After an equally tense elevator ride, you’ve let the clean-cut cop and rough-and-tumble biker into your apartment where—thank God—your roommate is not present and won’t be home until tomorrow night. Barely giving you a chance to set your keys down, Biker approaches from behind, drawing you back against his chest. You smell the leather of his jacket, the hint of tobacco and mint on his breath. His hands are the rougher of the two men, calloused from the handlebars of his bike. They abrade your wrists as he draws them back, securing them at the small of your back with a firm grip. His prisoner.
Which is kind of ironic, since there’s a professional prisoner-taker on the scene and speaking of which…incoming. His boots tread heavily on the wood floor as he saunters close. Thud thud thud. Wait, that’s your pulse where it has decided to live inside your throat, beating mercilessly. Because you thought Cop was hot in the restaurant, but since entering your apartment, he has taken off his jacket, revealing bazookas for biceps and to say they are distracting is NOT an understatement, because they are battling against the huge erection in his jeans for your focus.
Where do I look? What’s he going to do? What are THEY going to do?
Behind you, Biker begins a concentrated attack on your neck, scoring the skin with his teeth, licking over the sore spots he creates as if you’re made of the world’s finest chocolate, groaning with every taste. You want to reach back and hold his head, keeping him at that deliciously sensitive spot behind your ear, but your hands are bound and he has no problem reminding you, tightening his hold with authority.
The distance between you and Cop has finally vanished, but right before his lips lands on yours, he stops, breathing heavily less than an inch from your mouth. His powerful hands tease the hem of your dress, before he begins giving you a full-on massage, climbing the sides of your thighs with aggressive strokes of his thumbs.
“Tell me something about you, sweet girl. Something that’ll help me fuck you right.”
4
“Tell me something about you, sweet girl. Something that’ll help me fuck you right.”
Biker actually has to hold you up because that command from Cop steals the strength in your knees, but his laugh against your neck isn’t taunting, it’s gruff and admiring. Just to buy yourself some time to recover, you whisper, “You first,” to Cop, breaking off on a moan when his caressing hands find your hips beneath your dress and squeeze.
Cop appears hesitant for a moment, but finally leans in and grazes your lips with his coarser, more masculine ones, his stubble rasping on your chin. “With my job, I have a hard time getting anyone to stick around. Too many times I’ve gotten sucked into a job and…come home to find the place empty.”
There is so much remorse in his deep timbre that sympathy makes your chest burn. As though Biker senses your sudden impulse to soothe, he allows you enough movement to go up on tiptoes and lean into Cop, taking his mouth in a slow, rhythmic skating of tongues, kicking up a storm of growls from both sides, both men, sending a vibrating hum through your already heightened senses.
You sense the scales are imbalanced now that only one of these men has made a confession…and you don’t like that feeling. Don’t like the uneven breathing from Biker, as if maybe he’s built a head of steam, trying to convince himself he doesn’t want to share. But you can feel he does. It’s crazy, but you can. You’re the one who evens the weight between the three people in this room, aren’t you? Yes…you think you are…and no one will be left out. With an effort, you break Cop’s kiss and lean back, dropping your head onto Biker’s shoulder, finding his eyes molten, like melted down silver. “Now you. Tell us something about you.”
Cop’s hands are still moving on your hips, making it hard to concentrate, but you focus with all your willpower as Biker’s sensual mouth—with a tiny scar bisecting the top lip—begins to move. “He has a hard time getting people to stick around,” Biker murmurs at your neck, nipping at your ear so unexpectedly, you whimper. “And I’m usually the one who can’t stick.”
“Your turn, sweet girl,” Cop says, his hands going to your bottom…and you feel it…as Cop kneads your backside, Biker rubs his arousal against Cop’s busy hands, all while devouring your neck with open mouthed kisses. The by-the-book man you’re facing, the one who declared early he didn’t share, stiffens for just a moment. But he doesn’t pull away. No, he only abuses your bottom all the harder, pressing his forehead against yours and panting. Panting.
You can hardly breathe, much less offer something useful about yourself, but as they press in on you, flattening you between their hard bodies, you hear yourself blurt in a rushed whisper, “My college boyfriend broke up with me last year and I keep screwing up dates. On purpose, maybe. I think. Case in point…tonight. Because I-I’m scared of being happy and still getting rejected.”