THORIN
Thorin
I yawn and stretch, looking around the bare waiting area we’re being held in. Either this company is brand spanking new, or they need a fucking decorator up in here.
“Does baby need a nap?” Mal chuckles, sticking his finger in my mouth and ruining my yawn.
“Mother fucker, I will end you. Who ruins another man’s yawn?”
“Hey, we’re all exhausted. Leo and I just have the decency to look professional. And you two are the ones who insisted on taking this meeting, not me.”
“Yeah, well that was before we lost her,” Leo grumps. He was in a sour mood from the second Bree left our sight last night. And after failing to find her, despite searching the crowd and wandering the streets of Chicago for hours, sour turned to anger and frustration. We’ve been closer than brothers for years, and I’ve never seen him like this about anything, let alone a woman.
Then again, saying Bree was ‘just a woman,’ is serious bullshit. I saw the way he connected with her. Even I felt it. There was something breathtaking about the way she gave herself over to us.
For years, we’ve shared women. I know a lot of guys couldn’t or wouldn’t do that, but for the three of us, it’s the only way. There’s nothing hotter than making a woman moan around my stepbrother’s dick while I eat her pussy. There’s nothing hotter than fucking a woman airtight. A dick in every hole with the sole aim of making her come so hard she sees Jesus. Nothing in the world.
At least I thought so. But before last night, in all of my memories, the women were faceless. Exchangeable. It was just pleasure for pleasure’s sake. We were all on the same page, and everyone left satisfied. But last night was different. And not just because Mal and I got blue balls.
Until last night, it was only physical. None of us ever went looking for a repeat with anyone. None of us ever woke up all pissy over a session ending early either. We would just shrug and move on.
But after losing Bree last night, there’s something inside me that feels raw, like a piece of me was carved out and the wound was left to fester. Mal is surlier than usual, which is really saying something. Even Leo, who is usually all laughs, is being a grumpy motherfucker. I think it’s fair to say that none of us are coping well today.
“Gentlemen?” The woman who put us in the holding tank opens the door and gets our attention. She gestures for us to come with her. “Ms. Guerrero will see you now.” Leo raises his eyebrows at me in a ‘let’s get this over with’ expression.
Mal takes the lead but I’m noodling that name around. Guerrero. I know I’ve heard it before. “Isn’t Guerrero Spanish for warrior?” I whisper to Leo.
“How should I know? I grew up in Minnesota. You know I’m black and not Spanish, right?”
I roll my eyes. I need a drink. We’re led through a lobby, and unlike the holding room, it is actually furnished. Lots of cream-colored chairs and couches, white and tan accents. If I’d ever been to a spa, this is about what I’d expect. Except for the logo that juts out from the reception desk, backlit with bright white light.
JustCloth.
I tap Leo’s arm and point at the logo. He’s already squinting at it, his head turned like he’s trying to place it too. And no wonder. I read an article on the brand’s launch a couple years ago, and I’m pretty sure Leo is the one that forwarded it to me back when we were worked for Gruber.
“Sustainable women’s fashion supporting female and minority makers,” I mutter under my breath. He nods thoughtfully. My wheels are already spinning, cataloging different pitches we could play with, but something else is needling me. Guerrero… what was the CEO’s first name? It’s on the tip of my tongue, but just out of reach.
I scratch my head, and then, just as the assistant opens the door to a conference room, it clicks. Brielle Guerrero. Daughter of Spanish immigrants, first generation. Started her company in a garage and turned it into a mini empire. Clothes, shoes, makeup, skincare.
One of the photographs from the article comes to mind. Maybe I’m conflating a memory with a wish, but I don’t think so. A tall, gorgeous woman with ebony hair and a smile that could cause pileups on the freeway was standing in the middle of an industrial warehouse while activity buzzed around her.
I stop dead in my tracks, heart battering my ribs from the inside as Leo crashes into my shoulder. “What the hell is—“ he whispers, but then the assistant steps out of the way, and Mal and Leo see exactly what I realized two seconds earlier.
Bree. She’s standing by one of the chairs, leaning over a laptop. Her crisp white blouse has a collar that buttons up the front of her throat. The throat that I squeezed as I watched her come apart less than 18 hours ago.
Her dark hair falls around her shoulders in natural waves and the makeup from last night is long gone. Our little vixen from last night looks more like a Sunday school teacher, but she’s still just as tempting. Maybe more so, because I’d love nothing more than to corrupt every inch of her.
Bree glances up with a forced smile, but the second she sees the three of us in the doorway, her skin goes white as her demure little top. She stares at us, lips parted in shock. Her eyes, so wide you’d think we were here to hurt her, bounce between me, Leo, and Mal. She swallows against her collar, and I feel my lip twitch. The only collar I want on her delicate little neck is ours.
“Lockwood, Lockwood, and Carris.” The assistant, seemingly oblivious to the roomful of tension, introduces us. Mal is frozen in place, and Leo is openly gawking, so I step forward, trying to get a handle on the impulse to drag Bree over the table and chain her to my side.
“Nice to meet you,” I hold my hand out. “Thorin Lockwood.” Brielle eyes my offering like a coiled snake that could spring at her without a moment’s notice.
The assistant finally seems to be catching on that something is amiss. She elbows Bree in the side, jolting her out of her reverie. Bree raises her hand toward mine. Slowly. I guess I’m the venomous snake in this situation. My fingers clasp around hers, enveloping them. Her warmth gets under my skin, inching through me until I’m burning. I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb, a triumphant current running through me when her pupils flare, and she visibly shivers.
“Brielle Guerrero.” Her voice lilts over her last name with hints of a Catalan accent I hadn’t noticed before now. My mute compatriots finally find their sacks and step up, introducing themselves, rather unnecessarily. She takes each of their hands in turn, making pleasantries that don’t quite meet her eyes. Still, just watching them touch her is enough to make my dick stir.
“Kelly, I could use a cup of coffee. Could you grab a round from Starbucks downstairs?” I glance at the steaming mug sitting on her desk, chock full of coffee. The assistant does too, but she barely misses a beat.