“
What about the others?” I ask in what probably sounded like a breathy whisper. Sam spreads my moisture around and inserts another finger. My legs widen beneath the table. My skirt strains against my thighs. “I can’t get the other two to seal the deal.”
“All the Guardians have their hang-ups, Morgan. We’re far from perfect, but I have no doubt they’ll cross that line with you soon.”
I grip the table as he moves in and out, his thumb swiping over the bundle of nerves at the top. I know my cheeks are red. I know I’m not nearly as quiet as I should be. The orchestra (under Clinton’s urging) changes direction, beginning a melody with an ever-increasing pace.
Oh, boy, he knows what he’s doing. No doubt about that.
“They’ll come around,” Sam says, but his words sound muffled and far away. As do the voices of the other patrons and the clinking of glasses or the music up on the stage. “Until then the three of us will take care of your needs, whenever you need it. However you want.”
The orchestra reaches a fevered pitch in time with the movement of Sam’s hand. Faster, faster, faster. My knees wobble and I lose control of the muscles in my legs. Tighter, tighter, tighter. The coil springs at the crescendo, sending shock waves through every inch of my body. Sam wraps his arm around my neck. I bite down on his forearm, stifling the orgasmic groan just as Clinton hits his final note. He winks at me from the stage.
The crowd jumps to a standing ovation while I use the reprieve to catch my breath. I turn to face the man behind me and say, “You planned that didn’t you? All of it. The date, the outfit, the music.”
“To be fair, I didn’t plan the blow job in the alley. That was all you.”
We stare at one another for a moment and I wonder how in the world I came to this place of sex and lust and absolute, uninhibited courage.
“My life is really weird.”
“Maybe.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder. “But do you feel better?”
It’s with slow realization that I know that I do. I fought through the moment, the fear, and the trauma. I’m going to be okay. I’m sure of it now. I give him a quick kiss and say, “Yeah, I think I do.”
*
Our mood is light after the show. Clinton takes us to a late night diner he and the other musicians frequent after concerts. He’s in a surprisingly good mood, being that his go-to demeanor is cranky, and I watch with fascination as both men consume large amounts of bacon and eggs before digging into massive stacks of pancakes.
“Where do you put it all?” I ask, knowing both men hardly carry an ounce of fat on their ridiculously fit bodies. “If I ate all of that, I’d be big as a house.”
“Doubtful,” Sam says through a mouthful of pancake. A drip of syrup runs down his chin and I swipe at it with my finger. “All that energy pulsing through you—it burns off everything but muscle.”
I study my reflection in the diner window, noting the lean, developed curve of my arm and the thinning around my jaw. It’s true that ever since I arrived in New York, at The Nead, I’ve become stronger. The result is a faster, leaner body and a ravenous appetite myself. I think of the two helpings of apple pie earlier in the day. “Do you think I still have it? The energy?”
It’s something I think about all the time. Are my moods my own? Is something propelling it for me? Something stirred in me earlier tonight. Something greater than lust answered Clinton’s call.
The men look at one another, Clinton chewing and Sam wiping his mouth. He pauses like he’s ready to answer my question when all three of our phones vibrate and chime at the same time.
I reach for mine first and look at the name and message. The knot of worry I’d spent all night removing returns, tighter than ever.
“It’s Dylan. He needs us at home.”
*
The windows are ablaze with light when Sam parks the car in front of the house. Davis, who should be in bed at this late, late hour, opens the door before we reach the top step. “He’s waiting in the library. For Ms. Morgan.” He holds my eye. “He’d like to speak to her alone.”
There’s a noticeable shift between the men and it’s clear they weren’t expecting that news. I look at them both and give them a tight smile. “It’s fine.”
“Are you sure? He’s not actually the boss, you know.”
I laugh—this time genuinely. “Oh, trust me. I know.”
My attitude lightens the mood and Clinton gives me a kiss on the cheek before heading up to his room. Sam hands Davis the car keys. The older man nods, closes the door and heads out to the car, likely to put it back in the garage.
Sam squeezes my hand and we part, him going upstairs and me down the hall to the library. A feeling of déjà vu rolls over me. No good conversation has come from being asked to speak to someone alone. It’s how I learned my parents were dead. I hesitate outside the door and take a deep breath.
The door opens before I gather my nerves and Dylan stands in the opening. He’s imposing—devastatingly handsome and undeniably strong. His shoulders are broad and although his body is lean, there’s no doubt about him being a physical threat.