The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

Sutton

holds my hips in a possessive and challenging gesture. “That’s convenient coming from you. I think you’re the one she shouldn’t believe.”

“God,” I say, sleep clearing from my eyes. “You two just want to growl over me. It could be anything between you. I’m like a scrap of meat, and you’re just hungry.”

“You like it when I’m hungry,” Sutton says, placing an openmouthed kiss to the side of my neck. He pulls one hand up until it rests under my breast. The other curves around to the lower plain of my belly, right above my sex. It’s an incredibly intimate way to touch me, and I’m standing in the front door backlit by a soft lamp from inside.

Christopher’s jaw works. His whole body looks tense, a spring pressed down into its smallest form, vibrating with the force to keep it that way. What would he do if he unleashed that power? Would he attack Sutton with blind rage? Or would he take it out on me in sensual torment, like he did at the Den? I’m holding my breath, and I can’t deny that I hope for the latter. The three of us together are dysfunctional and wrong, but it feels so good.

“You want her?” Sutton asks gently, and I think he’s pushing. Not only for sex. He’s pushing until Christopher breaks. Until there’s no hope of them together.

And maybe I’m doing the same thing.

Sometimes the Death Plan isn’t printed in black-and-white. Sometimes it’s whispering to us in the middle of the night. Sometimes it’s leaning back against Sutton’s body, knowing it will make Christopher come closer. His lips part, looking full, almost swollen as he watches us from beneath heavy lids. What would he say if he saw us bent over the sofa?

I’m not in love with Christopher Bardot.

Fear squeezes my throat. I’d rather push him away than watch him leave. “Come inside,” I say with a patently fake smile. “It’s more fun with both of you.”

Christopher turns away from us, and I realize this hurts just as much. You can’t avoid this forever. I break away from Sutton’s hold and run after him. “Wait.”

He stops a foot away from his car, still looking away. His body is held rigid, emanating intense emotion without moving a muscle. “You shouldn’t trust him.”

“You used to tell me that I shouldn’t trust you either.”

“That’s true, too. Leave the both of us. Go back to New York. LA. Anywhere but here.”

“I can’t do that.” I can tell myself that it’s the library that keeps me here, but I have a growing suspicion that it’s the man in front of me. If he went to Tokyo, I’d probably have to protest to save the cherry blossoms. It’s a terrible weakness in me, this feeling.

“Or make him tell you the truth.”

That makes me smile, though it’s a little sad. “Do you know the truth?”

“What are you talking about?”

Sutton’s obsession might not be one-sided. In that case I could be the one who brings them together. And then the one that’s left standing as they ride off into the sunset. “I didn’t think you were a coward, Christopher Bardot. To want someone and not tell them.”

His eyes narrow. He reaches for me before I can blink, turning me before I can breathe, backing me up against the dew-dropped surface of his Tesla. “You want a declaration, Harper?”

This close I can see little silver flecks in his black eyes. How have I never noticed them before? He looks pissed off and wild, like a powerful animal that has suddenly found itself in an ironclad cage. He looks afraid, and I’m suffused with a sense of wonder. What could scare this man? Nothing, I would have said. But I would have been wrong. “Do you have anything to declare?” I whisper, a little mocking.

He leans forward, his lips an inch from my cheek. “Who’s the coward now?” he murmurs against my temple, brushing a kiss so light it’s like air.

What would bravery look like right now? No, I’m not very courageous. There’s curiosity inside me, to see Sutton and Christopher together now that I know the feelings underneath. And there’s my own growing unrest. Sometimes you have to break something in order to fix it.

“Come inside,” I say, holding out my hand.

Sutton looks more surprised than me to see Christopher. As if pushing and pushing had been an archaic kind of mating ritual, one so ineffective that he had resigned himself to it never working. I have to face the facts—there is a chance that Christopher has buried feelings for Sutton, too. That I will lose both of them tonight. But I’m not going to hide in the shadows any longer. Not going to wait and wait and wait for these men to decide. I’m making the decisions right now, and I want them both in my bed.

The living room smells like warmth and roasted pumpkin seeds and sex. Sutton’s shirt is slung over the armchair. The cushions on the sofa are smooshed and rumpled from our bodies. It could possibly feel like a scene of guilt, of shame, and maybe when there was first a knock on the door it did.

Now it feels like Sutton and I are doing something together, like we’ve created this on purpose—the purpose being to seduce Christopher Bardot. It’s working, if the clench of his jaw is anything to go by. And the bulge against his jeans.

“Upstairs.” I mean to say it hard, like a command, but it comes out breathy. Both men follow me anyway, silent and large and looming on the sweeping staircase. It feels like I’m Little Red Riding Hood with two wolves prowling behind me, wondering which one will eat me first.

There’s always the chance they’ll eat each other.

My room has the flowered bedspread and antique dresser that was here when we moved in. There are no pictures on the side table, no modern art hanging on the wall. That’s a good thing. It makes this more like a hotel room, which is where we first consummated our threesome.