by JA Huss
Because I do not care.
He needs to learn so many lessons, and tonight’s lesson is crucial.
If he wants to dish it out, he needs to learn to take it too.
I press his face up to my stomach. I reach down, grab my balls, and lift them up to his mouth. Make him try to—no. Force him to fit them inside his mouth.
“Look at me,” I say, jerking his head as he pulls back to gasp for breath.
Alexander forces his eyes open and lifts them up to meet mine.
I have to wonder what’s going through his mind. Is the draw of that power over Augustine so overwhelming that he will put up with… this?
Obviously that answer is yes.
His face is red and blotchy, his eyes watering from the effort of not blinking.
I smile as I bend down, my cock slipping out of his mouth, allowing his stifled gasps of air to turn into long, deep inhalations.
I kiss him on the lips, waiting for him to kiss me back. It takes several seconds, but he finally does. It’s lacking the passion he had before I tried to throat-fuck him, but it’s an acceptable effort.
“Thank you,” I say, whispering the words past his lips. “That was very nice. Should we invite Augustine to join us?”
He backs off my kiss and turns his head to look at his wife.
She is shell-shocked. Eyes wide, hand between her legs pressed flat against her clit. Still now, like she stopped pleasuring herself at some point and forgot what she was doing.
I find that quite adorable.
“Yes or no?” I ask him. “I mean, I’m pretty sure we can have fun without her. So—”
“Yes,” Alexander says. “Come here, August.”
“Don’t move, Augustine,” I say. “He’s not in charge anymore. Understand?”
“Fuck you,” Alexander says. “She’s my wife.” I grip Alexander’s face hard. He resists this time, hands flying up, smacking against my forearms and breaking my hold. “She’s my fucking wife, Wells.”
“She might be,” I say. “But I’m her master now.”
“Just—” Augustine is standing now. “Just go along, Alexander. This is what you wanted too, remember? We need to find a way forward and this… this might be it. This might be our last chance.”
Alexander is near his limit tonight because he gets to his feet. I follow him and back off a few paces to give him the space he needs to think straight. Or… well, not straight. If this guy was thinking straight he’d have never brought his wife over here. Never come to Denver at all.
“Augustine,” I say, making a come-here motion with my finger.
She steps forward, slowly. Carefully. Like she might spook Alexander away.
She’s here for him. It’s so clearly written on her face right now, a little stab of pain shoots through my cold, black heart. She’s here to save him from himself. Even if it means she has to temporarily forgive me. Has to look past what I did to them. Has to bow to my sickness and games.
I’m just about to open my mouth and say enough—to stop this before it starts, to save her from herself—when she is close enough to me to take my hand.
Which she does. Carefully. Like I’m dangerous. Like I’m the wild animal in this room, and not her husband. Like I might explode and kill us all.
She looks up into my eyes, her expression going from blank and impassive to soft and seductive. Her hand comes up to my cheek and she smiles as she strokes me.
Lies.
“I understand,” she says, holding my gaze for a solid five count before shifting her eyes to Alexander and repeating her decision with more conviction. “I understand.”
Lies.
They hurt me. So bad. Because… because I did love her. I wanted her so much. She was my future, not his. She was the love of my life, not his. She was supposed to be with me, not him.
So the lies hurt.
“What should we do now?” she asks. And then, because it has always been her—she has always been the glue that held everything together—she moves between us. One hand flat against my bare chest. The other flat against Alexander’s bare chest. And she hums out, “Hmmmm?” Like it’s a question. “What should we do now? Should I take off the rest of your clothes?”
She doesn’t wait for us. Just turns to her husband and bends down. Her hand finds his cock, an automatic gesture that kills me, for some reason. And then she’s slipping his shoes off. Dragging his pants and briefs all the way down his legs until he quietly and obediently steps out of them.
I think I hold my breath the entire time. And when she turns to me I release it in a long, controlled exhale that I try to keep silent.
But she doesn’t need to hear the trepidation inside me.
She can see it. She can feel it. She knows me, has known me all this time.
I close my eyes as she grabs my cock now. Slips my shoes off. Drags my pants and briefs down my legs. Then presses her hand flat against the muscle of my thigh, and says, “Step out, Jordan.”
Which I do.
And then we—her men—are naked.
And she is not.
Because that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it?
She has always been the master of us.
Her hand has mine, and when I open my eyes, I see that she has his hand too. She brings them both to her mouth, kisses us at the same time, and then says, “Undress me.”
Alexander moves first. Reaching behind her to unzip her dress. Because of course he knows that there’s a zipper. He’s probably the one who zipped her up earlier this evening. He’s probably the one who picked it out of her closet. He’s probably the one who bought it for her. Maybe it was a gift? Or something she’s been looking at through the glass of a window for months, giving him hints that she’d like it to be hers.
I die. I get lost in their history in that one simple motion of unzipping her dress.
I’m going to lose, I realize.
Lucinda was wrong. I’m not the game master.
Augustine is. Has always been. And always will be the one person who brings me to my knees just like I made Alexander fall to his.
“Jordan,” she says, snapping me back to the moment we’re sharing. “Undress me.”
I pull the dress down, Alexander helping. And it falls to her hips and stays there. She is wearing a black strapless bra that pushes her tits high up on her chest.
“Here,” she says, taking our hands and placing them on the bunched-up fabric around her waist. “Pull it down for me, please.”
Alexander and I tug—just enough to get it over the curve of her hips—and her dress falls to the floor and forms a silky puddle of red at her feet.
Like blood, I think. The blood we will draw as we attack each other and—
“Touch me,” she urges now.
We do. My hand going between her legs, Alexander’s up to her breasts. He kisses her while I watch. Unable to think about how he’s still claiming her as his while I watch and submit to it.
I look away. Look down at her legs. At my hand. My fingers already pushing inside her. She’s not wearing underwear but she is wearing garters and stockings. Black silk stockings. I rub my other hand up and down her leg, feeling the curve of her thigh, the dip behind her knee, the muscles of her calf.
And when I look up again, she is kissing Alexander like she’s just as hungry for him as he is for her.
What am I doing here?
Her hand on my head makes me forget to answer my own question. The way she opens her legs for me, inviting me to place my mouth where my hand is already working her clit, blatant and apparent.
I can’t not obey her.
She is my master, after all.
She is the reason I live. She is the mate of my soul. She is the only woman I’ve ever really wanted.
I don’t care if I have to share her. I don’t care that this will end in a matter of weeks. I don’t even care that I was set up to lose this game from the very beginning. That my only purpose here is to make their love stronger. To keep their b
ond together.
My tongue sweeps against her soft, pink folds. Laps at her wet cream. Slips inside her opening as my thumb strums her clit in small circles.
She’s breathing heavy now. All three of us are. She is still kissing Alexander. And I am the interloper. The extra one. The intruder.
“Come with me,” she says.
I am lost. What the fuck is wrong with me?
But when I look at Alexander, he’s lost too. He looks like I feel. He hates me, I realize. Maybe even more than I hate him.
She leads us over to the couch, pointing to it as she looks at Alexander.
He is like her dog now. Her good little dog. Because he lies down, back against the arm. Legs sprawled out across the tufted-leather cushion. She climbs on top of him, hands flat on his chest. Leaning down, her ass in the air acting like my invitation.
I kneel on the couch. Then straddle Alexander’s thigh. I lower my hips and drag my balls up his leg as I position myself behind Augustine.
We’re going to fuck her. This is nothing new.
What is new is how I feel about it.
How I want to be the one she looks at as we make her come, and not him.
But I am behind her. As usual. And he is in front. Where he belongs.
And this is the saddest thing about what I’m doing.
Because I can’t stop.
I can’t say no. I won’t.
I have never been her master, she has always been mine.
Alexander is already inside her. They are already fucking. She is already moaning, his fingers are already tangled in her hair. His eyes locked on her face as she shows him—and only him—just how much she likes what he’s doing.
When I enter her—not her ass, but her pussy—my cock becomes one with Alexander’s.
There is no difference between us. There is no separation.
We are one to her.
We are the same.
We are her slaves.
And when we fuck her together—and come with her together—Alexander and I both know we’ve lost.
Because she doesn’t want him, or me. She wants us.
The climax is loud. We are slick with sweat by the time we’re exhausted. She has come from two men spilling out of her pussy. It drips onto Alexander’s leg. She collapses against his chest and he hugs her.
And there’s no room for me now.
None at all.
CHAPTER TEN
“So… what’s going on? You’re having some kind of existential crisis?”
“What?” I ask, looking at Darrel. His face is dead serious. Like this is the most important thing about this conversation we’re having. Which it isn’t. Because we’re discussing my father taking the day off and me picking up a case of his this afternoon. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”
“Why are you getting so defensive?”
“I’m not getting defensive. I’m just wondering where you’re getting the impression I’m having some kind of identity crisis when we’re talking about my father.”
And I’m wondering that because I haven’t said much to Darrel about this whole A&A Bartos tragedy-in-the-making. He’s kinda judge-y and to be quite honest, I’m not in the mood for his self-righteous judgment.
“It’s an easy leap,” Darrel says.
“No, it’s not. So what? I’m having a little fling with some exes. That has absolutely nothing to do with my father.”
“Your father being… sick,” he corrects me. His gaze locked on mine. His eyes completely devoid of emotion. Some people find that glare intimidating but I know it’s just his resting bitch-face.
“We don’t know he’s sick. He just went in for some tests. The results haven’t even come back yet.”
Darrel raises his eyebrows at me. That look says, Come on, asshole. Don’t bullshit me.
“He just needs a day off,” I say. I start that sentence with conviction but by the time I finish, even I’m not buying it. “And anyway, I just need you to tell me what I need to juggle to keep this day on track, that’s all.”
He stares at me. Silent. Slowly nodding. Then he tosses a file onto my desk and says, “It’s just a deposition. But it’s not here. It’s down at the offices of Sawyer, Brand, and Farfield.”
“Thanks,” I say, picking up the folder and opening it. Pretending to be absorbed in legalese.
“Is there anything else I can help you with that Eileen should be doing?”
“Fuck you,” I say.
“She’s worried about her job.”
“She is not,” I say, snapping at him. “She knows I just like you to handle my schedule because of the games.”
Well, she’s not really in on the game part. But my days are fluid and Darrel is the one I want handling that kind of thing, not her.
“Don’t you have shit to do?” I ask him. I’m getting annoyed and I hate being around people when I’m annoyed because I turn into an asshole. And turning into an asshole feels good in the moment, but I always regret it the next moment, and then I feel worse… so yeah. He needs to go.
“Yup,” Darrel says, taking the hint. “Call me if you need anything.”
He walks out and it’s only when the door closes that I remember to call out, “Thank you!” to him.
Not that he’s some whiny bitch who needs praise, or anything. I sigh. It just makes me feel like less of an asshole.
Then my phone buzzes and Eileen says, “Jordan?”
“Yeah?”
“Alexander Bartos is here to see you.”
“Fuuuuck.” I sigh. “Send him in.”
A few seconds later the door opens and Alexander appears. Smiling. Happy. Holding a bag. “Brought you lunch.”
I lean back in my chair and appreciate this unexpected change of events. “You brought me lunch?”
“Yeah, it’s lunchtime,” he says, pointing to the clock on my wall. “Just some burgers from the Mile High Cafe. And I figured…” He sighs, then drops into one of the chairs in front of my desk. “I figured we’d better talk this shit out before we get together again.”
“Talk what shit out?” I ask, reaching for the bag. Because I skipped breakfast this morning after my mother called to ask if I’d handle my father’s two o’clock.
“You know. How you fit in.”
I laugh. “I don’t fit in, Alexander. And I completely understand that, so don’t sweat it. I’m fine.”
He narrows his eyes at me. Taking a moment to digest what I just said. While I open up my burger and take a bit. Then he says, “I don’t get you.”
“What don’t you get?” I ask, mouth still full.
“How you’re so fucking clueless.”
“About what?” I feel that itch of annoyance creeping back up my spine.
“About what we’re doing.”
“We’re playing a game,” I say, dragging a napkin across my mouth. “And it’s gonna be over in a couple weeks, so…” I shrug. “I’m not gonna think too hard about it.”
“Is that what you think? That this is a game?”
“This is a game. You two came here to use me to fix yourselves—”
“Fuck you,” Alexander snaps. “Just fuck you, Jordan. Do you really think we’d upend our lives… that I’d quit my fucking job and move halfway across the country just to play a stupid game with you for a few weeks?”
“You guys want me to save your marriage. And that’s pretty fuckin’ stupid to start with. Because if you need a third to fall back in love—”
“We don’t need you,” he snaps.
“The hell—” I laugh.
“We want you.”
Which makes me pause and take a breath.
“But I feel like we’ve been talking that to death, ya know? I’m not here to talk you into the idea of us.”
“Then why are you here?”
He does this little half-shrug. Which is kinda fucking cute. I guess. Even though Alexander is the oldest, he’s always had a boyish kind of charm. And it’s still there.
“Just… you know. To try to get to know you again.”
“You never knew me back then, either.”
“Fair,” he says. “Fair point. I…” He sighs and takes a moment. Like he needs to collect his thoughts. “I just figured you were…” Another shrug.
“Forgettable?” I ask.
“Ah… no,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “Not that. Just temporary, I guess. I mean it started out as summers and holidays, so when you moved to LA for law school it kinda… it kinda threw us off balance, ya know?”
“Not really,” I say. “Because Ixion was already out by then.”
“Right,” Alexander says. “So yeah. I was wrong. You didn’t throw us off balance. You…” He pauses again to stare at me. “You balanced shit out pretty perfectly.”
I grin. And then I chuckle. I don’t laugh, not on the outside, because I’m cool like that. Because I have always known this and he has always resisted, and yeah. Here this motherfucker is telling me I was right.
“Fine,” Alexander says. “I’ll say it. You had me at hello. You complete me, Jordan.”
Then I do laugh.
We both laugh.
“You’re a dumbass.”
He shrugs. He likes to do that these days, I guess. A very give-no-fucks gesture. “Guilty.” But then he sits up in his chair and leans forward on my desk. “But it’s true, OK? I’ve missed you too. Maybe not you you. Because I don’t really know you. Never did and still don’t. But what you brought to the relationship.”
“What did I bring?” I ask, acutely aware that this comes off as needy.
But he doesn’t laugh at me and I appreciate that. “Excitement, ya know? Back then you were a challenge. Something I had to deal with. And I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t have a lot of challenges before Augustine came into my life.”
Which makes me realize I never knew him either. Still don’t. So I say, “Who were you then? And who are you now?”
He looks down at his hands. It’s a moment of insecurity, I think. “Bartos, you know what that is, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Vaguely, at least.”
“A brand. Not so much in North America, but in Central Europe the name Bartos is synonymous with wealth.” Then he pauses to think for a moment. “And poverty. And wealth again. It was kind of a cycle with my family back in Hungary. That part of the story is long and sad. Lots of losses and few wins. But later, in the last half of the twentieth century, our luck changed and my father held a patent used for sound recording. Later he had more. Mostly film-making tech. And we were suddenly very, very wealthy. This was right around the time I was born, so I never knew the old version of my family. I grew up on a large, rambling country estate in Luxembourg. I went to school in the US, then university at Oxford, then back to the US for grad school. Which is how I ended up in LA sitting on that board when I met Augustine.”