Sex Retreat(28)

“The Dom within you still lives, Brock,” he whispered, clasping his hands atop his head.

Figuring out why he hadn’t insisted upon Trixie’s active participation in the lifestyle wouldn’t take long. Rory would eventually tell him, if Trixie didn’t beat him to the punch.



* * * *



Trixie awoke with a start. Muscular arms were draped over her middle and she felt as if she were sandwiched between two overly protective men, a fact that normally would’ve warmed her heart. Only, given the circumstances, she felt trapped. The confinement smothered her.

They’d betrayed her. As much as Brock and Rory tried to excuse their behavior and make her feel as if they only had her best interest at heart, she knew better.

Their motives were clear.

They shared her with one another, but had no intention of ever sharing her with Mitch again. The reasons why were as multilayered as her favorite ice cream pudding pie.

Rory wasn’t a Dom. He didn’t want any part of the lifestyle, or at least, that’s what he’d professed years before. They hadn’t discussed it since Mitch had left their relationship, but actions spoke louder than words. At the time, Brock had shut down her inquiries and had refused to discuss the lifestyle.

The few times Domination and submission had been mentioned, she’d assured them of her willingness to explore, train, and participate. In fact, she’d longed for a Dom-sub relationship.

Years before, Mitch had given her a taste of submission. Brock had experimented with her. She’d lived among dominant men and submissive women. She’d seen plenty of them at the club. On occasion, Brock and Rory had teased her with role play, but there had always been a void.

Since Mitch left, there had been somewhat of an unspoken understanding. Brock and Rory would not dominate her.

She wasn’t their submissive woman. She wasn’t expected to ask for permission, wear a collar, or refer to them as Sir when she spoke to either of them.

Trixie didn’t present herself or kneel. They didn’t deliver punishments and she didn’t reap sensational rewards for good behavior.

She was, as her mother once said, in a very vanilla relationship with one exception. She loved two men who loved her unconditionally and quite frequently.

Her body heated at the thought. She wondered, sometimes, if Brock stayed away from the lifestyle because Rory frowned upon it. Other times, she felt as if he refused to assume the dominant role because he feared he wouldn’t measure up.

In matters of the lifestyle, Mitch’s shoes were large ones to fill. She remembered how he once controlled her body. He could look at her and make her come. He would watch her with those lust-filled eyes and make her beg for a fuck.

Her nipples hardened as she thought of him. Her panties dampened as she revisited the time he took her to a public place and fingered her with onlookers nearby.

He was raw, sexy, and oh so good in bed. And she still desired him. She longed for him. Perhaps she’d always yearn for him.

Returning to Cow Camp hadn’t been a good idea. Their visit had provoked a deep-seated desire to see Mitch again.

She longed to talk to him. She also needed to open up about her feelings and discuss her desires with Rory and Brock.

They probably wouldn’t want to hear what she needed to say.





Chapter Twelve




Trixie stood at the door and waited. She’d carefully peeled their fingers away from her body and had slipped from the bed before either of them had stirred.

Surely one of them would spring forward in a second. As soon as one of them realized she wasn’t there, he would wake the other and, with panic etched in their voices, they’d call out to her.

That was typical anyway, or it had been following the whole Jordie Anne fiasco. Instead, they slept. Brock’s snoring filled the room as she quietly shut the door behind her and made her way to the kitchen.

The nightlight over the kitchen sink cast a yellow beam across the kitchen counter. A crystal tumbler was next to a bottle of vodka, a fifth of liquor she hadn’t noticed prior to retiring for the night.

She could drink. Hell, she could get drunk. It might give her a little perspective.

Opening the refrigerator, she grabbed a carton of orange juice. She filled her glass with ice, vodka, and a couple of splashes of pulp-free OJ.

After finding a spoon, she quietly mixed the concoction, turned up the glass, and drank.

“One down. Several more to go,” she whispered, stirring up another drink.

She repeated the process and was set to prepare a third cocktail when the floor squeaked behind her. Startled, she whipped around.

“Alcohol won’t help you forget, sub.”

Her nipples immediately spiked. Her pussy clenched in response. Her heart—Oh God, her heart—soared.