Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
James inhales before fixing me with a look. “It matters because I can’t stop thinking about you, sweetheart,” he says, and the words punch the air out of my lungs. “Because every time I see you, I want to fuck you on this desk and also protect you from every asshole in this building. It’s not rational, but it’s true.”
I swallow, my cheeks burning. “James, we agreed—”
He holds up a hand. “I know. I know we said no workplace drama. But I can’t help it.” He drops his hand, looks at me, and there’s something almost vulnerable there. “Let me take you somewhere safe. My place tonight. We can talk about the evidence, or do nothing, or whatever you want. I just need to see you outside of this war zone.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, but alarm bells are going off. Is it okay to hang out with one man alone? It’s always been the three of us together. Is this tete a tete against the rules? What’s going on?
But James merely nods, looking very masculine. “Good. Six o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”
I swallow, nod, and leave, heart in my throat. The sun is setting, the office shadows growing longer and more menacing. I’m still confused, and my mind fills with questions that I can’t answer. What in the world is going on? Is our trio becoming a duo? Or is this completely normal, and I’m expected to have sex with each man individually, as well as together? What are the rules?
As I gather my bag and shut down my computer, my phone buzzes again. I check the screen and my stomach flips.
Brent: “Drinks at my place? 7pm. Just us. Bring the files.”
A second later:
James: “Change of plans. Nine at my place instead. Can’t wait to see you.”
For a moment, I stare at the screen, both messages glowing like hazards. Holy shit, is this really happening? Or maybe they both know that I’m meeting the other person? My brain is tangled, and clearly, the game is changing, but I’m not sure who’s playing whom anymore.
But I do know one thing: The next move is mine.
I pull on my coat, step into the night, and let the cold air wake me up.
This is going to get messy.
And I can’t wait.
15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN — THE FIRST DATE
Brent
Idon’t do waiting well. Especially not alone, and especially not tonight, when the world has reduced itself to the click of the ice in my glass and the muffled drone of traffic bleeding through twenty stories of glass. My penthouse, my castle—designed to repel any intrusion of ordinary life—is now a prison of self-inflicted silence while I watch the clock crawl toward seven.
I still don’t know why I’ve invited Marnie over without also inviting my law partner. After all, James and I have never seen a woman alone, at least not when the game started together. Of course, we’ve dated women individually when we initially met her out in the wild because we’re not bosom buddies or any shit like that. But we’ve never gone it alone when we were introduced to a curvy filly together, and especially not when we’ve already fucked her in a dirty double team. Yet here I am, waiting for Marnie by myself, pacing the floors and checking the table setting for the fifth time. What the fuck? I must be losing it.
At least the apartment is immaculate. The dining room’s pale maple and brass, the table set with bone-white plates and black matte cutlery. In the living room, the windows catch what’s left of the sunset and smear it across a hundred square feet of engineered perfection. The art is original, mostly monochrome, a few with a splash of red just to keep things interesting. The housekeeper left two hours ago, but Mrs. Jackson left a nice dinner: osso buco, my go-to for nights that require gravitas. Milanese has always been a fave, and the mouth-watering aroma of braised veal makes my stomach growl.
At 6:57, I kill the lights in the foyer and stand by the windows, looking down at the city. My phone vibrates: “Running a few behind, be up soon.” No period. Of course she doesn’t punctuate. It’s something about Gen Z. Or is Marnie Gen Alpha? Holy shit, I don’t even want to think about our age gap.
At 7:16, the elevator pings. The private vestibule lights up, and I catch the young woman in the security cam before I even hear the knock. She’s not in fuck-you stilettos this time. Instead: a black sheath dress, hem just below the knee, golden hair loose over one shoulder. No jewelry except a gold locket. She holds a jacket in front of her like a shield, and for a second she hesitates. But why? A smirk decorates my lips. She’s just as nervous as I am, and for good reason.