“I think we’ve shocked you a little,” Captain Obvious says. Okay, Lukas says. How about no shit Sherlock. “Annika and I love to travel,” he continues, “and when we travel, we like to take a little holiday from monogamy and spice things up.”
“That is . . .” That is TMI, right there. Just too much information for me. I’m happy to share a bottle of wine or a cheese platter, but that’s where I draw the line. I can’t even share a water bottle with my sister without feeling a little unsettled by the my mouth where her mouth has been thing. Am I giving some kind of unconscious DTF vibes because, seriously, I am so not down to f—do that.
A threesome!
What the fluff?
I lean back in my seat as Lukas moves forward in his, like a snake about to strike. Or a deranged car salesman with a crazy sales pitch. This is a car I’m not going to ride. But then a large hand appears in the space between us. A large hand attached to a strong wrist which, as I look up—and up—appears to be attached to the devil in his Sunday suit. Or his Wednesday suit, which looks just as fine as any suit the devil might wear on Sundays.
I know those eyes. I’ve met them before. Over the edge of the Financial Times just a few minutes ago. Who knew the devil had such cool coloured eyes, amusement dancing there instead of fire and brimstone?
“It is you,” his deep voice intones, its buttery warmth catching me off guard. I find myself pressing my hand into his, and he pulls me to my feet and almost into his chest. His hard, unyielding, could-rent-the-space-for-advertising chest.
I exhale a breathy, “Yes,” because, up close, boy, this is a lot of man. A wall of man, you might say. Older, sophisticated, and so dang sexy. I like older people, a little voice inside me squeaks. And then I realise I’m just staring at him. “I-I am me,” I stutter. “I mean, yes, it is me! And it’s you . . .” You handsome devil, you.
He stares playfully down, eyebrow quirked in almost in a question mark. Up closer, his eyes seem a deeper shade of blue, which might be contrast something to do with the dark blue of his suit. Whatever the reason, the result is striking, coupled with those extra thick lashes, the kind that is God’s joke on womankind, and some serious crow’s feet. I don’t mean serious as in Botox needed, STAT! More like serious might be his default face. Which would be strange, considering his gaze feels like a hook daring me to play along.
“It’s Cousin Lyle!” I belatedly tag on. Fictitious Cousin Lyle, or as he was previously known to me, the hot snorting man who just recently vacated the seat behind the kinky duo.
“How are you, Olive?” His mouth quirks in the corner, his tone a tiny bit sour. I try not to laugh, unsure if it’s the name he’s christened me I find funny or that he doesn’t like the one I’ve given him.
“Olive?” Lukas begins, though neither of us spares him a glance. “You said your name was—”
“Who were you this time?” The stranger sighs as he stares balefully down at me. “It was Candy again, wasn’t it?”
“If your parents had named you Olive, you’d be making up names, too,” I counter happily, picking up where he leaves off. Oh, my. I do love a man who’s good on his feet.
“But you’ll always be Olive to me.” Fake Lyle’s reply is smooth as silk, or at least the synthetic kind. For all our insincerity.
“Lyle, you’re such a tease,” I murmur, finding my fingers on his chest somehow. “So, how are tricks?”
“Tricks are . . .tricky.” If temptation had an expression, I’m looking at it.
“And you need my advice.” I deliver my assertion with just a hint of fake sympathy as I turn to grab my purse. “You’ve got boyfriend trouble again, haven’t you?” I waggle an admonishing finger at him.
“You know how it is,” he answers, that sour note resurfacing again.
Oh, God, I love that he’s playing along, even if I seem to be the only one having fun.
“I’m not sure I do,” I answer, sweet as saccharine.
“Come now, you know a hedonist rarely resists pleasure.”
The sound that leaves my mouth is more breath than an actual laugh as his purring response twists and coils and blooms in places it has no business being. The man has big dick energy—wrapped in silky, seductive coating of high sexual energy—and I think I’m getting a contact high from the fumes!
“Thanks for the invite.” I turn, quickly addressing the kinky folk on the couch, who seem a little too stunned to respond. “Raincheck? I’m sure you understand, family should always come first.” And with that, I take the arm my stranger doesn’t quite offer and get the hell out of Dodge.
I almost drag him from the bar, not quite able to move away from the situation quick enough, almost dragging him out through the stylishly minimalistic foyer, down the front steps and into the afternoon spring sunshine all before you can say “straight acting Cousin Lyle to the rescue”.
“Oh my God!” I turn wide-eyed to my would-be saviour as we round the corner. “Can you believe that just happened?”
“I can’t believe you made me leave my cup of coffee.”
“I’d say sorry except . . . I didn’t make you.”
“No? It must be my good nature to blame.” His lips quirk with amusement.
“Well, I, for one, am pleased you did. I can’t believe that just happened. I mean, I know it’s Wednesday and all, but . . .”
“I’m not sure what the day has to do with the situation.” The man’s head tilts as though to study me.
“Hump day?” I offer ridiculously, though not in invitation. Not yet, at least. But he just stares back without offering anything more. “Come on, Lyle, it’s not even three o’clock!”
“I’m also not sure what the hour has to do with it.”
“Are you telling me you’re regularly propositioned before weekday afternoons?” My hands suddenly find my hips as I warm to my theme.
“Perhaps not to a threesome,” he concedes, rubbing a hand across his chin. But I see the beginnings of that smile still. Boy, it must be some gene pool he’s been swimming in. He’s too masculine to be pretty, and plain old handsome doesn’t do his looks justice. Brutally good-looking might be a better description. It’s like the man has an air of Viking about him.
I suddenly feel like I might need a good . . . conquering.
But then his smile fades as he seems almost to come back to himself. To himself, the moment, and, judging by his change in manner, the ridiculousness of the situation. He straightens not only his shoulders but also the cuffs of his shirt under his jacket. Cartier cufflinks, I note. The kind that say classy yet understated and high rolling rich. Not that rich does anything for me. In fact, no man has ruffled my truffle, so to speak, in more than eighteen months.
Rich might not do it for me, but that accent? That accent is doing things to me.
“I trust I was in the right, intervening as I did.” He’s suddenly all business; crisp consonants and sharp diction and brows that pull together where before they did not. And it looks like I was right about that serious face.
“My God, yes!” I exclaim. Way over the top, I know. “A thousand times yes.” One minute, my hands are in the air, and the next, they’re planted squarely on his chest. Don’t blame me. The damn thing is like a magnet. “Thank you for saving me, Lyle.”