Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sean and I stand on opposite ends of the island, sipping morning brew, debating the news as if the stalemate we’ve been in since the Meetup doesn’t exist. Though it’s still apparent, the glimmer in his eyes is back, and it’s no big mystery who put it there. Just as I think it, the source catches both of our attention as she halts all movement at the landing of the stairs. Fresh from Sean’s shower, she idles in black boy shorts and a form-fitting tank—her expression that of a deer caught in two sets of headlights. To be fair to her, this is the first morning she’s been alone with the two of us since this started. Sean glances toward me, a brow lifted in amusement, before making his first attempt to lure her toward us. “Hey, Pup, have a good shower?”

She slowly nods, her eyes darting to me and back to Sean.

“Coffee?” Sean asks in another effort to lure her down.

She nods again and slowly makes her way to us as if we’re a problem she’s trying to solve. Grabbing a mug from the cabinet, I place it on the island between our steaming mugs and pour.

The second she’s within reach, Sean pulls her into him, his whisper easy to catch. “It’s cool, baby. We’re not going to bite.” He kisses her cheek. “You smell so fucking good.” She whispers something back as I scan her, her hair twisted and secured on the top of her head, her slender, delicate neck flushed red with embarrassment, shame, or both.

“I’m going to go grab a quick one,” Sean croons in a soothing tone as Brandy trots into the kitchen, nails ticking on the tiles. “Want to go get some breakfast after?”

“Sure,” she says, eyeing me briefly as I pour Brandy’s breakfast into her bowl.

“Be right back,” Sean gives her a slow wink before heading upstairs. Cecelia eyes me pensively where she stands at the fridge, grabbing the milk and heading toward the island.

“Hi,” I whisper, discarding the bag, unable to hold my smile as she cuts her eyes at me, the ‘asshole’ clear in them. Moving to join her, I trail my gaze down the length of her.

“When are you going to make peace with it?” I ask as I approach, my breath hitting her nape as she uncaps the milk.

“I’m,” her lips lift in a tight smile. “I have no clue. It’s just different.”

“Yeah?” I run my thumb down the slope of her delicate neck. “Did he fuck you last night?”

“Dom,” she exhales a harsh breath of surprise.

“Did he make you come?”

“I’m not answering that,” she expels with a shake.

Rapid breaths leave her as I pull out her hair tie, and it falls limp along her shoulders. The scent of shampoo hits me as I flex my fingers through the bottom, loving the silky, cold feel between my fingers. “Can he make your pussy sing like I do?”

The need to mark her builds as I envision her stretch around me. “Did he press your beautiful face to the mattress and bite your neck . . .” It’s not a scenario, but a memory of the last time I took her “. . . suck your nipple purple, and thrust in so deep that you went into subspace, floodinghis cock and sheets?”

“Jesus Christ, Dom,” she scolds in alarm, her neck and profile flushing red, stopping her milk pour just in time to keep her mug from overflowing. Running my fingers through the damp hair at her neck, I catch the brief close of her eyes and the glimmer of blue fire when they reopen and focus on me.

Her choppy exhales increase as the sight of our last day together replays so vividly, and my blood starts to heat. Because of my attraction to Cecelia, my sexual imagination has gone into overdrive. She’s been more than a willing volunteer for every experiment, not one of them going awry. I’ve tormented her with hours of foreplay, edging her, watching her beg, only to come back asking for more—nothing vanilla about it. I don’t consider myself a man of kink, but a man with a sexual appetite who flirts on the edge of it. She flirts right back with me, and it pays off for us every fucking time.

Grazing my hard length across her back, I sweep her hair out of the way of my focal point, her nape, before pressing my lips below her hairline.

“Dom,” she whispers on alert, “I’m, uh, I’m—”

“Shh,” I whisper, “Sean can speak for himself about the biting,” I taunt before sinking my teeth into the back of her neck. A moan escapes her as I graze the skin I made raw while snaking my arms around her.

“You’re breaking the rules,” she mewls in weak protest.

“Can’t really hold that against me since it’s my fucking profession,” I remind her, fanning the pads of my splayed fingers as I palm her chest, running them over her taut nipples.

“Dom, we can’t—”

“We aren’t,” I say, trailing my nose along her exposed shoulder, “I am because I’ve got home-field advantage. He should know better by now than to leave you alone in a room with me. Ever.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she exhales shakily. I bite my lips to hold my chuckle in. She’s still easing into polyamory, and being the motherfucker I am, I’m not making it any easier on her. She chose this, we all chose this, and not one of us is complaining, especially her.

“So terrified that if I pulled down your little boy shorts,” I cup her pussy through them, “your boyfriend will find me hammering into you,” I squeeze it again for emphasis. “But do you really know what he would do?”

“No,” she says breathlessly as I bite along her shoulder, marking her for him to see.

“Maybe he’d punish you,” I whisper, “but you know you would like it. Because you like mine, don’t you, Pup?” I hiss, feeling no guilt for this stolen time because Sean hasn’t exactly been all hands off, either. I’ve caught him once or twice stealing moments alone with her when he can, but neither of us has fully crossed the line or the boundaries she created. It’s nothing I begrudge him for and vice versa. Because of those boundaries, the situation has been easier to navigate. The hookups in the past were always planned, taking place outside our homes, and never had any impact on our club. This dynamic is entirely different from the others.

Those were clearly temporary, and though this one remains in the same category, it’s the three of us who are collectively and purposely drawing the expiration date out. Me included because I can’t get enough of her.

But even as I see an eventual end to this, I don’t deny that it runs deeper because Sean is already attached, and I’m drawn to her in a way I can’t ignore.

Running a palm along the material of her stomach, I dip my fingers into her shorts, and she grips my hand to stop it. “I’m on my period.”

“Your clit doesn’t give a fuck, so why should I?” Slipping my fingers in just enough to massage her through her panties, I demonstrate how much of a fuck I don’t have to give. Starting with the slow rotation of my pointer, her head falls back to rest on my chest.

“God, you’re such a bastard,” she rasps out, as she starts to shake in my hold, where I have her pinned between me, my fingers, and the island.

“Not denying that, ask me to make you come,” I order as she begins to move her hips, bucking into my touch. “Ask me, Cecelia.”

“Make me come,” she concedes, turning her head in invitation for a kiss I don’t take—a kiss I refuse to give her because that will only trigger me in wanting more. Our kisses have a way of igniting us past the point of return. A state of arousal I have no desire to be in if I can’t act on it.

“That sounded more like an order,” I nip the shell of her ear, “not a request.”

“Dom, please,” she whispers, and I know it’s because she wants that connection. Ignoring her plea, I add a finger, massaging her in slow circles, her body jerking slightly as she chases the high. Breathless, she turns her head again, tilting her chin up, her lips so close she’s able to brush them against mine.

“Don’t,” I grit out, my control on the brink of snapping.

“Kiss me,” she rasps out, voice hoarse.

“No,” I snap, my need starting to take over as her shoulders shudder and her clit beats against my fingers. Body molded to mine, I physically feel it when her orgasm starts to crest. She grips the back of my head, riding my fingers frantically as she chases the wave.

Pressing my cock into her back through the thin fabric of my shorts, I decide exactly how to push her over. “Next time I fuck you, I’m going to get you so wet that when I press your face against my mattress and spread you, you’ll already be dripping onto your thighs.”

“I-I-fuck, Dom,” she pants as she pulls the hair at the back of my neck so hard my cock jerks.

“Give it up,” I order as she tips over, shuddering against me until she’s depleted and sagging. Keeping her tightly to me as she comes down, I whisper words that spring up and fly out unchecked. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, Cecelia, especially when you come apart for me.”

Releasing her to grab my coffee, she turns suddenly. I’m only able to see her narrowed blues before she pushes me back against the island, firmly grips the back of my neck, and crushes our mouths together.

Tensing, I open to object. “Cece—”

Taking advantage, she thrusts an insistent tongue into my mouth and instant need sieges me. One second, one fucking second, is all it takes to sweep me in, to match the violent thrust of her tongue—which I do, lick for lick. Losing myself in the kiss, she keeps me locked to her and hostage. Her moans drive me fucking insane as she slips her hand into my shorts, gripping my dick—hard—and pumping eagerly. Running her thumb over the head, she “hmms” in satisfaction when I groan into her mouth. She releases my cock briefly, lowering her hand to sink her nails into my thigh. My legs damn near buckle as she forces me further back, pinning me to the counter while at her mercy.

Goddamn.

My bearable flicker is now stoked to white-hot flame. I grip her arms in an attempt to break free as she presses all her weight against me, digging her claws further into my skin, knowing what it does to me.

She maintains control of my mouth, feeding and fueling me until I’m in a frenzy, ready to fuck whatever she’ll allow me before she abruptly pulls away. A smirk grows on her lips as she eyes the state of me. Seeming satisfied, she turns and dumps two spoons of sugar into her coffee and stirs. Turning back to me with one arm crossed over her torso, she takes a sip and scans me where I stand frozen, hard as a nail, and fucking furious.

Psychologically, I’m on my knees.

Physically, I could fuck a brick wall.

“I’m assuming you’re halfway there,” she lifts a finger and taps my temple twice, “because you know just how good it feels when we do fuck. So,” she pushes off the counter and glances back at me, swaggering toward the staircase, “you can finish yourself off . . . oh, and hi.”

“Why did you hate me?”

“Who says I don’t hate you?”

Groaning, I glance over at the small digital clock on my nightstand as the conversation from our first day together replays on a loop.

Blinking after catching sight of the blurry digital hour, I run my hand down my jaw with a groan. Cecelia’s murmurs circulate through my restless mind for the umpteenth time since she left me in that kitchen after turning the tables—leaving me wanting more, needing more.

Closing my eyes, I’m struck by the ingrained image of trailing my palm along her spine and over the curve of her perfect ass, along with the echo of the blunt truth she battered me with on rainy day one.

“You stare at me all the time, too.”

I’ve managed to dodge those intimate conversations since our first day, but it continues to taunt me anyway—invading me like she has since she drove into Triple Falls. This morning she called my bluff, and as she walked away, I knew that she’d been placating me. More than that, playing me by allowing me to think I have the upper hand. She knows exactly what power she holds and has been feigning innocent.

At my keyboard tonight, I found myself zoning out with thoughts of her. Of ways to try and keep her entertained in my box. Those thoughts eventually wandered to the various ways I want to fuck her. I’ve fisted my dick twice to expel the pent-up need to no avail, which left me simmering.

Catching another whiff of her scent, I turn my head, inhaling deeply, before pulling away and glaring at the source of my agitation. Gripping the pillow, I pull it to me and inhale, identifying the culprit for my unease. Smell evokes memory, which then helps to trigger all the other senses. Dropping the pillow like it’s on fire, I realize it’s her addictive aroma that’s provoked every torturous minute of the last nine fucking hours.

Lifting my bed sheet to sniff, I catch another strong whiff of her.

She’s everywhere.

In my head, in my sheets. Even my libido is starting to play Fido.

Fuck this.

Springing to my knees, I grip the fitted sheet and tug hard. The ends snap off the corners before I toss every pillow in the center of it, wrapping them up and fisting the bundle like a sack over my shoulder. Dragging it behind me downstairs, I hit the landing as another hint of her engulfs me, and I toss them to the foot of the stairs like they’re on fire. Marching toward the kitchen, I’m stopped short by two pairs of curious eyes. Tyler stands frozen on the other side of the island, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Sean is across from him at the stove, spatula in his hand. Stalking past them into the kitchen, I snatch a trash bag from underneath the sink.

“Morning, buddy,” Sean says, his voice full of mirth. “Have an accident? Don’t worry. It happens to the best of us.”

Glancing up as I stuff my bedding into the bag, I see Tyler biting his lips to keep from laughing as I glare between the two of them.

“You do know,” Sean drawls, lazily cutting through his eggs with the spatula to scramble them. “You can wash the pillowcases, right? No need to toss the pillows, too.”

“Fuck you,” I snap, tying the trash bag before heading up the stairs.

Laughter erupts out of both of them as I grip the rail and take them two at a time.

“He’s so fucked,” Tyler sounds through a chuckle. “I swear to God he was listening to K-Ci and JoJo last night when I popped into his room.”

“It was on the radio, you dick!” I defend, stalking toward my bedroom.

I may have found the song in my cloud and replayed it once or twice.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Sean coos up at me in taunt. “The meaner they are, the harder they fall.”

“Don’t confuse your entrapment with me!” I boom, taking the last few strides to my room and snapping my door closed behind me. Chest heaving, I palm the back of it as if the sheets might come back for me. “Jesus Christ, King, get a grip.”

But I can’t because deep down, I know exactly what this is.

She’s trying to domesticate me!

Scanning my room for any remnants of her, I spot a hair tie on my nightstand and narrow my eyes. Grabbing my trashcan, I walk over to it, flick it off, and into the can—satisfied when I earn two points.

If this is longing or attachment, it ends right here.

Right now.

“Have you ever been in love? . . . It’s not a stupid question.”

“It is if you find love irrelevant.”

“Why is love irrelevant?”

“Because it doesn’t interest me.”

“Never will,” I say toabsolutely no one as I stalk toward the shower and turn it on, spotting a tube of lip shit on my sink before swatting it into my nearby trashcan.

Love is a four-letter curse. No bird I know of—who’s been struck by it—has ever flown quite the same way.

She may have the looks to rival every woman I’ve ever fucked, a pussy made for worship. She may even be a decent conversationalist and reading partner, but I. Will. Not. Be. Domesticated.