So maybe he wouldn’t mind me watching or maybe he would, but the thing is that I’ve never had this feeling before—this power—knowing that I’ve driven a virile man past all politeness and civilized pretending simply just by being me, and there’s no way in hell I can walk away from it now.
Plus there’d be no walking away from it anyway, because it’s possibly the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
Which changes in a matter of seconds with what happens next.
Heavy footsteps echo through the barn, and I nearly leap out of my skin when I realize someone walked right past me and I didn’t even notice. The storm was loud and I was watching the delicious spectacle that was Caleb, and…yeah. Maybe I wasn’t as alert as a voyeuring girl should be.
Luckily, the man walking up to Caleb doesn’t seem to notice I’m here—I’m tucked far enough back into the empty stall that I’m probably hidden from view—and who would think to look in a shadowy stall for a peeping Tonya anyway? I almost wish he had seen me, though, so it would’ve given Caleb enough time to cover up his, um, activities. Because I have no idea who this man is, but there’s no way he’s not going to see exactly what Caleb is doing, and God, Caleb will be so embarrassed—
“’Bout time,” Caleb says gruffly. His hand slows on his erection but doesn’t stop, and he angles his body ever so slightly to greet this newcomer. Who steps into the lamplight coming from the desk, and holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.
I’m glad the storm echoes and reverberates around the barn because the breath I draw seeing this man is not quiet. It’s jagged and rough and out of my control. I can’t help it, though, because this man is the perfect complement to Caleb’s open, wholesome good looks.
Eyebrows slash over eyes so dark, they look nearly vampire-black in the shadowed barn, and a rough cover of stubble can’t hide how pretty his face is—high cheekbones and a perfect jaw and a nose as straight and strong as any model’s. Furthermore, the stubble only serves to highlight his painfully perfect mouth, which curls up slightly at the corners as if it was formed to do so. But nothing about his face looks happy, and if you mistook that curled-up mouth for a smile, those glittering onyx eyes would chill you right out of the notion that this man smiled. Ever.
Longish hair, dark and thick and tousled, frames that magnetic face, and it’s paired with a body as tall and firm as Caleb’s, though this man has a leaner bent to him—less bulk and more grace.
I breathe out again as it occurs to me in a clit-throbbing surge of insight that he must be—
“Ben,” Caleb groans, his hand starting to speed up again. I watch, fascinated, as Ben leans against the desk and crosses his arms, his gaze on the other man’s stroking hand.
“She must have you twisted up something good if you’re out here like this,” Ben says silkily.
“Yeah,” Caleb says, dropping his head down. I can only just hear them talking over the din of the rain drumming on the barn, and I can’t hear the sound of Caleb’s hand on his flesh at all, which is very disappointing, as I think I’d like that sound very much.
I creep a little bit closer to the stall opening, hoping the two men are distracted enough that they won’t see me peering out. Ben leans in a little closer, as if to give Caleb an order, and his voice carries over the rain, as if the words themselves are made of silk and can thread themselves through the raindrops.
“Show me how much you want her, Caleb. Show me how much you want to give her.”
“Fuck,” Caleb whispers. “I want her so much. I want to give her…so…much…”
His lips part as his hand pumps his cock faster, and his other hand drops to cup himself, and my cheeks burn with needy heat when I realize he’s talking about come. He wants to give me lots and lots, and it’s so caveman and so fucking hot. And even hotter is the way Ben stirs up Caleb more with his dark words, the way Ben ignores his own erection now straining at the front of his jeans.
“That’s it,” Ben coaxes. “Show me. I haven’t seen you this worked up in ages. Is this all for her? Do you want to fuck her? Do you want to push into her pussy and fuck her until you come?”
“Yes,” moans Caleb. “God.”
“Did you make her wet, Caleb? Did you show off this big, strong body of yours to make her want you?”
Yes! I want to shout from my hiding place. Yes, I’m wet. Yes, I want him!
Caleb’s response is another low moan, utterly helpless, and a wave of lust rocks me back.
It does the same for Ben, I think. His eyes flutter closed and his hand drops to his cock, still caged behind his fly. He doesn’t stroke himself or even palm himself properly, simply pressing against his need as if he can make it go quiet.
Unfortunately, nothing is going quiet on my end. The raw sight of Caleb panting as he pumps into his hand and the somehow-just-as-erotic sight of cold, sharp Ben on the edge of succumbing himself is enough to make me desperate.
I slowly work from my half crouch to a kneeling position and unbutton my jeans, grateful again for the storm, which hides the metallic purr as I tug down my zipper. I slide down the front of my panties and shudder the moment my finger grazes my clit. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before. Normally it takes a fair amount of porn or several pages of a smutty book to get myself going, but now I think I could climax with just a few circles of my finger.
“Come all over your hand,” Ben urges. “All over this floor. Like you’re coming all over her cunt and thighs to mark your territory.”
My fingers delve lower, sliding between the lips at the apex of my thighs and finding them impossibly slick. Almost embarrassingly wet. But I don’t care because it’s all part of this heady feedback loop: Ben voyeuring on Caleb as I voyeur on them both, all of us unable to keep our hands away from the places where we ache to fuck and be fucked. It feels as undeniable as the rain, as urgent as the wind. If I don’t come, I might die right here in this barn, only mere feet away from two men who look born to screw.
“Yeah,” Caleb mutters. His head falls back, his face tilted toward the ceiling with closed eyes and an expression of ecstatic agony, and then with a soft grunt, his cock releases a fountain of thick, white semen. Jolt after jolt of it, landing all over the dirty floor, and it feels like it comes forever, like his orgasm must have been pent up for years and years, because there’s so much, and the noises he makes are the noises of a man who’s been denied for far too long. And I’m so close myself, so very close; I’m close enough that I bury my teeth in my lower lip in preparation to stifle my gasp, that I brace myself against the contractions I know are imminent.
Out in the circle of lamplight, Ben watches Caleb slowly go still, and they both let out a long breath.
“She must be something,” Ben says, the heel of his palm still hard against his fly. He’s just as affected by the unfiltered and brutish sight of Caleb coming as I am, but he seems to have more control. Me, I’m on the edge of my own orgasm, my eyes still riveted on the sight of Caleb’s unflagging erection. But Ben is still all cool words and careful, catlike posture. Only his palm pressed to his covered cock gives him away.
“She is,” Caleb rumbles, still catching his breath. “I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll have to wait long,” Ben replies coolly. “She’s right here in the barn with us. Aren’t you, Ireland?”
Chapter Six
Ben
I saw her the moment I walked in.
It’s a good hiding place, I’ll give her that, and with the storm trapping the barn under a dark bowl of clouds and rain, I’m not surprised Caleb didn’t notice her in the gloom. Although it’s also not hard to get past Caleb. He assumes everyone is as good and honest as he is. That everyone will play by the rules, wear the right uniforms, charge from the front. He made a great football player… Thank fuck he was never a soldier.
But me—I was an excellent soldier. Staying alive in the Korengal meant expecting no one to play by football rules. It me
ant knowing exits and potential cover. It meant knowing where people were hiding and why they were hiding. Five years hasn’t been enough to break me of it—I don’t know how many years it will take—and mostly I don’t mind the ways the army’s changed me. It makes it easy to keep my bar free of brawls and assholes, and right now, it’s netted me a gorgeous woman currently staring at me with a bitten lip and wind-mussed hair.
She hesitantly steps out of the stall, a flush high on her cheeks—one I know will be matched on Caleb’s face. Thirty-three years old, and he still blushes like he did in grade school when a teacher would call on him and he didn’t know the answer.
He tucks himself away, zipping up with an embarrassed rush of breath. “Ireland,” he says but stops after only her name. Which I understand, because really what can you say when a woman you like has just seen you beat off? In front of his best friend, no less? I’m not sure how much Caleb has told her about how we operate, but this is a much more dramatic introduction to our dynamic than usual.
However, dramatic or not, I was willing to take the risk. When I walked in and sensed her presence, glancing over to see her completely enraptured by Caleb’s unintentional display of lust, I sensed she might be into whatever else I threw her way. And sure enough, I can see the evidence on her body plain as day as she comes closer—nipples like little bullets under her camisole, jeans unbuttoned, a certain breathlessness over and beyond the shock of getting caught.
And immediately, I know. I just do. Even without Caleb already wanting her, even without seeing the real and throbbing evidence of that want, I know this Ireland could be her. The one.
The one to break the spell of one-night stands and empty nights. The one to see us as more than just a fun joyride or a novelty.
The one to stay.
It’s not just her looks, which are gorgeous, or her body, which is perfect, lush and soft and jiggly in all the places we like. But there’s something about her gaze, her bitten lip, that suggests an adventuresomeness under the surface. A wildness that’s been pinned down and glossed over but that’s ready to break free. I’m fascinated. Hooked. I want to crack that glossy surface and tumble down into wild delights together.
Ireland stops a few paces away and tugs on her hair. “Um, hey. I was just…”
She’s about to lie. I can see it in her eyes, which are all tensed up around the corners and refusing to meet mine. But I’m not going to let her lie. The stakes are too real, and it’s been so long since I’ve felt anything other than tired and lonely, and I’ve learned the hard way that being a three takes much more honesty than being a two. Even when it comes to the little things.
So I step forward, grab her hand, and gently lick at her fingertips.
“Oh,” she mumbles, her eyelashes fluttering closed. “Oh fuck.”
Responsive too. I smile to myself as I give the pad of her finger a little scrape with my teeth and watch her shudder. I can already imagine having her and Caleb in bed with me, both of them following my orders…
She realizes too late why I’m licking her fingers and yanks her hand back. Her cheeks go redder than ever.
I run my tongue over my lower lip, tasting the lingering sweetness of her in my mouth. “You were ‘just’ nothing, Ireland. You were touching yourself. You had those pretty fingers in that sweet little cunt, didn’t you? Watching Caleb and me?”
She swallows, blinking fast, but her stare doesn’t leave mine, which I like.
“I—yes,” she admits in a rush. “I was doing…that. What you said.” And then she lets out a little snort of shocked laughter, as if she can’t believe she just uttered such a thing out loud.
I’ll have her more than simply talking about dirty things before I’m through with her, but I take this as a sign she’s ready for something different. Ready for us.
“You were going to lie about it,” I murmur. I reach up, wind one of her damp tresses around my finger, and give it a tug. Nothing too hard, not yet, but enough for her to know that when I’m here, I’m in charge. The other side of Caleb’s sunny, happy coin. The daddy to our fucked-up little family.
She opens her mouth, and I tug on her hair again. “No lies to us, Ireland. Not now, not ever. Got it?”
“Got it,” she whispers.
“Good.” My hand still in her hair, I walk her back until her ass hits the edge of Caleb’s desk. “Did you come?”
“Wh-What?”
“When you were playing with your pussy. Did you come? Did seeing Caleb jerk that cock make you clench around your fingers, wishing one of us were inside you instead?”
Another swallow. I’m beginning to grow addicted to the sight of them—how they move through her beautiful neck, how nervousness flits across her face right before she decides to be bold. “I didn’t come,” she says. She bites her lip for bravery and then adds, “But I did wish what you said. That one of you was inside me.”
“Or both?”
She lets out a breath. “Or both.”
Caleb steps up to her, his own face still flushed but his dick growing hard against his jeans again. “Can we touch you? For real touch you?”
“Oh God, please touch me,” she half laughs, half begs. Then another small laugh of shock at her own boldness. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
I’ve known her for less than five minutes, and I can believe it. I can see the restless bird inside her fluttering to be free. I’ve always been good at seeing inside people. Letting them see inside me, however, not so much, but I try not to worry about that right now. I focus on the goddess in front of me with the red flush across her chest and the thighs unconsciously rubbing together.
I tug at Ireland’s already-opened jeans just enough to slide my hand inside, pleased to feel the damp tickle of her intimate curls against my fingers. Caleb likes bare pussies, just like in the old paintings that had aroused him so much as a boy, but I like the secret of a woman’s hair down there. A private thing, only for lovers to know the feel of. And hers feels amazing, soft and not wiry, gloriously silky. I run my fingertips over her mound, my other hand braced beside her on the desk and my feet crowding hers so she’s effectively trapped between me, the desk, and the hulk of Caleb at her side. He runs his nose along the edge of her jaw, teasing her into letting out little huffs of anticipation, cajoling her into opening up to us.
We’ve done this so many times that the choreography is automatic, effortless, but the difference is that this time Caleb and I aren’t just willing participants in some woman’s search for a good story, and we aren’t merely looking for the nearest consenting body to take the edge off our loneliness.
No, this time we are both shaking with the wanting of this woman. This time, the need to make her ours is exactly that; this isn’t about fucking and then waking up alone again.
This is important. This is real. I survived four tours relying on my instincts, my ability to just know things, and I believe my instincts now.
Ireland belongs to us.
The moment my middle finger grazes her clit, she lets out a low moan and her head drops against my chest, something I like the feeling of immensely. Caleb is usually the one women go to for affection, the one they inherently trust, and it never bothers me. But for some reason, I want Ireland to be different. I want her to see past the parts of me that are cold or intimidating and trust me anyway. Trust I’ll take care of her, keep her safe. That there’s always gentleness behind the little cruelties I invariably want to give in bed.
I brush my lips against the crown of her head, smelling rain and something expensive, maybe the kind of shampoo you can only buy at salons, or perhaps some other, more mysterious product only those initiated into certain levels of beauty care know about. Either way, the combination of expensive and natural makes me want to kiss her skin until she’s a wet, shivering wreck, but I settle for keeping my nose in her hair as my fingers go lower.
Wet.
She’s so wet. The pleasing plumpness of her mound and thighs have kept all
that wet heat trapped right inside her seam, and the moment I part her lips, there’s slickness everywhere. The kind of slick that means a man could slide on in and have her coming in under a minute.
The kind of slick I like.
“Shit,” she mumbles against my chest. Caleb kisses her neck and then raises his face to offer me a smile. A real Caleb smile, with a dimple deep enough to show even under his beard and with crinkles around his bright-green eyes.
My heart squeezes hard. The loneliness has been hard on both of us, but maybe on Caleb most of all. I can use loneliness like an armor, but Caleb’s different—for him, loneliness will only ever be a cold dagger between his ribs, a slow poison swimming in his veins. We’ve known since college that whatever’s between us only works with a third, but the years since Mackenna’s departure have proved it time and again.
We need Ireland. Caleb needs her, and I need Caleb.
I just hope she needs us too.
It takes almost nothing to send her over the edge. I can’t even imagine how strung tight she must have been from watching Caleb earlier, because it only takes sliding a finger inside her tight box to make her tense against me and then only a few rolls of my palm against her clit to send her fluttering around my touch. She cries out against my chest, and her hands come up to search for us. One hand fists in my shirt and the other hand fists in Caleb’s, and my heart clenches again at the perfect symmetry of it. Her holding on to both of us, both of us surrounding her and keeping her upright as she rides out her ecstasy with my hand down her jeans.
My cock aches at it, with how sexy she is like this, with how perfect her cunt is against my hand. With how much I’ve missed being a three, and I mean really being a three—not picking up a woman for a night and then waking up with Caleb in a hotel room she’s already abandoned before dawn.
I need to fuck. And soon.
Ireland slowly comes down from her climax, her body relaxing and her hands unfisting from our shirts. Her face stays against my chest, and I can feel the instant she goes from happily sated to awkwardly embarrassed.
Misadventures of a Curvy Girl Page 5