Damon steps closer, his eyes softening as he reaches for me.
"Emery," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "I’m sorry for my reaction. We… We should be able to discuss these things without tempers rising. I…I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you, because I do. You know that."
Quin nods in agreement. "And we shouldn't have argued in public. It was inappropriate, and we’re better than that. Youdeservebetter than that."
I take a deep breath, the unease between my shoulder blades fizzling away. My mouth dries as they circle me like vultures, Damon on one side and Quinton on the other. As they pepper gentle kisses along my neck and shoulders, their apologies continue.
"Forgive me," Damon whispers against my skin, his breath warm and melting.
Quinton's lips trail down the side of my neck, and my spine shivers. "We love you, Emery," he murmurs. "More than anything. We want what's best for you."
Desperate desire burns inside me, their raw sincerity and roaring reassurance making my skin hot and flush. I turn toward Damon, and I claim him. His apology transforms into something more primal as our lips collide, frenzied yet soft. I nip at his bottom lip and he groans, gripping my waist, pinning me in this fleeting moment of bliss.
Quinton's touch becomes bolder, stronger, more urgent. His hands roam over my body with restrained hunger, and then, with a deliberate and sensual motion, Quinton removes the small, concealed toy from inside of me, and my body aches to be filled once again.
I close my eyes and release the reins, letting both of my men take control. They love being in control. They loveme. Their lips and fingers and tongues ravage me, savor me, fucking worship me.
Damon's hands find their way to my hips, and he lifts me up, my legs wrapping around his waist as they both line themselves up. And then, in a glorious act of impeccable synchronization, they thrust forward. At the same time. And I guarantee the President can hear my screams.
THE FIREFLY
DAMON
The narrow staircaseof Firefly Art Studio feels like a treacherous ascent into the pits of my own personal hell. I can't believe that I’m here. An art class? Really? That’s what came out of my mouth?
Fucking idiot.
I thought she’d forget that slip of the tongue but no. The woman’s got the memory of a damn elephant. A gorgeous, sexy fucking elephant. As if I don’t have better things to do.Like what, Damon?Emery’s voice sounds in my mind.You’re unemployed and need a hobby.I inwardly scowl. Keeping Amir Hadid from looking at you is my fucking hobby.
Fuck!
I push open the door, frustrated by the fact I’m even entertaining this absurdity. The eyes of the peopleinside the studio dart toward me. Great, I’m a damn tourist attraction. Clearly, they’re confused as to why Damon Cavanaugh, a man who can affordprivatelessons, is joining a beginners' art class in fuckingChelsea. I grit my teeth, offering a stiff nod to the curious glances as I make my way through the room.
Easels are set up in a circle, each one hosting an “aspiring” artist. I roll my eyes at the cliché bowl of fruit placed in the center of the room. They couldn't have picked anything more unoriginal to paint.
The art teacher, an older woman in her 60s, sports a dirty ass smock. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. While I scowl at my situation, she calls out for everyone to take a seat. Clenching my fist, I scan the room, and my gaze locks on the only available stool. With a resigned sigh, I walk toward it, my irritation palpable with every heavy, dragging step.
The woman sitting on the stool next to mine gives me a warm smile and waves me over. Her friendliness is unsettling, and I don’t like it. Or need it. As I take my seat, she extends a hand. Great.
"Hi, I'm Sage. First time here?"
I reluctantly shake her hand. "Damon. And yes, it's my first time. Hopefully, my last."
Sage chuckles, tucking a stray dark curl behind her ear. "Don't worry, Damon. We're all here to have a good time."
"A good time?" I mutter, the tips of my finger’s tingling with budding anxiety. “Yeah, sure.”
As the class begins, the art teacher introduces herself as Bella Sharpe and provides an overview of thesession. I glance at the various brushes, paints, and canvases in front of me. Fucking hell. What am I doing here? I’ve never painted with purpose before. Never. I’ve only ever enjoyed the chaos of my creations, unplanned and disorganized. Stupid.
I grumble under my breath, “This is ridiculous.”
Sage elbows me playfully, her hearing far too keen for my liking. "Oh, come on, Damon. Just have fun with it. Art is supposed to fun!"
I scowl at her. “Your enthusiasm is annoying.”
She rolls her eyes, dipping the tip of her paintbrush into a violent shade of yellow. “And your attitude is nauseating.” I lift a brow at her quick response. Sage glances at me, smirking. “What? Has the great Damon Cavanaugh never been callednauseatingbefore?”
So shedoesknow who I am.
