The Playboy's Ménage (The Billionaire Bachelors Series) (2 page)

Henry again.

She still wants you. I can tell. You should join us before I forget we’re friends.

There was an attachment. When Peter clicked on it an image popped up, and he almost crushed the phone in his hand. “Oh, you lying, underhanded—”

He could only see an ankle. One sexy feminine ankle with a slightly faded tattoo of a broken heart. 

Henry was with Holly. Their Holly. He hadn’t been lying, just allowing Peter to think he was, to believe it was another prank designed to piss him off. But this was evidence he couldn’t refute. He knew that ankle. They were together, damn it, and he was here. Alone.

Six minutes. That was how long it took for him to track Henry’s location through the GPS on his phone. He recognized the address and swore again at the confirmation. Holly’s house. He shut his laptop and tossed it into his case, grabbing his keys and heading out the door without hesitation.

It wouldn’t take him long to get to the small, unassuming cottage-style bungalow she’d lived in for five and a half years. If he were blindfolded he would still be able to find it, since he’d driven down her street each time he came into the city. To test his resolve.

Knowing where she was and not knocking on her door was torture, but it was better than the alternative. They may have all moved on, but not knowing where Holly was in the world was simply unacceptable. He didn’t linger on the reasons why. 

That was where he’d drawn the line. He’d purposefully stopped himself from satisfying his curiosity and discovering any details other than her location. He could have easily sought her out on social media or hacked his way into her personal or professional life, but he didn’t. He didn’t know how she spent her free time, what she did for a living or how many lovers she’d had. He’d been respecting her privacy for years with herculean restraint, but now he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Clearly Henry hadn’t felt compelled to do the same.

He started the car and forced himself not to think about what she and Henry had been doing together, how long they’d been doing it, or how he’d found her in the first place. Instead, because nostalgia was preferable to rage at the moment, he let his mind to wander back to the last time they’d all been together.

Neither he nor Henry had been able to deny Holly’s intriguing request. By the end of that dinner, they were both wrapped around her finger, and they’d stayed that way for the better part of two semesters. They’d haunted the diner during her late night shifts to walk her home and brought her to the house they shared with Dean and Tracy so often she may as well have lived there.

In return for more of her kisses, more of her, Peter had been forced to watch Henry make her laugh with his bawdy humor and share a few passionate kisses of his own. The only thing that saved his friend from some variation of pistols at dawn was the knowledge that neither of them had gotten much more than that from Holly—which was unprecedented. For the first time since puberty had knocked them upside the head and introduced them to their new favorite pastime, they’d both been content to wait faithfully until Holly was ready to choose.

Maybe content wasn’t the right word. He shifted in his seat, his foot heavy on the gas pedal as he thought about the months of sexual frustration. The number of times he’d taken himself in hand, wishing he were inside her. Wishing Henry would lose the battle of wills, or his patience, and move on, leaving Holly to him.

He’d been young and jealous, but even then his need had overpowered his envy. He hadn’t wanted to take the chance of losing her. Had wanted her too much to risk it—so much that when she came to their house looking like she’d been crying and asked to stay over the holidays instead of going home, Peter immediately canceled his plans. He even called Henry, who’d been on the way to the airport for his winter break, because he knew it would make her feel better.

She hadn’t wanted to talk about what was wrong, so he hadn’t pushed. Whatever the reason, he’d been grateful for it if it meant they would be together.

He’d been a fool for her.

He and Henry had distracted her with picnics in the living room, tree-trimming, mulled wine and kisses under the ever-present mistletoe they’d started to carry with them around the house. Soon enough Peter could see it working. She’d relaxed and bloomed under their undivided attention. Her touches began to linger. Her kisses had grown more intimate. The second night they were all tangled together by the fire, talking softly about nothing, she’d been the one to bring it up. The subject that had been on Peter’s mind every waking second since he’d laid eyes on her.

Sex.

She’d admitted to wanting Peter
and
Henry equally, and told them how hard it was to resist their advances. Her desire for both of them was the only thing stopping her from being with either of them. Holly didn’t want to do anything to mess up their lifetime of friendship, or the relationship the three of them had been developing. She didn’t want anyone getting hurt.

“I guess that’s it,” she’d said softly as she stared into the flames. “Saying it out loud—I know it’s crazy. I know there’s no solution. But you deserved to know I didn’t mean to lead you on. Either of you. You’ve both been patient and perfect and…I was just being selfish. Greedy. I think it’s genetic.”

Henry wasn’t able to leave it at that, though his tone was partially teasing, allowing her to laugh off his suggestion. “You’ve got a problem? Professor Henry has the solution. Allow me to educate you on what my book from psych class calls polyamory. Informally it’s known as a threesome, but in France?” He offered up his abysmal attempt at an accent. “They call it ménage a trios. Problem solved.”

Holly bit her lip. “I was trying to be serious, Henry.”

“So am I,” he insisted, his attention entirely on her. “I’m always trying. It makes perfect sense, and I think Peter would agree it’s the only logical thing to do. We both want you and you want the both of us. Think about it, Holly. Two willing men focused on pleasing you. Two mouths kissing. Two pairs of hands. Two men giving you exactly what you want without making you choose between them. Best of all, you’ll be naked. Sounds like a Christmas miracle to me.” He paused, looking between them. “Or we could skip it and play Scrabble.”

Peter had a difficult time reconciling his instant arousal at Henry’s suggestion with his worry that she would say yes. He shared everything with his best friend, but could he share Holly when he wanted her for himself?

All his concern disappeared when he saw the spark of excitement and longing in her warm brown eyes. She wanted to say yes, wanted to give herself to them. And Peter wanted to be the one to give Holly whatever she desired. In that instant he’d taken the decision out of their hands.

Every moment that followed was burned into his memory. Peter took charge, needing to control every aspect of their lovemaking. Henry, for once, seemed more than content to follow his lead, particularly when he saw how perfectly Holly responded.

She was as real in her passion as she was in every other aspect of her life. There was no playing coy or hesitating when she undressed in front of the fire. No timidity in the way she reacted to the sight of their bare skin. Her sensual curiosity and desire to explore their bodies tested Peter’s control, but he managed to hold back long enough to watch her face as they made her come that first time.

Everything about her was a revelation. Her full breasts in his mouth and narrow waist in his hands. The paradise between her thighs and the sounds of her moans echoing in every room of the house. When Peter couldn’t wait any longer, he lowered her onto Henry and took her from behind. She didn’t hesitate then either. She was so vocal with her surprise and approval, it was a struggle not to come the instant he felt her tight muscles around him.

He and Henry had come to a silent understanding, working together as if they always had, both knowing instinctively that this wasn’t a competition. It was Holly. She was all that mattered. Her satisfaction. Her pleasure.

They indulged in those pleasures until none of them had the energy to move. And each time they woke up, it started all over again. Peter remembered wondering if he would ever get enough.

He wished that pleasure was his only memory. That she hadn’t tried to sneak out of their bed without saying goodbye a few days later. That he hadn’t been awake to try and stop her and said the things he’d said. Most of all he wished he hadn’t promised to leave her alone. To let her walk away while there were good memories to hold onto, before time and reality destroyed what they’d found together. Her words.

Henry hadn’t made that promise, Peter realized. He’d agreed to stop mentioning her name, but that was all. And now…what exactly was he on his way to find? Would they reminisce about old times and laugh at how dramatic first love could be and how insane it all seemed now? Would she look at him without interest, telling him over drinks about the man in her life who’d made her realize what love was all about? Would he find out Holly had finally made her choice, and it wasn’t him?

Either way his friend was destined for a black eye or something equally painful for springing this reunion on him without talking to him first. Just to fulfill a fantasy, just because of that damn gossip column…or was something else involved?

With Henry, there was always something else.

Holly. Jesus. Something switched on inside him as he turned the corner onto her street, knowing this time he wouldn’t be leaving without hearing her voice. Seeing her. Sharing her again, if that was indeed Henry’s plan.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this.

Liar.

Seventeen years, five months and fifteen days, give or take a few hours.

Too damn long.

“Should I be offended? I have this hazy memory of you being relaxed when you saw me again. What did Peter do to deserve all this pacing?”

Holly stopped long enough to stick out her tongue at the musician on her couch. “He didn’t wear me down with emails. You’d been writing to me for months and I was, I believe, drunk off my ass, thanks to your drummer’s girlfriend. This is different and you know it.”

Henry was stroking his beard—a sexy addition she was still getting used to—and watching her with sparkling brown eyes. “She
was
under strict instructions not to let you get away until our set was over. But you hid your tipsy well. If I’d known you were drunk I might have taken advantage while I had the chance instead of pretending to be a gentleman.”

“Romantic.”

“I have my moments.”

Holly studied him as if seeing him again for the first time. He was more muscular now, and his forearms were sleeved with tattoos she wouldn’t mind studying up close. His black T-shirt and jeans looked comfortable and lived in and his black boots were scuffed by life, not design. She shouldn’t be surprised. He’d never given off the rich boy vibe and nothing about him hinted at his mother’s aristocratic lineage. Henry Vincent was his father’s son. A rock and roll legacy from a loving family, he always knew who he was and where he belonged. It was a self-confidence Holly had found irresistible in college, and it was still difficult to ignore. 

None of the things that drew her to him had changed. He still moved like a lazy lion that hadn’t decided whether to cuddle or pounce. Still wore an expression of sensual mischief mixed with tenderness when he looked at her. Still had a voice with that hint of gravel that made her shiver and tempted her with an ease that shouldn’t be possible after all this time.

Henry was—in a word—sex. Great sex. The kind that took hours and tangled sheets and made you laugh at the shameless, satisfying joy of it all. Everything about him, from his scent to his smile, reminded Holly of that word. No wonder his fans went crazy every time he got on stage.

He was also determined, something she never would have used to describe him until recently.

When he sent her that first email a year ago, she hadn’t been sure what to expect. She’d read it more than once, memorizing each line but forcing herself not to respond. She’d wondered why he’d decided to become her pen pal after all these years, and it had given her weeks of tension headaches, anxiety and more sexual frustration than the situation warranted. Was it because of one of her work projects? Had he found out she was the ghostwriter for the model who’d written an autobiography with an entire chapter dedicated to her “disappointing fling” with his friend Dean Warren? Or was it not related to her work? Maybe he was going through a mid-life crisis and revisiting his youthful sexual encounters.

That was a reason she might have been able to get behind.

It wasn’t until the third letter came, filled not with accusations or come-ons but humor and poetry and everything Henry, that she’d realized his emails were exactly what they appeared to be. An open door. And they weren’t going to stop until she hit reply.

They still hadn’t. Once a month without fail she would get another entry in what he laughingly called The Holly Report. He would tell her about the cities he was in, or the video game his lead singer was addicted to. He shared some of his erotic poetry, describing his more debauched experiences with other women in a way that stole her breath. He wrote about his family and sent her pictures of his oldest brother’s children. He talked about his friends Dean and Tracy, and his worry that they were both too wrapped up in the responsibilities that came with their names to enjoy life. And once in a while, so sparingly it was almost like a tease, he would talk about Peter. Most of the time it had to do with a prank he was thinking of playing or what country Peter was currently causing trouble in. Sometimes it was more.

She’d become so used to hearing about them that she was still in an understandable amount of shock when she found out yesterday that Peter didn’t know about any of it. The emails. The occasional phone calls. Their get-together at one of the smaller venues where Shattered Pieces got its start. Nothing.

Henry, apparently, hadn’t said a word about her to his best friend.