The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

Christopher pushes forward, and I can’t help the gag reflex. He pulls out, and I feel my tongue slide along the slit of his cock as I take in air. His eyes glaze with pleasure. This is the weakest I’ve ever seen him, and he’s mesmerizing like this. Is this how I look to them with my hands behind my back? He looks like he belongs to me, pushing back into my mouth like he can’t imagine leaving.

Then he does something he’s never done before. He puts his hand on Sutton’s shoulder. To support himself as he struggles with the pleasure of a blowjob? A gesture of camaraderie as they fuck the same woman? I don’t know what it means, but it’s the most

intimate thing that’s happened between us.

Sutton goes rock-hard beneath me. His cock flexes. His hands tighten, and then he’s groaning his release. He shouts it into my hair, against my skin, biting the place where my shoulder meets my neck.

In his climax he pinches my clit, and I’m coming, biting down on nothing because there’s no cock in my mouth, clenching hard around a thick cock, feeling rivulets of my arousal slide down my thighs.

Christopher jerks himself in front of me, hard, punishing, twisting at the end until he throws his head back and comes in a warm spray across my chin, my collarbone, my dress.

I’m still panting when Sutton gently sets me down on the cushioned chair, the fabric still warm from his body. He straightens his clothes, his hands shaking only a little.

Christopher produces a monogrammed handkerchief from the pocket of his suit and uses it to wipe my skin clean, but I can still feel him there. I’m branded with his arousal, and with mine. “I’ll get you something to drink,” he says, leaving me alone with the man I was supposed to have drinks with. The man who basically stood me up and got laid for it.

Only he looks more messed up by the whole thing than me.

Those strong hands tamed a wild horse, but they don’t look steady now. Sutton can’t quite meet my eyes as he moves a poker chip between his fingers and knocks it against the table. For good luck? Except the game is already over.

“I can’t do this,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“It’s already done.” I’m still feeling sore and stretched from where his large cock impaled me. Feeling raw that Sutton would reject me one second after he leaves my body. He was supposed to be the man I could choose. The one who chose me. Instead he seems more shaken than Christopher about what just happened. “And it sure seemed like you enjoyed yourself.”

That earns me a dark laugh. “Yes, the way an insect enjoys the silk of a spider’s web.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Am I the spider in this story?”

His blue gaze takes me in from head to disheveled toe. “You’re the web.”

“God.” There’s enough strength left in my body to stand. “You want to act helpless? You want to play games with a billion dollars from my trust fund and then fuck me and then act like you’re the one who’s hurt? Go to hell, Sutton.”

“Already there,” he says, and the way his eyes burn, I believe it.

He turns and leaves me standing beside the poker table, alone in a room that was filled with men when I entered. That’s how I can clear a room, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Harper St. Claire show. I collapse back into the chair and rest my head on the back. There’s a hollow in my chest, but I can’t even blame it on Sutton for leaving. I can’t blame it on Christopher for staying. It comes from deep inside, to the place that no man can fill. The sex only numbed me for so long. Grief comes rushing back in to fill the void, acid in my throat.

Footsteps approach.

A glass of dark red wine is placed in front of me. Christopher throws back a shot of clear liquid—probably vodka. There isn’t a third glass. “What about Sutton?”

Dark eyes study me. “I’m sure he can get a drink wherever he’s gone.”

“Shouldn’t you go talk to him or something? You were partners.”

“We were partners. Now we’re nothing.” A shrug, all the more hurtful because of how casual he seems. “You didn’t expect him to stick around, did you?”

“I kind of… did. Yes.” What’s the etiquette for a backroom threesome?

Christopher sighs as if I’m terribly naive. “What we did here… it isn’t going to last.”

That makes me laugh, sharp and breathless. Because it’s been a long time since I was naive. “You mean you’re not going to marry me with an ironclad prenup and then divorce me in a year so that we can spend the rest of our lives hating each other? I’m shocked.”

A quirk of his lips. “Not every man is your dad, Harper.”

“And not every woman is your mother. Why do you think I expect anything permanent? Because I’d like someone to say goodbye after… after…”

“Sex,” he says gently.

I hate the look in his eyes, almost like pity. It was better when he stared down at me like he was going to devour me. Better when he snapped and snarled at me from across the poker table. “After sex,” I repeat, only a little broken. “Isn’t that what normal people do?”