by Skye Warren
Now it’s my turn to squirm, legs pressing together where I stand. My body aches for what he promises, but I don’t want to lose control of the situation. “You aren’t allowed to get up from that chair. Those are the rules.”
“Never been real good at following rules, sugar.”
“Does that mean you can’t handle me? I thought you were stronger than those frat boys.”
A low chuckle. He stands up with slow, deliberate movements. And he pulls his shirt off the same way, revealing ridges of well-defined abs and a landscape of tanned skin. “I’m plenty strong, but I think you know that. Strong enough to see through your rules bullshit.”
My mouth feels dry. There’s a jump in my heartbeat that reminds me of holding my hand out to Gold Rush, feeling her breath against my palm. Having so much violence so barely restrained. There’s no wooden door between me and the animal in front of me now.
“Strong enough to give you exactly what you want, even if you’re going to fight me.” He opens the placket of his jeans, revealing his bare cock. No underwear or boxers between the rough denim and his flesh. He’s hard and thick and shiny at the tip. He runs a cruel fist down the length of his erection, twisting at the top as if he needs to hold something off.
Even if you’re going to fight me. The crazy thing is, even I don’t know if I’m going to fight him. The way he looks at me makes me wet and pliant. My fear makes me stiff. I take a step back. “I’m allowed to say no, Sutton.”
“You’re allowed to. Maybe I’ll even believe you.”
And then he would leave me here, all worked up with nothing but my pumpkin cocks to satisfy me. “You really do want me,” I say, my gaze flicking from his hard cock to his intense eyes. “I’m not just a Christopher stand-in.”
He laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “Oh, sugar. You have no idea. I would fuck you all night long, even if I never saw Christopher again. I would fuck you for the rest of my life if you let me. You’re the one using me as a stand-in.”
The idea makes me gasp, but there’s no time to dwell on it. No time to think about whether I would really do that. No time to wonder why, because Sutton always keeps his promises. He flips me around and has me bent over the curved arm of the sofa. My body arches as he touches two fingers to my most sensitive place. Arousal gives him all the slickness he needs. It’s my own desire that betrays me, letting him invade me. Then his cock nudges me, burning hot.
I arch my back, though I don’t know whether I’m asking him to wait or wanting him to do it harder. Faster. Deeper. Then he slides inside, and it’s like I’m complete. My body had been hurting from the space inside it, and now he’s there—filling me almost like he belongs there. It’s the fake pine cone scent from the logs, a way to pretend this is real.
He cups my breast through the white bra, and I flinch away, already knowing what comes next. He told me, didn’t he? He told me how the story went, but still I find it shocking when he presses my nipple between thumb and forefinger, when he sends a bite of pain through my breast.
“I’m not,” I gasp between the first thrust and the second, my eyes shutting tight against the pleasure so sharp it turns to pain. “Not. Not. Not.”
“Not what?” he murmurs, pressing deep for a long moment.
I’m not using him as a Christopher stand-in, at least I don’t think so. And I don’t think he’s using me, either. “I’m not in love with Christopher Bardot.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” A hard thrust. Another. “You keep saying it.”
I don’t know whether he means it literally, but that’s what I do. I say it out loud, over and over. “I’m not in love with… not in love with Christopher… Oh God, Christopher Bardot!”
He finds my clit, merciless with two rough fingers, making me flinch. “Say it again.”
“I’m not,” I sob, but it feels more and more like a lie.
Sutton bites down on my shoulder, and the bright-hot pain is enough to shatter me. A low keening sound fills the room, the sound of my longing, the terrible pleasure I take from it—and behind me, the agonized groan of a man pushed past reason. His hips press against mine, hard enough I have to gasp for breath, my mouth open against the embroidered fabric of the sofa, hands clenching at nothing, his tongue laving the teeth marks he left on my skin.
In the aftermath we collapse in a heap, the sofa giving a slight shift of discomfort under our combined weights. Sutton moves when I’m still boneless, lifting himself off me and turning me over. His hands are gentle as he pulls on my clothes. It’s like he’s mourning something.
“We should talk. Tomorrow at the library. We’ll talk then.”
I stop him, my hand clasping his. “Stay.”
He doesn’t look broken, but I’ve learned that it’s a beautiful facade. The intimacy we shared pulled down the walls, if only for a few seconds. Those calloused hands, so strong and sure with a dangerous horse, they’re shaking. He needs the comfort of welcoming arms as much as I do.
And so I lead him back to the sofa, where we fall into a sudden and boundless sleep, our limbs tangled together, taking solace in a shared desperation.
In my dream there are piles of straw, mountains of it, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t spin them into gold. My fingers are torn up from the attempts, bloodied and raw. There’s a lock on the door and a faint lightening of sky through the bars, which means the king will expect me to be done spinning soon. I’m running out of time.
I wake up with a sudden start, my eyes wide open as I look around the living room. A knock comes at the door, and I realize that must have woken me up. My palms are pressed to a chest as wide and solid as a table, but rising and falling in gentle breaths. Sutton looks up at me, rather adorable in his sleepy state. “You expecting someone?” he says, his voice rusty.
A glance at my phone. Four thirty. In the morning.
I pull open the door, half expecting there to be some kind of overly polite burglar. Who else shows up at four thirty? Christopher Bardot, apparently. He doesn’t even have the grace to look sleepy. Instead he leans casually against the doorjamb, one hand in the pocket of worn gray sweatpants. His white T-shirt looks like it’s been washed a million times and probably feels like heaven. I have no doubt that he stepped out of bed looking like this, which is proof that the universe is fundamentally unfair. My eyes feel bloodshot, the place between my legs sore.
“I hope there’s a bullet wound under that crisp white shirt,” I tell him, my voice dark with exhausted aggravation. “Because I can’t think of any other reason you’d be here at this time.”
“We have to talk.”
“About the meaning of life? About the birds and the bees? What could you possibly have to say to me at four thirty in the freaking morning that couldn’t wait for six hours?”
“It’s about the library. You can’t fix it.”
“Oh God, not this again.”
“The building isn’t fucking stable.”
“You’re not stable,” I say, knowing full well that I sound like a five-year-old. But it’s really early. Or late, depending on how you count it. All I know is that I’ve had about two hours of sleep. “Why don’t you just build your little skyscraper and pretend the library doesn’t exist?”
“I wish I could,” he says grimly.
I feel the heat of Sutton’s body before I hear him. “What’s going on?”
Christopher’s eyes darken. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Guilt shoots through me, which is seriously unfortunate because I don’t owe Christopher Bardot any explanations. My body doesn’t understand that. My body thinks it owes many things, and it decides to enumerate them using my imagination. “We’re braiding each other’s hair, and later we’re going to use my Ouija board. What do you think he’s doing here?”
“Harper, you can’t believe everything he tells you.” Christopher looks like he wants to say more, but he presses his lips together and looks away. “Hell.”
Sutton
holds my hips in a possessive and challenging gesture. “That’s convenient coming from you. I think you’re the one she shouldn’t believe.”
“God,” I say, sleep clearing from my eyes. “You two just want to growl over me. It could be anything between you. I’m like a scrap of meat, and you’re just hungry.”
“You like it when I’m hungry,” Sutton says, placing an openmouthed kiss to the side of my neck. He pulls one hand up until it rests under my breast. The other curves around to the lower plain of my belly, right above my sex. It’s an incredibly intimate way to touch me, and I’m standing in the front door backlit by a soft lamp from inside.
Christopher’s jaw works. His whole body looks tense, a spring pressed down into its smallest form, vibrating with the force to keep it that way. What would he do if he unleashed that power? Would he attack Sutton with blind rage? Or would he take it out on me in sensual torment, like he did at the Den? I’m holding my breath, and I can’t deny that I hope for the latter. The three of us together are dysfunctional and wrong, but it feels so good.
“You want her?” Sutton asks gently, and I think he’s pushing. Not only for sex. He’s pushing until Christopher breaks. Until there’s no hope of them together.
And maybe I’m doing the same thing.
Sometimes the Death Plan isn’t printed in black-and-white. Sometimes it’s whispering to us in the middle of the night. Sometimes it’s leaning back against Sutton’s body, knowing it will make Christopher come closer. His lips part, looking full, almost swollen as he watches us from beneath heavy lids. What would he say if he saw us bent over the sofa?
I’m not in love with Christopher Bardot.
Fear squeezes my throat. I’d rather push him away than watch him leave. “Come inside,” I say with a patently fake smile. “It’s more fun with both of you.”
Christopher turns away from us, and I realize this hurts just as much. You can’t avoid this forever. I break away from Sutton’s hold and run after him. “Wait.”
He stops a foot away from his car, still looking away. His body is held rigid, emanating intense emotion without moving a muscle. “You shouldn’t trust him.”
“You used to tell me that I shouldn’t trust you either.”
“That’s true, too. Leave the both of us. Go back to New York. LA. Anywhere but here.”
“I can’t do that.” I can tell myself that it’s the library that keeps me here, but I have a growing suspicion that it’s the man in front of me. If he went to Tokyo, I’d probably have to protest to save the cherry blossoms. It’s a terrible weakness in me, this feeling.
“Or make him tell you the truth.”
That makes me smile, though it’s a little sad. “Do you know the truth?”
“What are you talking about?”
Sutton’s obsession might not be one-sided. In that case I could be the one who brings them together. And then the one that’s left standing as they ride off into the sunset. “I didn’t think you were a coward, Christopher Bardot. To want someone and not tell them.”
His eyes narrow. He reaches for me before I can blink, turning me before I can breathe, backing me up against the dew-dropped surface of his Tesla. “You want a declaration, Harper?”
This close I can see little silver flecks in his black eyes. How have I never noticed them before? He looks pissed off and wild, like a powerful animal that has suddenly found itself in an ironclad cage. He looks afraid, and I’m suffused with a sense of wonder. What could scare this man? Nothing, I would have said. But I would have been wrong. “Do you have anything to declare?” I whisper, a little mocking.
He leans forward, his lips an inch from my cheek. “Who’s the coward now?” he murmurs against my temple, brushing a kiss so light it’s like air.
What would bravery look like right now? No, I’m not very courageous. There’s curiosity inside me, to see Sutton and Christopher together now that I know the feelings underneath. And there’s my own growing unrest. Sometimes you have to break something in order to fix it.
“Come inside,” I say, holding out my hand.
Sutton looks more surprised than me to see Christopher. As if pushing and pushing had been an archaic kind of mating ritual, one so ineffective that he had resigned himself to it never working. I have to face the facts—there is a chance that Christopher has buried feelings for Sutton, too. That I will lose both of them tonight. But I’m not going to hide in the shadows any longer. Not going to wait and wait and wait for these men to decide. I’m making the decisions right now, and I want them both in my bed.
The living room smells like warmth and roasted pumpkin seeds and sex. Sutton’s shirt is slung over the armchair. The cushions on the sofa are smooshed and rumpled from our bodies. It could possibly feel like a scene of guilt, of shame, and maybe when there was first a knock on the door it did.
Now it feels like Sutton and I are doing something together, like we’ve created this on purpose—the purpose being to seduce Christopher Bardot. It’s working, if the clench of his jaw is anything to go by. And the bulge against his jeans.
“Upstairs.” I mean to say it hard, like a command, but it comes out breathy. Both men follow me anyway, silent and large and looming on the sweeping staircase. It feels like I’m Little Red Riding Hood with two wolves prowling behind me, wondering which one will eat me first.
There’s always the chance they’ll eat each other.
My room has the flowered bedspread and antique dresser that was here when we moved in. There are no pictures on the side table, no modern art hanging on the wall. That’s a good thing. It makes this more like a hotel room, which is where we first consummated our threesome.
“Where do you want me?” Christopher asks, and I have to acknowledge how truly weird this is. There are two men in this room with me. This may not be the first time we’ve been together, but it feels so strongly like the last.
“On the bed,” Sutton says, his voice soft and supple like worn leather.
“I asked Harper,” Christopher says, diamond eyes flashing.
“And I’m telling you what she wants. Or can’t you tell? Can’t you see how wet she gets when you look at her that way, all cold and mean? It turns her on.”
Except how could Christopher have seen that. Even I couldn’t see that, and it’s my body. Now that Sutton has said the words, I can’t unsee it. I can’t unfeel it. The only thing I can focus on is the way my nipples feel against my shirt, like a thousand nerve endings against sandpaper. The only thing I can see is the cruel twist to Christopher’s lips. My body feels molten inside; he did that to me.
Christopher doesn’t break eye contact as he sits on the edge of the bed. Such an innocuous thing to do, sit on the edge of a bed with all your clothes on. There’s nothing inherently explicit about the act, but there’s a livewire in my brain. A livewire that jolts me so hard and painful, because we’re going to have sex. One thing is very different from the time at the poker game—this time I know how Sutton feels.
He looks the same as he always does, smug and laconic and a little too casual to be true. He takes a step toward Christopher, careful, careful, and I’m reminded of the way he approached Gold Rush. Affecting a calm that he didn’t quite feel, pretending that he wasn’t one hard kick away from having his skull bashed in. Sutton is good at pretending.
Except that Christopher does not appear fooled.
He stares hard at Sutton in that calculating way, as if adding up the cards and realizing there’s one he missed. A notch forms between dark eyebrows.
“What about you?” he asks quietly. “Does it turn you on, too?”
Sutton flinches. “This isn’t about me.”
Black eyes flash. “I’ve played cards with you enough times to know your tells. And that one was a goddamn red flashing light. You want to say something to me?”
A dark laugh. “There’s nothing to say.”
Sexual violence rolls through the room, as heavy and electric as stormclouds. This could break ou
t into a fight. Or it could break out into sex. I know which one I’d rather have.
“You,” I murmur to Sutton. “I want you on the bed.”
He looks at me like an animal backed into a corner, the whites of his eyes almost showing. “I’m supposed to do what you say. I’m supposed to trust you.”
That makes me smile. “I’ve trusted you plenty. Was I supposed to do that?”
A low growl. If there were fur on him, it would rise at the back of his neck. There’s practically a snarl on his handsome face. It’s hard to imagine that he’s the softer of the two men right now. He looks feral. But he walks toward the bed. He sits down.
“All the way.” My voice comes out hard. I think maybe he likes me hard.
He scoots back, his gaze promising retribution. “What next?”
I pretend to think about that, even though the vision is in my head clear as day. Clear as the feel of Sutton against my back and Christopher at my front. I have been between those two men in multiple ways, but never the one we’re going to do tonight.
“Come here,” I say to Christopher, a little shy.
It’s easy to be the strong, seductive woman with Sutton. That’s the only way he’s ever seen me. Christopher has seen me young and stupid. He’s seen me in love.
He tears his gaze from Sutton, uncertainty in his dark eyes. The question hovers on his lips, almost visible in the space between us. Is this more than a rivalry between Sutton and me? Is this lust? Does Sutton want to fuck me? Do I want to fuck him back?
“Yes,” I say, my voice soft and coaxing. “Or no. Those are your options.”
A faint smile. “You want to be in charge.”
“Maybe, but you definitely want me to be in charge.”
“Yeah,” he says, a low rumble.
This isn’t the time for talking about feelings. What would Sutton say?