I pull at his shirt, deliriously needy.
“Slow down.” He laughs against my mouth and pries my fingers from his collar.
“When do I get to taste your cock again?”
“When I decide.” He kisses across my jaw and nips at my neck. “I intend to tease you for a long time.”
“Sadist.”
He bites the skin on my throat, hard enough to leave a mark. Then his mouth returns to mine, softer this time. Our lips glide together in a gentle motion, tongues meeting, releasing, repeating. Shared breaths, eyes closed, we kiss with the same love and hold each other with the same reluctance to pull away.
“There isn’t a word in the English language,” he says against my mouth, “that accurately describes what you mean to me.”
“We don’t need words, Trace.” I frame his face in my hands and rest my gaze in the sanctuary of his. “This is all we need.”
In the span of a wistful moment, it’s just Trace and me and the unified beat of our hearts.
Until another knock rattles the door.
“Time’s up,” I whisper.
His face falls drastically, and his fingers dig into my back. Does he think I meant time’s up forever?
“Trace, I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” He grabs my hand, gives my sweater and leggings a quick once-over, and opens the door.
Of all the people to find standing in the hallway, there’s Max, the employee who doesn’t understand the word no. He steps back, eyes wide, as Trace leads me out of the men’s bathroom.
“Are the walls sound-proof?” I grin over my shoulder at Max, walking quickly to match Trace’s long gait.
“Um…not really.” Max rubs the back of his head.
“Oh good. See you around.”
Trace grabs our cart of groceries, and we make our way to the front of the store. He’s quiet to the checkout line, quiet on the drive home, and quiet still when he parks in the garage and stares straight ahead.
“What’s wrong?” I unlatch the seatbelt and lean toward him.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been giving me one-word answers since we left the store.”
He unbuckles his seatbelt and drops a quick kiss on my lips. “I’m just mentally preparing myself.”
“For what?”
The door to the kitchen opens, and Cole steps into the garage. Trace glares at him through the windshield.
That’s what Trace was preparing for—Cole, this arrangement, and the inevitability of watching another man make my heart race. My chest constricts.
“There will come a day when…” He grips my chin and growls against my lips. “I’ll show no restraint.”
As the last of the groceries are put away, Trace gets a call and strolls toward the rear of the house, arguing with whomever is on the other line about regulations on new gaming machines. With the phone at his ear, he steps outside, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Cole.
“How was fishing this morning?” I dig around in the fridge, avoiding Cole’s eyes.
“Peaceful.”
I keep my back to him, as if the row of fruit-flavored yogurt requires my attention when all I’m really thinking about is Trace’s growled-out promise in the car.
If he showed restraint in the Walmart bathroom… Sweet lord. My skin tingles with his possessive marks, from the imprint of his teeth on my neck to his come rubbed into my back. He took me thoroughly and aggressively, and we didn’t even have sex. The memory alone makes my muscles clench low in my body. I ache to put my mouth on him, to hold the weight of his cock—”
“How far did he go?” Cole glares at me from his perch on the stool at the kitchen island.
“Excuse me?” My neck goes stiff, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth.
“I won’t repeat myself.” His hands rest on the counter, cupped around a beer bottle.
There’s no tension in his posture or expression, but something dark and restless churns in his brown eyes.
I close the fridge and stand on the opposite side of the island, facing him with lead in my stomach. The urge to glance at Trace’s silhouette beyond the windows claws at me, but I keep my gaze on Cole. “What are you talking about?”
He jerks forward, his eyes thrashing. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“How far did Trace go?” My hackles rise defensively. “Are we talking in terms of first base, second base…? Maybe we should put on pajamas and braid each other’s hair while I tell you all about it.”
“Do not fuck with me!” he roars, crashing a fist onto the counter. “Understood?”
“Do not yell at me,” I say in a low harsh voice and lift my chin. “Am I under-fucking-stood?”
He flattens his mouth in a line, staring at me blankly. Then he blinks, and a surprised sound heaves past his lips, an almost laugh thick with frustration.
Outside, Trace moves in my periphery. I meet his icy eyes through the windowed door. He’s still on the phone, his mouth moving rapidly as he reaches for the door handle. I give him a sharp shake of my head, and he lowers his arm.
“You got your backbone back, baby.” Cole rubs his hand over his face and drops his elbows on the counter, smirking to himself. “It’s hot as fuck when you stand up to me.”
The tightness in my neck loosens. If Cole were a dance, he’d be the Tango. It’s moody, volatile, and thrums with passion. It gets angry, goes ballistic, and the choreography makes a dramatic display of feelings, severe expressions, and snapping arm gestures. Then it reconciles, composes itself, and dims the lights. Cue the romance, the seduction, and the slide of a hand over fishnet stockings. Hearts beating, bodies in a close embrace, it burns and consumes and never lets go. That’s Cole in a complex nutshell.
I glance at the tall, refined figure on the back terrace and smile inwardly. There’s no dance more stately, elegant, or alluring than the iconic Waltz. The footwork is timeless and controlled, augmented by proud posturing as it travels deliberately, gracefully, to the ends of the world. It’s a legendary fairy tale, a well-dressed prince, and a palace glittering with promises. Trace is a beautiful Waltz.
Turning my attention back to Cole, I find his head lowered and sedate eyes fixed on his beer bottle, with a grim twist to his mouth.
My insides clamp with realization. He loses his temper when he’s hurting. And he’s hurting because of me.
I approach him hesitantly, noting the subtle twitch in his whiskered cheek. I search for something to say, and all thoughts lead to Trace and our stolen moment in the bathroom. That’s what this is about.
When I step close enough, he reaches for me, pulling me between his legs with my back to the island.
“If you don’t tell me what happened with him,” he says quietly, staring at his hand on my waist, “he will tell me. That’s the deal.”
“What deal? Are you talking about the rules?”
“Yes.” He rests his brow against my breastbone.