My crush on both of them will pass in time.Maybe.
* * *
By the time I get home, dinner is on its way, and I have just enough time to scrub the club out of my pores before it arrives.I hate washing off Lucky’s touch, and before I can overthink it, I trail my fingers over every place I remember his hands being—and some he never got to—until I’m wet in more ways than one.
What would have happened if I’d stayed?
Knocking interrupts me.Shit.Must be the delivery guy.
It’s a race to get the water off and a towel around me.Last time I made them wait, my food magically disappeared, and no amount of complaining made it or my money reappear.
Not this time.
I swing the door open, halfway through humming the chorus of one of Lucky’s songs.
It’s not the delivery guy.
“Fuck me,” Lucky says, staring openly.
A similar, albeit whispered, curse escapes Sterling, and I grip the towel tighter, lust roaring in my ears.I didn’t think this through.
On the plus side, they have my burger.
“Get inside,” I hiss, retreating to my bedroom and throwing on the first thing I can find, which is an oversize sweatshirt and bike shorts.
“Cute outfit,” Lucky says.“Think I prefer the last one though.”
“Gimme that.I’m starving.”He hands me the bag, and I tear into my burger.“Why are you here anyway?”
“You ran off,” Lucky says, stealing a fry.
I glare at him until he backs off.“I was giving you time to talk.”
“We talked on the way here.”
I take another bite and nearly moan.If I’m going to end the night having to hear the two guys I like politely reject me, I’m going to do it with salt and extra cheese.“And?”
“And,” Sterling says, leaning his elbows on his knees, “we agreed we needed to speak with you.”
“Okay.So, talk.”
They share a look, maybe debating who goes first—I’m not sure.It doesn’t matter who delivers the apology.I just need them to get on with it so I can finish my food and lie down.
“I’d rather show you.”Lucky pulls the box away from me.
“Hey.”
“I’ll buy you another one.”
He’d better.
There’s a light tug on my hand, pulling me up.
“Now, before we were rudely interrupted,” he says, slipping his hands to my waist, “I think we were right about … here.”
His hips meet mine in a vivid re-creation of earlier, and even though I can’t hear any music, it’s all too easy to fall into the rhythm, bringing my arms around his neck and swaying into him.
There’s a rustle of clothing behind me, steps coming closer until there’s heat and pressure along my back—Sterling—and, oh God, I’m never recovering from this.
