Harper stares at me, his rawboned face not betraying shock or disgust, but curiosity and something else. A muscle ticks along the granite line of his jaw, and emotion, tamped down, flares in his eyes with blue heat like a gas flame.
“I’d like that very much,” Harper finally says. “As long as it’s not just to get back at your husband.”
Is it?
Of course, it is, not that Trey will care. What’s good for the Trey is good for the Sinclaire, but it’s more than that. It’s more specific than that. If I had stumbled in here and met someone else, I’d already be in an Uber on my way home. But I sat on him. I talked to him. Harper made me laugh and relax.
And want.
“It’s not all that,” I admit. “Because of Trey, I mean. I’d be lying if I said none of it is because he’s here living out his ménage trois fantasy.”
“Trois?” One dark brow quirks.
“A couple.”
“A threesome? Well you know what that means.” His full lips take on a wicked shape. “We gotta be filthy.”
The air clogs with lust motes, and my heart pounds, a bass drum, a mallet behind my ribs. My hands shake, and I long for my glass of wine to hide behind and drown in, but my head is much too clear. I’m not drunk enough to blame this on the alcohol tomorrow. I know exactly what I’m doing.
It’s a night to be brazen, so I stand, reach behind me to tug on the zipper securing my dress. The bodice droops away from my arms and shoulders, the sleeves falling loose and empty at my sides. The body shaper beneath my clothes added a layer of confidence, of armor, and even though I’m still covered, the delicate rose appliques on the straps, the boned silk bodice, the color, like a blush across my skin—tell him more about me than my nakedness would, if he’s astute enough to see. It would tell him that no matter how modest my clothes might be, I have an appetite for luxury. It would tell him despite my husband’s occasional indifference, I never stopped trying to tempt him. It could tell him that despite my misgivings about tonight, I wore my prettiest underclothes because I secretly hoped maybe, just maybe I’d find some measure of pleasure, too. That for once, it wouldn’t be all about Trey.
I think he sees. I think he knows. His eyes soften, and he stands, bringing him so close I smell the copulation of scents, cologne and his natural clean, masculine smell. He reaches out to follow the line of my collar bone with one long finger. He has elegant hands. The hands of an artist, a painter. A writer. Someone preoccupied with documenting the beauty of life, and he’s looking at me now like I’m a work of art.
Slowly, never breaking our stare, he slides one finger beneath the strap of my body shaper so it slumps over one shoulder, and my breasts, heavy and held up, dip a little. Every place his gaze traces—the shallow well at the base of my throat, the tops of my breasts over the cups of satin, the dusky cleft of my cleavage—seems to catch fire. I try to control my breathing, but the longer he looks at me, staring like a wolf licking his chops, the louder my breaths come in the quiet room. His finger trails from my neck to the other strap of the shaper, the only thing securing the material that hides me from him.
“May I?” he asks, finger poised to expose.
I can’t form words the anticipation is so thick in the air, in my throat, so I nod dumbly. He tugs and the cool air hits my skin when the straps fall away. My breasts spill forward and he swoops to hover his mouth over one brown nipple.
“May I?” he asks again, breath hot over me, and though his voice sounds exactly as it did when he asked that question a moment ago, there is something tighter there. Something straining, like it’s about to snap. Like he’s about to snap, and I want to see. Possessed by some siren, or bold temptress, I cup my breasts, plumping them up until one distended nipple brushes his lips. His control fractures, slips and he closes his mouth around the tip with a greedy suction, with a feral sound that sends a bolt of pleasure between my legs.
He flicks one nipple with his thumb, and bites and sucks the other, eyes closed tightly so long lashes fan against his tanned skin. His cheeks hollow as he seems to lose himself sucking me, his mouth greedy at my breast. He busies his hands on my body, dragging the zipper past my hips and ass so the dress pools at my feet. My knees are weak and rubbery, the cartilage gelatinous and unsupporting. He releases my breast with a loud pop, and pulls back to stare down at me. The shaper pinches my waist in and snaps between my legs. He slides one finger over the stiff silk encasing my torso, my waist and hips. Without warning, he drops to his knees. My fingers tremble with the need to plow through his thick dark hair, to muss the waves. He taps my inner thigh with enough force to sting. The tiny slap sends a thrill through me, and I wonder how he’d slap my ass. If his large hand would cover one cheek. If he’d mark me where no one else could see. Because that’s where I’ll carry the recollection of tonight, of him. Beneath my clothes and under my skin, a subcutaneous memory.“Spread your legs,” he orders, his deep voice spiked with gravel. With no thought of resisting, I spread my legs to the width of my shoulders. He leans forward and down even further until his face is at the juncture of my thighs. I have a moment of self-consciousness with him so intrusive, so close in the most private place in a way only Trey has been, and take a step in, narrowing the gap between my legs.
“What did I say?” he asks roughly. “Spread your legs if you want to get fucked, Sin.”
Something about the moniker reaches in and strokes inside like a probing finger. Whether it’s the familiarity of abbreviating my name or the wickedness of it—Sin—I don’t know, but I spread my legs like a good girl. I train my gaze on the ceiling, wondering when he’ll make his move, but I’m still unprepared for his silky hair to brush inside my thigh, cool against the hot skin as he his teeth close around the tiny snap between my legs holding the body suit secure.
“Oh.” It’s all I can manage on a startled breath. “You can’t . . .”
But he does. He pulls the front flap out of the way and replaces it with his mouth, open and ardent and hot and wet on my pussy. He groans, an echo of his pleasure, of how consumed he is, and the sound shudders through my muscles, leaving me trembling as he continues to feast, every once in a while, pushing a finger and then two inside, while still sucking on the bundle of nerves at the top. The bottom flaps of the body suit hang loosely, uselessly around my body, and he cups my bare ass with his big hands. He can’t quite contain the round globes of my butt, the flesh overflowing his fingers.
“Now this is an ass,” he says huskily. In time with the persistent suction of his mouth, he squeezes my butt until it’s like a pulse thrumming through my whole body. Before I question it, I add my own cadence with the rhythmic squeezing of my breast, brushing a thumb over my nipple. Tiny cries sneak past my lips and I don’t even try to stop them. It’s so good I’ll explode. All self-consciousness is long gone. I’m now thrusting my hips against his lips, pressing my wet flesh to his mouth and he keeps eating, slurping, until the sinews, the muscles, the bones in my body liquify and I melt, hands squeezing his shoulders to stay standing. I come so hard, my vision goes dark and then splinters with fireworks.
Sinking my fingers into the thick, dark waves of his hair, I pump my hips, giving him everything–my inhibitions, full access to the secrets of my body, carte blanche. And he takes advantage, gripping my thighs so hard as he drinks from my body’s liquid offering that I know I’ll bruise. I can’t wait to see it tomorrow in the starkness of morning. The only reminder I’ll have of his full possession.
His mouth slows and his grip eases as I come down from the stratosphere that orgasm sent me to. I’m all lassitude and listlessness, but when I pry my eyes open to peer down at him, lust blazes back from his stare.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard your husband will never satisfy you again,” he says it like a warning. Like it’s my last chance to escape, but I have no desire to run.
“Do it.” My voice holds the paradox of a command and a plea. “He won’t be my husband much longer anyway.”
One dark brow elevates, and a smile graces his lips, shiny with the essence of my body. Holding my stare, somehow commanding me even though he’s the one on his knees, he deliberately drags his tongue over his lips, making sure I know he’s savoring the taste of me there.
“That’s some good pussy,” he laughs. “I could be down here all night.
”
“I thought you were gonna fuck me so hard my—”