“You do,” Eliza says, calm and sure. “You just have to stop being afraid.”
We sit like that for a while, nursing our drinks, the noise of the café swirling around us like fog. Eventually, the tears dry up, and I take a deep breath.
“Thanks, girlfriend,” I say, voice wobbly. “I know my situation is so fucked-up, and I realize appreciate you listening to me.”
“Anytime,” my buddy says with a sympathetic smile before squeezing my hand in hers. Then she lets go, leans back, and gives me a playful smile. “If you need me to torch their offices, or if you want me to key their cars, let me know.”
I laugh, for real this time, and it’s enough to make me feel human again.
The rest of the weekend, I keep my head down. I work through the case files, prep for Monday’s brief, and try not to think about James or Brent, which of course means I think of them constantly. I can still feel James’s arms around me, the solid weight of him, the incredible tenderness mixed with lust. But also, I can taste Brent’s mouth on mine, the desperate edge of his hands in my hair, the heaviness of his big body pressed against my plush curves.
I am absolutely, unequivocally screwed. Should I be seeing them alone? Do they know? Or will this love triangle be the death of our relationship?
Tears start in my eyes again because the answer could be something terrible … but there’s only one way to find out.
18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN — CAUGHT IN THE ACT!
Brent
She’s above me, sopping, breathless, riding with a rhythm that feels like the last seconds before the world ends. My sheets are a war zone—twisted, damp, perfumed with her and me and the musk I can taste in the pit of my throat. Her hair is everywhere, wild and sticking to her back in gold wet ropes, swinging down to brush my chest every time she grinds harder. The light is low—lamps, not overheads, never overheads—but it’s enough to turn her skin molten, her breasts bouncing with every surge, her face a mask of hunger.
I can’t get enough. I don’t want to get enough. It’s been like this for weeks, but tonight, I want to brand Marnie into my memory. I want her to walk out of here every day with the imprint of my hands, my teeth, my cock still inside her. I drag my palms over her hips—so fucking soft, so full—and dig in, just to watch the little shock in her eyes as I jerk her down harder. She doesn’t break stride. She leans in, nails raking my ribs, and moans.
“You’re so big, daddy. Mmmm, yes! Give me more.”
I thrust up with a grunt, driving deep, and she keens, a sound that could bend steel. That’s my girl. My dirty, perfect, sassy, sexy girl.
The bed is a monument to bad behavior: sheets peeled halfway off, the comforter somewhere on the floor, an upended glass of whiskey bleeding into a dark stain on the mattress. My knees are starting to cramp, but I can’t stop, because Marnie’s about to come and when she does, it’s the most beautiful sight ever. She trembles, thighs clenched, head tossed back, big tits slick with sweat and swinging above me, and I clamp down on her waist and let her buck, let her take what she needs. I love the way she uses my body. I love that she’s here one hundred percent, and that I have all of her attention.
“Fuck baby, yes,” I growl. “Fuck yes yes.”
I erupt like a fucking geyser at the same time Marnie ascends to climax. Her back arches, long golden hair in a wave, as she lets out a keening wail.
“Ooooh, Brent, mmm!” she screams, big breasts swaying. “Mmmph!”
Her pussy clamps down on my dick hard, before coming apart in violent tremors, and I lose it. My cock spurts and jerks in her wet twat, spraying virile cream all over those fertile fields. I let out a massive roar, but then realize that the roar’s gone on too long. In fact, I’ve stopped shouting and yet there’s still a howl going on in the room. What the fuck?
When I look, I see that it’s James is standing in the doorway, expression ablaze with a vein pulsing at his forehead.
“Fuck!” he rages. “What the fuck!”
“Oh my god!” Marnie screams when she sees him, even as her pussy continues to milk my cock. “Oh oh oh!”
James isn’t dressed for war. Just jeans and a t-shirt, but his face says murder, and his hands are already balled into fists.
“Get the fuck off her,” he shouts, spittle flying from his mouth. For a split second, I think he’s talking to Marnie, but no—his eyes are on me, and there’s nothing in them but pure hate.
Marnie freezes, mid-thrust, her back to the door. She starts to turn, but I push her aside—maybe too hard, but it’s instinct, protect mode, rage mode. She lands on the other side of the bed, tangled in the wreckage of sheets and pillows, big boobs bouncing, wide-eyed and gasping.
In a flash, I’m on my feet, cock still dripping, adrenaline already burning through the dregs of sex. I don’t bother with modesty, not now. “Get the fuck out of my bedroom,” I snarl. “Find your own woman.”
It only enrages him further. James crosses the room in three steps, and suddenly there’s nothing between us but the sick, crazy thrill of violence. He’s bigger and heavier, but I’m faster and pissed off in a way that adds ten pounds to my frame. He grabs me by the throat, shoves me back against the wall so hard a picture frame falls and explodes against the floor.
“You had to fuck her huh? You piece of shit!”
I wrench his hand off, slam my palm into his chest, and shove him backward. “She’s not yours, asshole.”
