Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,163

looks at the places where Sutton touches me—one hand on my arm, his other on my waist. His mouth less than an inch from my neck. I can feel the soft caress of his breath. “This is how you help.”

“Do you want her?” Sutton says, sounding unconcerned. The way you would ask if someone is having a nice day, polite indifference—you could almost think he doesn’t care. If not for the erection hard and throbbing against my ass.

“I’ve always wanted her.”

The words should be sweet. Maybe for another woman they would be, but they only make me angry. They make me furious. Not the snake-hair kind of fury. This is sly and seductive. It ripples along my skin, turning me into someone else.

Someone who turns her face back to meet Sutton’s lips.

I start the kiss, but Sutton is the one who takes it deep. It’s not a show, the way he licks inside my lips like he’s trying to taste my essence. He must find it, because he groans into my mouth—soft, like maybe he doesn’t want to make that sound. I bite him for it, because my body is wild and feral and wants him to make the sound again.

Only a small part of my mind listens. Any second now the hotel door will open and close. Christopher will leave. For so many reasons he’ll leave. Even putting aside the fact that he never touched me after that night in the art gallery, even ignoring the tense competition between the two men… threesomes aren’t something men do, are they?

Frat boys talk about it at school. Two women, that’s what they want. Bonus points if they’re twins. But never two men, not for ones as confident and commanding as these. They would kill each other, which maybe is the point. This is a gladiator match, and I’m the arena.

The door doesn’t open and close.

A whisper on the back of my hand. On my cheek. It could almost be nothing, except that my skin remembers. I break the kiss to see Christopher tracing my skin, not touching. There’s an expression of fierce concentration on his face. This man can discuss advanced economic theory like it’s the alphabet, and he studies my shoulders, my breasts, the indent of my waist, like I’m a puzzle beyond comprehension.

Those eyes have never been more opaque than now. It’s impossible to imagine what he’s thinking behind black marble. Is he surprised that we ended up here, after hating each other for so long? Or does it feel inevitable, like every sharp word and growled insult has led to this?

That’s what it feels like for me—inevitable. It’s finding silt at the bottom of the ocean after a long way down. I knew it must be here, but I lost hope along the way.

He brushes the backs of his fingers against my collarbone. Lower, lower. Skips over my breasts and touches again at my stomach, making me suck in a breath.

He’s going to make me ask, this man. He’s going to make me beg.

“Touch me,” I whisper.

His eyes meet mine. It’s with cold deliberation that he cups my breast. Tugs my nipple between thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t blink, not even when I ache and squirm in Sutton’s hold.

It’s wrong that I’m held from behind by one man and touched by another. It’s the culmination of everything we’ve done, a physical manifestation of being with Sutton at the theater and having Christopher watch me from his box seat.

Everything more intense and surreal.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Sutton’s voice startles me. He sounds casual, as if they share women every day. As if my breasts are a sunset worth mentioning.

Christopher swallows hard. “Beautiful. I’ve dreamed about them, of course.”

“I think a man would have to be dead not to dream about these.” Sutton runs a hand up my side and cups my breast, the one Christopher isn’t already holding. There are two different hands on me right now. One calloused and square-tipped. The other elegant and strong. It’s pure decadence having both of them touch me. Enough to drive a girl insane, the way they each feel so different, with every stroke telling me, there are two of us, two men, two.

My hips rock forward and back, reaching toward Christopher and then back toward Sutton. I can’t decide what I want, can’t decide who I want, and it hurts both ways.

They guide me toward the bed without discussing it. They became business partners for a reason. Even so different, there’s some