Menage by Emma Holly
Chapter One
The Former Mrs. Robyn’s
On the night it began, I bounded up the stairs to my two-hundred-year-old colonial town house in the heart of Philadelphia. The shiny green shutters gleamed against the brick as if winking in welcome. Despite the tree-lined seclusion of Society Hill, the cacophony of rush hour sang in my ears. I loved this reminder of the city's vitality. My body hummed with its energy. My heart pounded, strong and free. My skin tingled in the brisk autumn air and under it all, like a fruit ripening for harvest, my cunt warmed at the thought of the half-read erotic novel waiting by my bed.
Masturbation first, I thought, then dinner, then TV, then to bed with my smutty book.
Back then nothing made me happier, or hornier, than a productive day at work - preferably a long one. Not only did it prove that, at thirty-three, I still had plenty of go in me, it proved I was as good a breadwinner as Tom - better, in fact, because I didn't have to be a lawyer to do it.
'First thing we do, let's get rid of all the lawyers.' Kicking off my Adidas, I tossed my keys on to the Queen Anne side table in the hall. My hair clip followed.
With a sigh of relief, I dug my fingers through my sheep-thick curls and massaged my scalp. Heaven. I flicked on the lights. Apart from its usual creaks and groans, the old house was quiet. My lodgers must be out cruising the bars on South Street
.
A thrill ran through me as I imagined the picture they'd make: one dark, one fair, both gorgeous and young, both fairly reeking with erotic possibilities. The connection between Sean and Joe was palpable. I could almost smell the sex on them, like animals in heat. Could some of that heat be for me, I wondered, or would they keep it all to themselves?
Pondering that very question, I smoothed my black riding jacket over the swell of my breasts. I loved the way the black velvet hugged my generous curves before nipping in at my waist. Paired with a snug pair of Levis, I knew the jacket bordered on obvious, but I wasn't one to hide my figure - not when I worked so hard to stay in fighting trim.
In any case, having two scrumptious young studs in the house tended to make me clothes-conscious. And body-conscious, I thought, peering up the narrow spindle-banister stairs to make certain I was alone.
No shadows moved on the landing. No Robert Cray Band growled seductively through the hall. I'd never heard Robert Cray before Sean and Joe moved in, but once I had I was hooked. That man really knew how to sing about love. I could have eaten him up just listening.
My sex melted like butter at the thought. I loved giving head, which probably kept my marriage together longer than anything else. Seventeen year olds simply don't do that sort of thing well.
Smirking to myself, I took the stairs two at a time.
Maybe I'd slip into Joe's room and borrow the CD. He wouldn't mind. Despite Sean's attempts to make me -and Joe, for that matter - believe he was one hundred per cent boy's boy-toy, I knew Joe was sweet on me. Sean had an early accountancy class, so every morning Joe and I ate breakfast alone. Lately I'd been coming down in my embroidered silk kimono. How he blushed if I bumped his leg under the table or bent to drag the frying pan out of the cabinet.
Of course, my derriere is one of my best features. Power walking will do that.
Anyway, most days Joe finished breakfast with a boner too big to let him stand. There he'd sit, a napkin draping his humped-up dick, a prisoner of my erotic torment -and his own shyness. Sometimes I'd press a goodbye kiss to his clean-shaven cheek for the sheer pleasure of watching that napkin jump.
Joe made me enjoy being a woman again.
Reaching the landing, I saw he'd left his door open. I caught a whiff of soap and Armies, the purest aphrodisiac I knew. My palms tingled with excitement. I didn't intend to snoop, merely grab the music and go. Even so, my heart skipped at the prospect of having his private space all to myself. Who knew what I might stumble across?
As though it divined my thoughts, Joe's Phantom of the Opera poster glowered as I sauntered to the CD player. Robert Cray's Strong Persuader lay on top of the stack. Joe knew I liked the album, and knew I might wander in if he played it. I suspected he played it as often as he dared. I tossed the plastic case into the air, caught it neatly, then stopped in my tracks.
Joe's jockstrap hung from his bedpost. The white pouch sagged with the memory of its burden. I knew from our breakfast sessions that he was well-hung. Oh, yes, Joe was a six-foot, hard-as-a-board, twenty-three-year-old stud.