Poe had let out a long, low whistle, and Remy had said, “That’s not a dress, it’s a 1930s bombshell.”
Bram hadn’t spoken at all. He hadn’t needed to. I saw the lust flare in his dark eyes.
I felt their gazes on me as I followed the maître d to the back of the restaurant and a U-shaped booth covered in red leather. Their gazes were like a brand on the exposed skin of my back and I felt the slide of desire between my thighs as my pussy got wet.
They touched me constantly, deliberately: Bram’s hand hot against the bare skin on my back as he guided me forward, the brush of Remy’s hand on my wrist as he helped me into the booth.
I didn’t know what would come later — this was their show — but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it involved the Butchers fucking me senseless, and I was already here for it.
Poe and Remy settled in on either side of me, and I wasn’t surprised Bram took the spot next to Remy without complaint. It was something I’d learned about Bram: he was disciplined, willing to wait for what he wanted.
Until he wasn’t.
My breath quickened at the thought and I turned to find his gaze locked on my face. To anyone else, his expression would have been unreadable, but I knew him now, and I read the patient hunger in his eyes like a book.
“You really do look incredible,” Remy said. “I almost feel underdressed.”
He was being modest. I hadn’t been the only attention-getter as we’d made our way through the restaurant. Remy had slicked back his blond hair, which only made the sharp angles of his cheeks and jaw more prominent. He looked like a rogue movie star, someone accustomed to jeans and a T-shirt rendered glamorous in slacks, a deep brown velvet jacket, and a dark green shirt that reminded me of the trees that surrounded Blackwell Falls.
His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to give me a glimpse of his defined pecs, just enough to set my imagination spinning. I could almost feel the heat of his skin under my palm as I flattened my hand against his chest.
“That’s insane,” I said. “You look amazing.” I looked at Poe and Bram. “You all look amazing.”
Poe’s broad shoulders were poured into a crisp white shirt open almost to his stomach, the glimpse of his tattoos enough to set my body humming, and Bram looked dark and dangerous in black slacks that barely contained his huge thighs and a silk burgundy shirt that draped tantalizingly over his massive shoulders.
The ink on his chest crawled out from under the deep red silk like shadows crawling toward the light, and his scar made him look like the kind of villain that made me believe heroes were overrated.
We were huddled together in the red leather booth, closer than we needed to be, but I wasn’t about to complain. Remy’s thigh brushed mine while Poe rested his hand possessively on my knee, and I was relieved when Bram ordered for us all. I wasn’t sure I could focus on anything but how close they were and how much I wanted them.
I felt surrounded — protected — not boxed in.
We talked about the restaurant while we waited for the food, then meandered our way into a new kind of casual conversation:mine and Remy’s childhood memories of the city, the old truck Poe’s grandpa was working to restore, Cassie’s plans to open another coffee shop, funded by an investment from Bram.
The specter of Ethan Todd and Apex faded into the background, still there but not front and center the way it had been for the past week. Ethan Todd’s fanboys were already calling NYNancy a no-show, and for the first time in weeks, Todd had uploaded a video, this time to use her as evidence that when you got right down to it, women were weak and foolish, all big talk, no action.
I hated that our ploy with the bot farm had reinforced his talking points, but I tried to look at the trade-off as a necessary lost battle in the larger war.
It was nice to set it all aside as a parade of delicious food was set in front of us: burrata with fig chutney and toasted pine nuts, panko-fried oysters with pancetta and chili butter, lobster-and-grapefruit salad, steak tartare, squab en croûte, saffron ricotta.
We gave up on using our own plates, opting to share everything instead, and the meal became a kind of orgy as we fed each other bites of delicious food, moaning over the flavors, licking stray crumbs from our lips.
At one point, Poe reached out to wipe brown butter sauce from my chin, and my cunt pulsed with desire when he sucked it from his finger, his gaze locked on mine.
His hand inched farther up my legs, his palm hot on my bare skin as he slid his hand between my thighs.
I gasped as he slipped his fingers into my underwear, stroking the folds of my slick pussy as the waiter returned to take our dessert order.
I assumed the Butchers would ask for the check. Clearly they were ready for a different kind of dessert. Instead Bram ordered coconut cake, lemon madeleines with chocolate sauce, crêpessuzette with orange butter, and fresh berries with Chantilly cream and lemon sorbet.
By the time the waiter left with our order, Poe’s long fingers were inside me, tunneling through my wet pussy, already stoking an orgasm at my center.
I placed my hands flat on the table in an attempt to keep it together, but it was a Herculean effort not to close my eyes and moan, not to writhe on Poe’s hand in an effort to come.
Remy’s eyes were pools of molten amber as he watched my face, and his mouth quirked into a smile.
“Is it just my imagination or are you playing without us?” he asked Poe.
“Just a little pregame,” Poe said. “And let me tell you, our little bird is fuckingreadyto play.”
