Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

My hips rock forward and back, reaching toward Christopher and then back toward Sutton. I can’t decide what I want, can’t decide who I want, and it hurts both ways.

They guide me toward the bed without discussing it. They became business partners for a reason. Even so different, there’s some part of them that works together. I’m undressed with four hands moving over me, worshipping me, driving me insane.

I’m laid down on the white lace bedspread, my breasts ruched and sensitive, my legs spread by Christopher’s hips. He touches me, careful and sure, finding me wet. One finger presses inside. Two. My body pushes up to meet him, finding the rhythm he feeds me, seeking release.

He pulls away before I can reach climax, making me moan my complaint.

“You want this?” he asks, so soft it might not be important. If not for the way his jaw ticks, for the impossible bulge beneath his slacks, you could think my answer doesn’t matter.

It was always supposed to be you. I bite those words back, because they have no place in this moment. No place in front of Sutton, who leans against the dresser, looking hungry and benevolent. He’s the one granting us this moment. Is this a gift to me or Christopher?

It might not be a gift at all. A Trojan horse, the way Christopher unbuckles his belt with hands made clumsy with urgency, the way my legs fall open against the bed. Enough to destroy the both of us, the way Christopher catches a condom Sutton tosses across three feet.

And then Christopher pushes against me.

His eyes widen. “You’ve done this before. Haven’t you?”

I turn my face away, hiding. A little ashamed. The hand on my cheek is gentle but inexorable. He turns me to face him, his eyes made a fraction lighter.

“Haven’t you?” he asks, soft, even though he must already know. My cheeks are burning. In all the imagined times that Christopher Bardot took my virginity, I never had to tell him.

Never had to admit I’ve waited for him.

“I want this,” I whisper, pulling uselessly at his arms where he leans over me. It might as well be pulling stone columns for all I move him. He’ll make the decision for us.

He leans down to press a chaste kiss to my lips. It feels like goodbye, that kiss, and I push up from the bed, following him, begging him with my body to stay.

I didn’t need to worry. He pushes inside me fast enough that I gasp, hard enough that I arch away from him, stunned and stretched. My hands fist in the bedspread.

“Shhh,” Christopher says, brushing hair away from my cheek. “The worst of it’s over. I’m going to be gentle with you, Harper. I promise.”

It’s a promise that makes my eyes sting, because it can’t be real. He’s determined and hard and cold, but never gentle with me. Except he pulls me into his arms, cradling me, holding me still as he pulls back and thrusts again. My mouth opens in lingering pain, but he captures it in a kiss. It has to be a lie, this kiss, so full of emotion that Christopher can’t have.

Pleasure surrounds me as surely as the dark water around a stone.

I sink deeper with every thrust and every breath. His head falls to my shoulder as he murmurs, “Yes, God. Harper. Like that. You’re so beautiful like that.”

Beautiful. He uses the word, but it doesn’t feel like he’s describing me. Not the way I look, anyway. He’s describing the way I feel around him. The way my secret muscles clench and squeeze, fighting the intrusion. He reaches down to move my hips in some specific way that feels only slightly different, until he pushes in again. Then sparks light up a place deep in my body, electricity running to every nerve and making me light up.

A rough sound comes from behind me, and I look back to see Sutton watching us with eyes a sharp crystal blue. They speak of arousal, those eyes, and something else—a secret plan.

A plan, like this is part of his strategy.

Like he always knew it would come to this between the three of us.

Then Christopher thrusts into me again, and I forget to think about Sutton. I forget anything but the feel of this body working over me, inside me, the warm lips on my neck. He tastes my skin along my shoulder. My breast. When he closes over my nipple, I whimper.

“I need you.” Three words. The most truth I’ve ever spoken to Christopher.

His eyes reflect the need back at me. I need you. Or maybe I’m imagining that. And then he closes his eyes, blocking me out again. He thrusts again, hard, making those starbursts behind my eyelids. There’s nothing to do but pant and moan and feel when he does that.

I’m drifting in a nighttime ocean of pleasure, unable to find land but not wanting, never wanting it as long as he does this. My nails scratch at lean, muscled shoulders. He grunts and pushes harder, harder. He bends to my ear, the other side of Sutton. And murmurs, so quiet I almost think I’m imagining it. “Please,” he says against my skin, more feeling than sound.

This man, so proud and so strong. He says please like a man kneeling at my feet.

And I come like a goddess being worshipped, the pleasure fire-bright in my clit and spreading out to my body in waves. Christopher rides my climax with quick thrusts that take me deeper. There’s no air here, but I don’t need it, don’t need to breathe, only need Christopher—and I cling to him. I grasp at him, hungry, desperate, as his body stiffens and pushes, once, twice, and he cries out, hoarse and broken.

Exhaustion makes me collapse back on the bed, my eyes closed. Sleep laps at my skin, threatening to drag me under. God, I can’t fall asleep right now. I shouldn’t, but my body doesn’t understand that. The last thing I feel is Christopher’s lips against my forehead, like a benediction as I sink into sleep.