Three Men and a Woman: Annabelle (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (14 page)

He lifted his chin, the planes of his face severe. He leaned close, his lips almost touching hers, his gaze locked hard on hers. “And me?”

She took a deep breath and eased it out. He would hurt her, she knew. But she wouldn’t lie to him. “Yes. You, too.”

For a moment, she thought he would lean in that last inch and kiss her like she knew he wanted to. He almost did.

Instead, he tore himself away, turning his back, dragging his hands through his hair. He still had his hands at his head when he turned back.

“Ro, Kev—she’s fucking insane. What about the next man who walks through that door? Are you going to let her fuck the whole world?”

Ro squeezed her shoulder before he stepped away, walking to face Braeden. “It’s just the three of us, and that’s all it will be. You two are my best friends, like my brothers. I love you. She fell in love with me. How could she not love you guys, too?

“And why wouldn’t it work the other way, as well? I fell in love with her. She’s freaking hot, and I want to spend my life fucking her happy. Why wouldn’t you guys love her, too? Want her, too?

“So it’s a bit unorthodox. We can make it work.”

“A bit,” Braeden scoffed. “How? How could it work?”

Kev had stood up and circled Annabelle in his arms. The two of them watched Braeden and Ro face off against each other.

Ro turned back to look at her then moved so he could talk to them all. “We can all live here. Brae, you can travel to California as you need to, or you can join Kev and me in the theater we’re developing here. You know we’d like you to do that in any case.

“We share Annabelle. It’s what she wants. Isn’t it, babe?”

From Kevin’s arms, she nodded.

“What if one of us wants a kid?”

Ro bobbed his head. “I’ve thought about that. She can give us children. You’d want that, wouldn’t you, Annie?”

Annabelle’s heart warmed at the thought of it. She nodded again. “Yes. As many as you want.”

Kevin smiled and kissed her warmly. “We’re gonna need a house, Ro. A big one.”

“We’ll handle that,” Ro went on. “We can marry her. One at a time, I mean, while she carries a child for one of us, and then a quiet divorce in between. That way, the child would be legitimate. The kids would be half-sibs, with step-dads. Just like eighty percent of the freaking kids in the city.”

Braeden looked at Annabelle. “That’s what you want?”

“Yes.” She whispered the word, almost unable to believe it. She thought of her mother. She thought of the siblings she might have had, the loving, full house she might have grown up in. “It’s exactly what I want.”

Braeden turned away again. He walked over to the couch and picked up his briefcase. When he came back to her, she was held again between Rowen and Kevin.

He spoke directly to her. “I couldn’t do it.” He lifted a hand and caressed her face. “Tell me this. What if I asked you to marry me and come with me to California, right now?”

She’d known he would break her heart, and she’d been right. She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “I can’t.” She squeezed her arms around her two men. “I can’t leave them.”

He stepped back and looked at the three of them. “I’ve got a meeting. If you want to, while I’m gone, pack my bags and set them outside the door. I’ll understand if you do.

“Otherwise, I’ll see you in a couple hours. But I’m leaving at the end of the week.”

* * * *

Braeden didn’t love Annabelle. He’d said it to himself a dozen times during his meeting and that many times again on the cab ride there and back. He didn’t know where that whole marriage thing had come from.

He hadn’t really asked her to marry him, he told himself. He’d just asked,
what if
.

Something was messing with his mind. New York was a crazy town, with people stacked up on top of each other, buildings reaching to the sky. It made folks crazy, like a virus. And he’d been away too long. He must have lost his immunity.

He didn’t love her. He had to remind himself of it again as he stood looking at her from the door of Ro’s condo.

He’d taken the last flight of stairs at a run, so anxious he’d been to see if his luggage was dumped outside the door. The relief he’d felt when he’d seen the empty doorway had given his chest an embarrassing jolt. Maybe his heart, but damned if he’d admit to it.

Then he’d used the key, the one his best friend in the world had given him, and seen her sitting in the light of the windows, painting.

His heart—fuck, might as well admit it—had taken another good thump.

She was perched on a high stool working at an easel. She wore very short cut-off jeans that he knew would leave a little of her ass bare when she stood. She had on a man’s white dress shirt, Ro’s no doubt, or Kev’s, that was tied up under her breasts.

He couldn’t tell from where he stood, but he’d bet the bank that her cut-offs would be unfastened and only partially zipped. He was sure that if he walked up behind her, he could run his hand from her breasts to her pussy and barely come up against any clothing at all.

He felt his damn cock stir just thinking about it.

The light caressed her, warming her skin, setting her aglow from her gleaming hair to her bare toes that curled around a rung of the stool. She was all intensity, focused on her work. He’d seen her art first thing that morning, and he knew it was lovely and skillful.

Eric Clapton crooned about how wonderful his darling was tonight.

Eric Clapton didn’t know shit. He’d never met Annabelle Talbot.

Braeden closed the door behind himself, loudly enough that she lifted her head and looked at him over her shoulder. She didn’t jump though, and he figured she’d known he was there, watching.

He went over to the sound system and turned it off. God knew what she’d play next. Likely, Joe Cocker would start screeching, telling her she was so beautiful.

She watched as he walked close to her, her hair tumbling down from around a paintbrush she’d speared into it to somehow hold it off her neck while she worked.

“I’m sorry I referred to you as a hooker. And a cunt. Bitch.” He evaluated her eyes as he spoke and thought he saw a little humor. “Though some of that might happen again.”

“I forgive you.” She smiled. “Past and future offenses.”

Shit. He didn’t want to be beguiled by that damn smile.

“Did they fuck you after I left?”

She blanched at that, but her gaze didn’t waver. And it had a kind of soft, warm light about it that made him feel bad for being such a prick. He didn’t fucking deserve her. But he knew he’d take whatever she’d give.

For this week. Then he’d be gone.

“No,” she said. “They just held me and kissed me.”

While she cried. Fuck. He could see the little hurt redness in her eyes.

“I can’t do what they want, Annabelle.”

She put her brush down on the little tray that held her paints and swiveled a bit on the stool to face him more fully. Shit if he wasn’t right. Her shorts were open, her smooth tan belly revealed just about all the way down to her mons. “It’s okay, Braeden.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want you.” When she turned he eyed her crotch, hoping for a glimpse of pussy. God, he really was an ass.

She put her hands on his shoulders. “You can have what you want, Brae.”

She spread her legs as he pushed between them, unable to stop himself.

“However you want it, Brae. Rowen and Kevin want you to be happy. So do I. Just take what you want.”

His cock was throbbing, urging him to accept her invitation. He was pretty sure she was telling him he could have her, could fuck her however he wanted, without committing to Ro’s whole crazy-ass ménage scheme.

He lifted her up, bringing her pussy hard against his dick. She wrapped her legs around him and opened her mouth as he took it.

If he was wrong about what she’d meant, she’d have to explain herself better later. Right now, she was in for a fucking.

Braeden loved to fuck. He loved the smells and the taste of it, the physicality of it. He fucked women hard and loved it best when both he and his bitch were sluiced with sweat and juices when it was over. He loved to touch and rub and suck a woman everywhere. He wanted to shove his cock into every hot, moist opening she had. He fucked, and he expected the cunt to keep up. If she fell behind, well, that was just too damn bad. He always figured if a woman didn’t want him finishing off in her ass, she shouldn’t roll over that way.

He was aware, as he carried Annabelle to his room, that he was doing something different. He stripped her then gently laid her on the bed while he undressed himself. He watched her, liking the way her tits stood up and her nipples tightened. He glimpsed the bit of pussy he could see as she held her legs coyly closed—since he hadn’t instructed her otherwise, as he crudely had the night before. But mostly, he watched her eyes and found that something in them turned him on more than looking at her pretty cunt had.

He was aware of it as he pushed her legs open, settling between them, and used his mouth to make love to her pussy. He pressed his face against her, savoring the taste and smell of Annabelle. He pushed his tongue up her cunt, seeking the flavor of her depths. Then he ate at her clit, sucking and stroking.

He kept at it, loving it, like eating her would keep him satisfied for hours.

And he thought it would have. He’d gotten her pretty heated, using his thumbs and fingers in her, when she finally got his attention. She was writhing and crying out for him.

“Braeden,” she pleaded. “Please. I need you.”

He looked at her, her skin flushed with desire, her eyes begging, her body squirming with need.

“Please,” she said.

Hell. She needed him to fuck her. Fucking good idea.

He crawled up over her, stopping to suck her tits on the way, managing to make her even more fretful for him. He held himself above her, one hand on her head, holding her gaze to his. He directed the head of his cock to her pussy then grasped her breast in his hand.

Watching her, he sank all the way in. She started coming right away, flexing, impaling herself onto his cock. She held his gaze for as long as she could but finally let it go as she arched, a sweet orgasm shuddering through her. She moaned, soft, urgent sounds that included his name and love words.

She was so sweet. Her responsiveness made her vulnerable, put her at a man’s mercy. It was incredibly seductive, the way she gave herself over. It had a way of making a man feel he was all that.

He didn’t move as she came down except to just gently rub his palm over her nipple. As her breathing settled, he started whispering kisses over her. “Open your eyes,” he urged. “Look at me.”

She resisted a little, tossing her head. But he kept at it, compelling, until she opened her eyes to him.

He kissed her deeply then, lifting up frequently to look at her. The kisses got hotter and, as her breath quickened, he strengthened his grasp on her nipple.

Finally, he started flexing into her.

Their gazes held as groaning breaths tore from their throats. She clung, wrapping her arms around him, clutching, and he did the same.

In the end, they were fucking hard, physical and forceful, the way he always liked it.

But it was still different. She cried out his name, and he, hers. He held her hard, not just wanting to fuck her, but wanting
her
. He felt a pummeling, shattering orgasm build. But he didn’t let it go, didn’t roar it out, until he knew she was with him.

She screamed when she came, crying out for him. Her body screamed, too—its desire for him. Her hands clenched into the slick muscles of his back. She spasmed, plastering herself against him like she wanted to make them one. Her cunt clutched around his cock, demanding, commanding his release.

When he was sure she was there, he gave over. Rough, hoarse sounds, directives and pleas, tore from his throat. He humped into her, gripping her against him, pressing his mouth, his teeth bared, into her shoulder.

His cum let rip, spurting into that incredible pussy, filling her, giving her a part of himself.

Still he clutched her, their bodies slick with sweat, their breathing harsh.

And even then he realized it, that different thing. He hadn’t just fucked her. He’d made love to her. Like a man did to a woman he loved. Like a husband did to a wife he adored.

He was fucked.

The week that Braeden stayed with them, Annabelle lived in a sexual paradise. She had three gorgeous men fucking her every day. They were all demanding lovers, but they each took care to satisfy their woman. Every night she fell into an exhausted sleep, her body well used and well loved.

Still, there was an undercurrent of sadness that grew stronger as the week progressed.

She spent a lot of time alone with Braeden. He had a meeting out of the condo almost daily, but he spent most of his time at home, writing. Often, he would bring out his laptop and sit on the couch working while she painted. And each day, there would be some moment when she became aware of him watching her. Finally, she’d set down her brush and turn to him.

Initially he was gentle with her, like he’d been the first time he’d carried her to his bed. He was sweet and loving in a way that was very touching—and slightly frustrating. She missed that rough edge he had.

But as the week progressed, his natural, aggressive sexuality resurfaced. He was still loving, but he took her hard, using her as he had that first night he’d fucked her. He loved to tie her, to have her on her knees as he fucked her mouth or her ass, anything that demonstrated his dominance. He’d watch, toying with himself while commanding that she make herself come. Or control her while she worked, stimulating her with a butt plug or vibrators over her nipples and clit, setting them off randomly until she begged him to fuck her.

He loved that the most, driving her to the edge, bringing her to within a whisper of a climax repeatedly, then leaving her desperate and begging. He’d laugh triumphantly as she cursed and pleaded.