A man like Redix Dean, the hot Hollywood actor who did those romantic, male-stripper movies. They’re my favorite because any man who can dance like that has got to have a good soul. He’s got to make you feel so damn good; like a queen, I bet he worships you until you come so hard.
A while back, I met Redix.
He grew up here on Hilton Head Island and was back, having dinner with his childhood sweetheart, our local legend, Sergeant Cade Bryant.
That woman intimidated me. More than Redix’s orgasmic smile, Cade greeted me with genuine concern, and it touched me.
Women are rarely nice to me, but she is.
She’s dating a man who looks like Redix’s twin, but he’s more.
He’s Silas Van de May, and Gentry is obsessed with Silas. Not only because Silas is so hot like Redix that you revisit your definition of sexual attraction in his presence. It’s also because Silas is the heir to the Van de May Energy fortune, and Gentry is in love with the power Silas’s family’s endorsement would bring.
That’s why Gentry let me invite Cade and Silas to our New Year’s Eve party the other night at a holiday event. Gentry was pleased that I’d befriended Cade, or she befriended me. It’s hard to tell, but it’s odd.
Like you’d think Gentry would avoid a woman like Cade. She’s everything he stands against. Powerful. Confident. Able to murder his ass.
His notions of power and privilege and who should have it are antiquated and bigoted. But there’s a history between Cade and Gentry. I don’t know what it is, but I know when a woman hates a man, and Cade Bryant hates my husband. Good. If that doesn’t make Cade my new and only friend, I may survive this marriage.
But tonight, after whatever Gentry makes me do to him, I’ll survive it with the thought of any of these men.
There’s something about them.
It’s cracking the air around me like that moment between when all the lights drop… and the big concert begins. You grab a deep breath because you know this is about to be the best show of your life. You’ll forget your miserable world for hours while all you feel is pure energy, connection, and pleasure.
Pleasure like Mateo gliding his tan, hard, naked skin over mine, his tattoos capturing my stare while he shows my flesh how real men kiss you. Everywhere.
Or Luke, so young, but he’s legal. He can’t be more than ten years my junior, and that’s forbidden enough to turn me on. I can tell he’s eager to please. Pleasing me with those eyelashes adoring me while he smiles between my thighs; I’ve never had my pussy kissed.
Or Ford. I don’t know why he hates me, but I can tell—still, he wouldn’t hurt me. Hate would only turn into passion between us, into him bending me over and fucking me from behind like the boss he is, and yes, who says enemies can’t fuck too?
The fantasy suddenly hits me.
Or all three of them.
God has got to be a woman if that is ever real for anyone because it jolts my clit so fast, clenching my pussy so tight that a gasp escapes my lips, and… Ford hears it.
Quickly, he glances at me, catching my silent trembling at my forbidden wish of all three men fucking me.
Oh shit, am I that obvious?
Can he read the XXX-rated thoughts behind my eyes?
A painful swallow rolls down my throat. The part of my brain that overrides my pussy, that keeps me alive, warns; you best fix your face before your husband notices too.
So I plaster on a pageant smile—all teeth, no brains—while my mind spins behind my vacant eyes.
Am I that lonely? Am I so desperate for anyone that I’d risk my vengeful husband catching me? Mind fucking another man?
Yes. I don’t even need sex. I just need kindness.
Gentry boasts, agreeing with Ford, acting like the white paint was his choice all along, but I’m not listening to his hot air. My hot fantasy keeps returning, providing all the escape I need.
I can feel the three men: Ford, Mateo, and Luke.
The fourth one can go to hell. There’s a golf course waiting there for him.
But the others? They stall my breath.
Any one of them giving me just an hour of relief from my isolation; it makes me ache with a wet pain spreading between my lonely thighs, needing a caring touch, not a cruel one.
“We’ll get the paint this afternoon.” That grabs my ear as Ford addresses Gentry, “We can start tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Ten,” Gentry orders. “We have a breakfast meeting first, and then my wife can let you in.”
Hell, yes, I’ll let them in—each one or all three—welcome to Stacey’s dirty little mind. Here’s your VIP pass.
“Stacey,” Gentry barks as he coils his glare my way, “tomorrow, you’ll serve these men.”
And what should I trust?
The glint of lust across Ford’s eyes at the idea of me serving him.
Or the snake wrapped around Gentry’s pupils, deciding if he should strike?
Desire or doom? I don’t know what’s next as Ford steels his stare, and Gentry turns back.
But when Luke dares to look at me again, letting the older guys hash out their terms like a pissing contest, he grins. It’s cute and cocky, mixing with care and confidence, lifting the corner of his sweet lips, and maybe… maybe at least one man… can be my hope.
CHAPTER THREE
Some days you wake up in the same place but feel so lost.
Those three hot men will be here any minute, but I can’t muster an ounce of give-a-shit.
I didn’t get to see my dad today; the worry makes me sick. Though I called Ms. Carver, his favorite nurse, who said he’s fine—I could hear the tension in her voice.
He’s not fine.
Gentry brought me straight home after breakfast with Shane Turner, where yes, grits and my tits were enjoyed by Senator Turner.
The man is sweet, actually, and I like his wife, Liz.
But in the low neckline of a Lily Pulitzer dress, there’s no avoiding my ample cleavage. Even with my hands politely folded in my lap, the dress served it up like Gentry’s favorite meal for all guests to see.
And don’t get me started on the ick factor that his mom wears the same label. It’s the only one Gentry lets me buy.
He was especially cruel last night. Instead of the golf club, he went for my tits like he knew how breakfast would go today. Making me wear the triple strand of pearls his mother gave to me as a wedding present; the sick symbolism wasn’t lost on me as he added his own pearl necklace for me to wear.
My god, he makes me retch.
“You think you’re in charge?” He squeezed my breasts together so hard it hurt. “You think you own this house?” His skinny hips pumped harder, and I was relieved. It was almost over. “No, I own you, you whore. You bitch, these are my fucking tits.”
No, they’re not.
I was born with them.
I got breasts before all the other girls, which only pushed my friends away because I also got unwanted attention from the boys.
It was soul-crushing. That same year my mom died. And years later, when I realized there was no way my dad could afford to send me to college, I got desperate.
Medical bills kept us poor, though I wanted to honor one of my mom’s dying wishes.
“Take care of your dad,” she told me from her hospital bed. Dialysis wasn’t working anymore. Her body was rejecting her second kidney transplant. “And take care of yourself, too.” She squeezed my hand. “Promise me; you’ll graduate from college.”