitized by all the erotic attention I’d recently been the recipient of, plus the fact I appeared to have entered a late twenties sexual peak, all meant he found me more than willing to enjoy the pleasure he seemed intent on bestowing.
“Oh gawd,” I moaned as he hissed, “That’s it, come for me.”
How I wanted to come. The forceful thrust of his digits, the thumb stroking my nub, the way his teeth tugged at my lower lip… The man knew just which buttons to push, what to do to turn me on. Add to that the fact that I stood there naked while he did this to me fully clothed. Say what you would, it added a whole other element to our tryst, a taboo one that made the whole thing even hotter.
In the midst of a moan, we gained an audience, shattering my almost-there orgasm.
I raised eyelids, heavy with passion, to see Pete standing nearby, watching.
Oops. I’d forgotten to lock the door. One would almost think I wanted to get caught.
Before things got really awkward, I opened my mouth to speak, to warn Anthony, but his lips claimed mine, stealing my voice. I pushed at his shoulders to get his attention, but his fingers found and stroked my sweet spot. Sweet heaven. I couldn’t help myself from enjoying it, even knowing we had an audience.
My eyes closed for a moment as pure pleasure vibrated through me. When I opened them again, Pete still stared, his eyes glowing golden and his hand… Oh damn, his hand cupped his erection, evident even with his jeans.
As if he knew he’d caught my attention, he rubbed himself, matching his strokes to Anthony’s finger thrusts. I’d never understood the attraction of voyeurism until that moment.
Having Pete watch as another man caressed me, the arousal evident in his expression, totally took my pleasure to another level. Heat roared through my veins and I crested, my whole pussy clenching around Anthony’s fingers, my climax vocalizing itself in a shrill cry. Once again, my eyes shuttered themselves as I basked in the ecstasy. As my pleasure ebbed from my glowing body, the only sound was that of my panting, but in that silence, I could feel, with an instinct every woman probably owned, the tenseness spicing the air.
Pete broke the stalemate. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think we’re going to be late for brunch if we don’t get a move on.”
Despite his seeming enjoyment of the impromptu porn show, Pete’s tight, clipped tone threw an effective cold bucket of reality over my actions. Mortified—my throbbing pussy not willing to release Anthony’s still flexing fingers—I stepped away from Anthony, who wore a smug smile.
I flushed. Red from head to toe because, really, what woman wanted to get found being finger fucked by the guy she’d literally just fucked—oh damn it all, this was getting too damned complicated.
Off I stalked, and I mean stomped, to my room, muttering under my breath about men with no boundaries and not forgetting to engage my locks. Probably not the brightest idea leaving much-too-pleased-with-himself Anthony in a room with a jealous and angry werewolf, but in my ire, I’d gone past the point of caring right into the I-hope-they-kill-each-other zone.
I totally felt like the rope in a tug of war. Yanked in two directions. Everyone wanting to win. Everyone wanting to a piece of me. No one caring if they stressed me and stretched me to my breaking point.
Screw that. If they wanted to play games, then they could play them with each other. I had a brunch to make and a gurgling belly to satisfy. Bedroom door slammed shut, music cranked so I didn’t have to listen if they went at each other again, I dressed quickly. Armed with clothing and still annoyed, I didn’t return to the living room. I didn’t want to face or talk to either of them.
Grabbing my purse, which held my keys, I exited via my window onto the fire escape. I know, I know. Cowardly. I should face my problems and deal with them. Blah, blah, blah.
Maybe later when I felt more like myself. Currently, my tummy rumbled with hunger. My pussy griped it was still horny. And emotionally? I was totally annoyed.
I needed a mimosa, stat!
Down I clambered, the metal fire escape creaking and groaning, but, according to the report building management posted on the lobby corkboard, completely safe. Ha. I wondered how many greenbacks it cost them for that lie.
I didn’t plunge to my death, the first good thing to happen that morning, and ended up in the alley. I trotted out from between the two buildings and peered up and down the sidewalk. I didn’t spot either of the idiots stalking me.
Quickly, with a hand outstretched, I flagged a cab, not wanting to risk them spotting me as I walked the ten blocks to the restaurant. Diving into the back seat of a yellow death trap, which drove as if chased by the hounds of hell, I made it to the restaurant alive—but surely missing a few years of my life.
Entering the greasy spoon, I immediately spotted Brenda. She waved as I weaved through the tables until I reached her. Plopping into the seat across from her, I snagged her half drunk beverage. I downed it, despite her indignant, “Hey, that was mine!”
“I needed it more than you,” I said as an excuse when I finished chugging it.
&nbs
p; “Apparently. What the hell has you looking so frazzled?” Brenda asked after she’d mimed two more drinks to our waitress.
I held up an extra two fingers. One each wouldn’t cut it. Not today.
At her raised brow, I explained. “Pete spent the night.”
“Damn. You are on a lucky roll,” Brenda exclaimed.
“Not really. When Pete left this morning to get changed, Anthony showed up.”
“Say what?”
“Anthony showed up. Found out Pete had spent the night then proceeded to seduce me, which is of course when Pete returned.”
Brenda’s eyes widened until they rivaled the saucer that held the little packages of milk and cream. “Oh. My. God. What happened next?”
A peek show and an orgasm. Not details I felt like sharing quite yet. Or at least not until I’d had a chance to dissect why I’d let it happen.
“I don’t know. I got dressed and left through my bedroom window.”
My best friend blinked at me. “Did you say you left?”
“Yup.”
Our waitress arrived with our four drinks and I ordered up some food. The hungry man—in this case nympho—special for me, a fruit salad for Brenda.
As soon as our server left, Brenda leaned forward and, in a whisper that was probably heard by everyone in the place, said “Are you telling me that you left a werewolf alone with the guy he caught you fooling around with?”
“Yup.” When she said it so starkly, it didn’t sound so smart. So I drank. The alcohol didn’t make my choice sound any brighter, but at least my insides got a warm fuzzy glow.
“Oh, your poor apartment.”
My forehead wrinkled. “You think they’ll destroy it?”
“Don’t you? Seriously, Chloe, how the heck did you get into this situation? I mean, two hunks, vying for your attention. And you decide to come here? Are you nuts?”
“What else was I supposed to do?” I grumbled. “I thought I’d keep Pete. Then Anthony showed up and kissed me. Next thing I know, I’m riding his hand and questioning my choice when Pete comes back. I panicked.”
“I’ll say you did.”