Three is a War(51)

My hand falls to his shoulder, and his arms hang loosely at his sides and slightly behind him, giving me full access to his ripped physique. I oblige, drifting my other hand down his torso, tracing the grooves of muscle through the shirt, and lingering on the button of his fly.

He leans in, leans out, putting a sexy roll into it. With each slant forward and back, he grows closer, smoother, sliding up against me. Then we’re grinding, feeling the same rhythm and motion, and dancing as one. This is where it’s at. The sizzling burn. The fire and the thunder.

Our hips undulate together. Our eyes connect, and I’m buzzing, lost in the molten brown of his gaze. He doesn’t just look at me. He eats me alive with his eyes. My pulse thrums. My blood pumps, hot and fast, beneath my skin. The rock of his pelvis controls the pace of my mine, and his hands wander, stroking my back, molding around my waist, and slipping down my bare thighs.

Then there are four hands. My gaze flies to Cole’s, but I don’t need to see his relaxed expression to know who’s behind me. I’m intimately familiar with the touch of those fingers, the dominating pressure.

The scent of scotch warms my senses as Trace slides up behind me, gripping my hips and taking control. He slows it down. Sets the pace. Pulls me closer. Grabs me a little tighter. And lets me feel his rhythm. And his hardness.

I shiver and tremble, my breaths growing faster. What are they doing to me?

Cole moves in, pressing his chest to mine and holding my face in his hands. His gaze is electric, sparking with blistering desire. As hard as I look, I don’t see jealousy or frustration. His smile’s too bright, too easy. But those dimples are deep pits of trouble. Doesn’t matter that I’m with both of them tonight. He’s going to tease me until I’m dripping, and it’ll run down my legs because dammit, I’m not wearing panties.

He rocks against me, sandwiching my body between him and Trace. His tempo is faster than the hips crushed against my backside. Trace tightens his grip, tries to take back control. But Cole changes it up, drops it here, stops it right there, and returns to a slow grind.

They go back and forth, fighting for the lead in our erotic dance. Pushing and pulling. Slowing down and speeding up. Until a remarkable thing happens. Their rhythm syncs, and their hips grind in unison, as if connected. They stop fighting and work together, falling into the thrall of the sensual music.

I’m in heaven. Nothing is sexier than grooving between two gorgeous men who want me as much as I want them. Cole’s smile. The press of Trace’s hands. The heavy sounds of their breaths. The sexual way they move against me. I could do this forever.

Trace maintains the connection by leaning around me to see my face. I angle back, keeping my hips pinned between theirs and holding his gaze. We dance like that through several songs before taking a break to catch our breaths and drink our beers. Then we dance some more.

The longer I’m held between them, the bolder my hands become. Strong necks, chiseled pecs, muscled forearms, swollen cocks—I touch them everywhere, rubbing, caressing, stroking. I’m burning up, soaked between my legs, and shaking with the impossible need to jump them.

The blatant arousal vibrating through their bodies doesn’t help. They seem to have forgotten each other, their mouths and hands aggressively focused on me.

When Cole’s lips capture mine, I tense up and try to pull back. He grips my neck and deepens the kiss, chasing my tongue and going wild. Then Trace is there, wrenching my mouth from Cole and stealing his own kiss before Cole swoops back in. They pass me between them, over and over, controlled by a desire that grows greedier by the second.

We continue to dance, three souls spiraling in a private world of kissing, neck licking, lip biting, and ass grabbing. Whatever this is, it’s reckless, carnal, dangerous. But we don’t seem capable of stopping. It’s too powerful, too deliciously tempting as it wraps around us and attempts to break every rule.

The energy between us crackles across my skin, turning the longing inside me into a physical necessity. I’ve never experienced sexual tension like this. It seethes and growls like an eight-hundred-pound gorilla, as it follows us off the dance floor and stays with us during the ride home.

Cole drives the Range Rover with Trace in the passenger seat. I squirm and tremble behind them, clenching my thighs together and seeking relief. The only remedy for what ails me is in the form of two tense men in the front seat.

Neither of them speak or make eye contact. The steering wheel creaks beneath Cole’s grip, and I’m not sure Trace is breathing.

“Is it just me,” I ask, “or is there a lot of tension in here?”