More wrong than asking them which wanted to be the one to take your virginity?
Her belly quivered, everything south heating so fast that she feared embarrassing herself if she didn’t get out of there. She might just agree to anything he asked.
Especially since she’d already considered it, throughout the long night when she’d twisted and turned in her bed and remembered Matt and Tris together. She’d tried to stop picturing herself with them, but it was impossible. Her mind insisted on inserting her into every explicit scene she conjured up, each more torrid than the last.
Matt leaned in and kissed her lightly. Though his lips scarcely brushed hers, her core contracted as if he’d sucked her nipple into his mouth. “Think about it.”
Then he turned around, whistling, and headed off to the shower.
Before she chased after him, she hurried downstairs to her desk. Music. She needed music. Anything to drown out the voice in her head.
She brought up a Christmas music station online and turned up the volume. Carols would put her in the right frame of mind.
Focus on something else.
Christmas. That worked.
They still needed to get a tree for the office. They’d been so incredibly busy for the last few months that none of them had even had a chance to think of decorating, though that was usually Matt’s job anyway. He got a kick out of stringing garland all over the place and putting up gel clings of angels and snowflakes in the windows. She and Tris always teased him it was obvious he’d missed out on the design gene completely, because anyone with an artistic eye would reject that stuff on sight.
Last Christmas she’d been seeing Gary. So that was around when this had started between them.
Deep in the heart of winter, they’d turned to each other. One night Matt had just reached for Tristan’s zipper and said what the hell and gone to town.
Here, probably. In this very office.
Which of them had taken the other’s cock in his mouth that first night? All that hard, needy flesh, just begging to be licked and stroked. Deep throated. Swallowed.
She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against her monitor, unable to erase the pictures forming behind her eyes. God, she was losing it. In a minute, she’d spontaneously orgasm, and then she’d be incapable of denying the truth.
Tristan and Matt being lovers fascinated her.
She wanted to watch them. Wanted to be a part of them.
“Normally you leave fingerprints on the monitor. Now forehead prints? Cripes, Caity, that machine cost over two grand.”
She jolted backward at Tristan’s irritated voice. He stood in the kitchenette, wearing a crisp white Oxford shirt and black dress pants. Though it was still a little wet, his dark hair skimmed his shoulders in perfect waves. As rugged as M
att’s looks were, Tristan’s were classic. He looked like a movie star between takes, with just enough edge to make things interesting. More edge than she’d ever guessed. She wouldn’t have pegged him as a rough lover, but last night had proven her wrong on a lot of scores.
Forest green eyes met hers, then glanced pointedly at the floor. “Who broke your mug?” he asked, his tone immediately softening. “Aww, honey, I’m sorry.”
All at once, the previous evening rushed back, and she hurried into the kitchen.
Wile E. Coyote’s head lay in fat pieces on the hardwood floor. She stared as Tris cleaned up the mess. He swore colorfully while he did it, but he didn’t hesitate.
Her sweet, unselfish friend.
Okay, that wasn’t true. He could often be selfish. But he wasn’t with her.
Never with her.
“Tris,” she whispered, crouching to brush her hand over his hair. Just one quick, illicit touch.
He turned his head, his gorgeous eyes radiating compassion. “I know that was your favorite. I’ll buy you a new one. Where’d you get it again?”
“A shop in California.”
“Oh. Well, they must have a website, right?”