Victoria’s Secret Wish(72)
“Let me.” He reached for the leash on its hook by the door. “Why don’t you get your shower and change, love. But no unpacking. We’ll go to bed straightaway and unpack tomorrow.”
Her lips twitched into a little half-grin. “Deal.”
* * * *
She’d slipped into bed in her favorite silk teddy by the time Britt returned with Jake, turning off the living room lights on his way to the bedroom. God, being home felt good. And silent. After the noise of the helicopter, and before that a jet, and for days the barely-there hum of the ship’s motors all around them…the quiet was bliss.
Jake flopped into his usual position out by the front door, letting out a sigh of contentment.
Britt stripped naked and eased into bed beside her, his breath warm on her neck as he settled. “Nasty sunburn you got. Hurt much?”
The sunburn did, but otherwise…not as much as she’d expected. “I put on some aloe gel after my shower.”
He searched her face. Probably expecting evidence of tears. But none had come, not since her little meltdown in their suite before Peyton had arrived. Maybe the day had been too damn busy, maybe now she was too damn tired.
“Vic. I take full responsibility, and I am sorry.”
She could easily fire off some quip about him not being responsible for her sunburn, but it’d only delay the conversation she’d like to prevent. Poor guy looked like he carried the weight of the world. She cleared her throat. “We’ll be fine. What we have is great. We don’t need anything else, right?” Or maybe he did. Maybe he’d discovered there was something missing in his life–
“Right.” He let out a big breath. “Christ knows I’d rather not discuss this, ever, but I want you to know, I’ve not got some sort of gay streak. Last night was a one-off. Honestly.”
How funny. Of all men, she’d thought Britt would be more secure about his sexuality. Not that she minded, either way. “One-off or not, you two were fucking hot.” Her heart raced with the memory.
“You liked that, eh?” He scooted closer and his cock nudged her hip. “What else did you like, Vic? Did you like him trying to get in your back door?” His hand gripped her hip and turned her to face him. “You were ready to try it, hmm?”
She’d be lying if she said no. The thought–the urge–had definitely been there. David was smaller than Britt, and she’d thought maybe… But that window had closed. Still, remembering those hot spurts jetting from David into her… “God.” She reached for Britt’s cock while he nudged her legs apart. “Please, now.”
He obliged and slid inside her, his hands against her back pulling her closer.
Yes. She still had Britt, and they still had all they needed, in each other. She pressed her face against his shoulder, her lips against the mark there.
Definitely all they needed, plus a bunch of really good memories.
* * * *
David slurped the head off another icy cold beer–his fourth? Fifth?–and checked the score on the TV in the corner. Padres were slaying the Diamondbacks, and the sports bar crowd was crazed. Griffin seemed more absorbed with the beer pong game going on in the corner.
“You gonna play?” he asked Griffin.
“Me? Oh, hell no. ’S more fun watching.” Griffin grinned and slopped beer over the side of his mug on the way to take a drink. “You?” He licked his lips and set the beer down, half empty.
“Nah. I’m good.” Kicking back and being a watcher sounded better, especially after Griffin had talked him into playing eighteen holes and staying over in San Diego tonight instead of driving up to LA. Chasing that white ball all afternoon had meant a ton of walking–Griffin had kicked his ass all over the course. “Need to get back on the course more often, I guess. Can’t let old dudes like you show me up and make me too tired to party.”
“Party, shmarty.” Griffin curled his lip. “Hey, bartender. How ’bout a couple double shots of Cuervo over here?” He nodded. “Bro, tonight’s about drowning our troubles.”
The bartender set their shots in front of them, made a note on their bill and walked away.
They each picked up a glass and a lime wedge. Griffin tapped their glasses together and cleared his throat. “Fuck it.”
“Fuck it,” David echoed. The tequila burned going down, made his throat close, pretty much like it had when he’d shut the door to Vic and Britt’s suite. “Let’s order another round.”
Hours later–what the hell time was it? Did it matter?–they staggered across the street toward their hotel. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I shouldn’ta flipped off that guy with the camera,” David muttered.