Unwrapped

A line of sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades. Slowly, she unwound her scarf. She’d forgotten to take off her outer clothes. No wonder she was hot. She had no reason to be nervous in her own house.

Did she?

Then she heard a heavy scraping sound, like furniture being moved, and she pressed her back to the wall. Oh God. She’d known something was wrong. The lights were off, so who the hell would be moving furniture? Maybe someone had broken in and overpowered the guys. They could be tied up even now or worse. Maybe the serial killer was rolling their bodies up in the rug in Tristan’s living room.

She shoved her fist into her mouth to keep from making a noise. The smart thing to do would be to run downstairs and get help. Maybe the police would arrive in time.

A groan ripped through the air, disturbing the silence so fully that the sound echoed. And it sure didn’t seem like pain. Well, not regular pain. She’d heard that particular sound before when guys—

Again. A long, low sound of pleasure.

She bit down on her knuckles, forgetting the cheese puffs she held under her arm. The bag clattered to the floor, but whoever was boinking in the bedroom couldn’t hear. Not when they were now screwing so loudly that the bed was moving.

Tristan’s bed.

That had been the noise she’d heard. They were going at it so hard that the frame kept slamming against the wall.

Creak. Creak. A pause. Slam.

Her stomach twisted, hard. The beer suddenly tasted rancid on her tongue.

Why should she be jealous? Stupid. Tris was a talented lover. Of course women wanted him. Matt too. Women wanted Matt, she amended, only half-aware that her feet were carrying her closer to the bedroom instead of away.

The door to Tristan’s section was shut. Though this level had been split equally into three distinct areas, the doors that separated them from one another were usually only closed when someone had a girlfriend or boyfriend over. Even then Matt in particular could be counted on to leave the door cracked, as if he got off on the idea of making his roommates listen to his bedroom antics. He was noisy as hell in bed, grunting and yelling with the best of them.

Honestly, she envied him. She sure hadn’t ever experienced anything to elicit sounds like he regularly made. Moans, sure. But grunts wrested from the depth of her soul?

That would be a no.

She stopped, her throat convulsing at the new groans reverberating down the hall. That wasn’t Tristan.

No way.

Matthew was in Tristan’s apartment, but why? Did they have a girl in there? Were they having a threesome?

Shit.

They’d never told her they did stuff like that, but single guys in their late twenties were apt to do any damn thing.

More than ever, her virginity felt like a giant weight pressing down on her chest. And other overstimulated parts of her body.

If they were having a threesome, why hadn’t they asked her? She was their frigging best friend. The one who cleaned them up and dumped them into bed when they’d had too much fun on Saturday night, the one who picked out presents for Matt’s mom because he hated to and sent out office Christmas cards because Tristan’s handwriting looked like a mass murderer’s.

They were a trio, and as such, if they’d progressed to ménages, it only made sense that she be the third spoke of their sexfest.

She rubbed her knuckles against her hip and inhaled deeply. Wait, what? What in God’s name was she thinking? She didn’t want to have a threesome.

With them or anyone. Ordinary twosome sex was vexing enough.

Fisting her hands, Cait continued on until she reached Tris’s door. She pushed it open as quietly as possible and stepped inside the darkened living room. Silence prevailed but only briefly. Then the bed banging erupted again, more violently than before. The moans that sliced through the night mixed and mingled, though each was distinct and completely recognizable.

Jerks.

Their earlier conversation flashed through her mind, tinged heavily with a sense of betrayal she couldn’t repress. She never liked being left out, but this brought that feeling home with a vengeance. Just when she’d made a decision to take a definitive step toward embracing her sexuality, they had to reenact some kind of tawdry movie mere feet away from her own bed.

“Try not to go at each other too badly before I get home, ’kay?”

“We’ll try to control ourselves.”