“Punishment.”
She sits back, stunned, then laughs again, a little too breathy. “Are you insane?”
I let her twist for a beat. Then I lean in, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume—a sweet, flowery musk under the wine and sweat.
“Are you ready to make a deal, sweetheart?” I say in a silky voice.
She goes very still, big breasts trembling.
James’s hand finds her knee, fingers light but deliberate.
“Help us with something,” he says. “And we’ll help you get to the truth.”
She looks from him to me, then back to him. Her pulse is visible at the hollow of her throat.
“What do you want?” she asks, voice so soft it’s almost a whisper.
I could spell it out, but I don’t have to. She already knows.
Instead, I say, “One taboo night. You, us, no limits. Your curves, open and seeping, ready to be used by our cocks. Then we give you everything you want to know. You might not come out alive, but it could be worth it.”
The silence is total.
She closes her eyes, just for a second, then opens them again. “You’re both bastards,” she says, but there’s no real venom in it.
I nod. “That’s the offer. Take it or leave it, sweetheart. The decision is yours.”
James’s hand slides a little higher on her thigh.
Marnie finishes her wine in one gulp, then stands, legs unsteady but sure. She looks at both of us, daring.
“So what’ll it be?” I ask silkily, my blue eyes devouring her curves. “We don’t have all day.”
She inhales deeply, her pink cheeks flushing.
“Deal. But when?”
James’s smile is slow, hungry. I feel my own mouth curl in response.
“We’ll figure it out,” I rasp. “But for now, let’s just enjoy each other.”
Marnie’s still,her big breasts quivering as she looks between us.
James pours another finger of scotch, eyes never leaving her face.
“You can still walk away, Marnie,” he says, and the softness in his voice is real, not a bluff. “Not all women can handle two men at once. But I’d say that a lot like it. They get addicted even.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. I’m in.”
I watch her as she says it. Her chin is up, but there’s a pulse jumping at the hollow of her throat. Her cheeks are flushed. Her knees, this time, press together tight as if to keep herself from vibrating apart.
James sets down his glass and, in one motion, produces a manila folder from beneath the coffee table. He slides it across the glass to her.
She hesitates. “What’s this?”
“Files,” James says. “From your father’s case. Stuff we couldn’t submit at trial, but kept anyway. Some of it is sealed. The kind of thing you only get if you know where to look.”
She stares at it, her hands flat on her knees. I can practically see her brain whirring:Is this a trap? Will this fuck up my life even more? Or is this the thing I’ve been chasing since the day I learned my father was going to die?
