“Why don’t we move this conversation upstairs?”
As Lukas’s fingers tighten, my attention turns back to the pair. How the heck did I get myself into this?
“We could all get to know each other a little better,” Annika declares.
“A lot better,” her husband adds. “And without the restriction of our clothes.”
Help!
2
Holly
I do like older people, but I don’t want to screw them, no matter how attractive they are! I don’t have daddy issues. Or mommy issues. And I haven’t even managed sex as a two-some in eighteen months, so a threesome is out of the question.
Universe, I think you might have your wires crossed. This was not on my wish list!
“I think we’ve shocked you a little,” Captain Obvious says. Okay, Lukas says. How about no shit Sherlock. “Annika and I love to travel,” he continues, “and when we travel, we like to take a little holiday from monogamy and spice things up.”
“That is . . .” That is TMI, right there. Just too much information for me. I’m happy to share a bottle of wine or a cheese platter, but that’s where I draw the line. I can’t even share a water bottle with my sister without feeling a little unsettled by the my mouth where her mouth has been thing. Am I giving some kind of unconscious DTF vibes because, seriously, I am so not down to f—do that.
A threesome!
What the fluff?
I lean back in my seat as Lukas moves forward in his, like a snake about to strike. Or a deranged car salesman with a crazy sales pitch. This is a car I’m not going to ride. But then a large hand appears in the space between us. A large hand attached to a strong wrist which, as I look up—and up—appears to be attached to the devil in his Sunday suit. Or his Wednesday suit, which looks just as fine as any suit the devil might wear on Sundays.
I know those eyes. I’ve met them before. Over the edge of the Financial Times just a few minutes ago. Who knew the devil had such cool coloured eyes, amusement dancing there instead of fire and brimstone?
“It is you,” his deep voice intones, its buttery warmth catching me off guard. I find myself pressing my hand into his, and he pulls me to my feet and almost into his chest. His hard, unyielding, could-rent-the-space-for-advertising chest.
I exhale a breathy, “Yes,” because, up close, boy, this is a lot of man. A wall of man, you might say. Older, sophisticated, and so dang sexy. I like older people, a little voice inside me squeaks. And then I realise I’m just staring at him. “I-I am me,” I stutter. “I mean, yes, it is me! And it’s you . . .” You handsome devil, you.
He stares playfully down, eyebrow quirked in almost in a question mark. Up closer, his eyes seem a deeper shade of blue, which might be contrast something to do with the dark blue of his suit. Whatever the reason, the result is striking, coupled with those extra thick lashes, the kind that is God’s joke on womankind, and some serious crow’s feet. I don’t mean serious as in Botox needed, STAT! More like serious might be his default face. Which would be strange, considering his gaze feels like a hook daring me to play along.
“It’s Cousin Lyle!” I belatedly tag on. Fictitious Cousin Lyle, or as he was previously known to me, the hot snorting man who just recently vacated the seat behind the kinky duo.
“How are you, Olive?” His mouth quirks in the corner, his tone a tiny bit sour. I try not to laugh, unsure if it’s the name he’s christened me I find funny or that he doesn’t like the one I’ve given him.
“Olive?” Lukas begins, though neither of us spares him a glance. “You said your name was—”
“Who were you this time?” The stranger sighs as he stares balefully down at me. “It was Candy again, wasn’t it?”
“If your parents had named you Olive, you’d be making up names, too,” I counter happily, picking up where he leaves off. Oh, my. I do love a man who’s good on his feet.
“But you’ll always be Olive to me.” Fake Lyle’s reply is smooth as silk, or at least the synthetic kind. For all our insincerity.
“Lyle, you’re such a tease,” I murmur, finding my fingers on his chest somehow. “So, how are tricks?”
“Tricks are . . .tricky.” If temptation had an expression, I’m looking at it.
“And you need my advice.” I deliver my assertion with just a hint of fake sympathy as I turn to grab my purse. “You’ve got boyfriend trouble again, haven’t you?” I waggle an admonishing finger at him.
“You know how it is,” he answers, that sour note resurfacing again.
Oh, God, I love that he’s playing along, even if I seem to be the only one having fun.