"Please undress each other."
The order snaps my gaze back to Tom, who's leaning back with a serene look on his face. The way his broad shoulders fill out the black shirt is mouthwatering. How can I be attracted to Mel and also insanely drawn to Tom like that? I swallow and order myself to get out of my head.
What does it matter who I’m attracted to? There are many happy relationships in this town with more than two people. Hell, Sam and Henry were a couple for years, until they added Judith to the mix. And they seem completely happy and comfortable in their triad. So, maybe?
But is Mel really okay with this? She might have said 'yes,' but is she really on board? It really isn't her fault I'm interested in men as well.
“Did you hear me?” Tom's deep voice shatters his thoughts. Now leaning forward with his elbow on his knees, he rests his chin on his palm. “What’s got you worried?”
Head in the game, stupid. “I…” I shake my head. “Nothing.” I turn to Mel and reach for the hem of her shirt.
“Stop.” Tom snaps the word and my arm drops to my side. “This whole thing isn't going to work if we don't communicate. Speak up, boy.”
Boy? Goosebumps rise on my skin and something warm settles inside my chest. The word helps me remember I'm not in charge. "I was worried that Mel is only with the two of us for me."
“That's a really good start.” Tom leans back in his seat. "Are you, Mel?"
"No." She grips my upper arm and snatches my attention back. "No! Dan, please. I... I do want this. Yes, I want you happy and I haven't been making you happy in a very long time. But, babe, there's nothing more sexy than two men getting it on with each other. The thought of you and Tom together makes me so hot and bothered. And wet. So wet it's almost embarrassing." Her cheeks flush an endearing pink.
"Very good, Mel," Tom compliments.
When she takes a step back, I grip her wrist. “I'm glad you think so.” I use her arm as a leash to pull her closer. "If you're getting hot, let me make you more comfortable." I tease, let go of her wrist, and grab the hem of her shirt instead.
With a giggle, Mel raises her arms and lets me slide the shirt up and over her head. Beneath the garment, she's in a functional black sports bra, but that doesn't matter to me. Her full breasts might not be as firm as they were but the abundant flesh nearly spills over the cups. I use the back of my hand to stroke over the bare skin above the black fabric and she bites her lip again. Her pupils dilate.
"Your turn."
Mel
My hands come up before I can think about it.
I know this body.
Or I did.
My fingers slide under the hem of his shirt, brushing warm skin, and I pause. It’s not because I don’t recognize him, but because I do. The weight of him is familiar. The way his body meets my hands without giving or resisting, like it’s always been there, something I could lean into without thinking.
My palms flatten against him, moving upward, slower now, taking him in piece by piece. There’s strength there, still. As my hands glide over his skin, I meet scars I know by heart. Knife between the ribs. Bullet wounds in his torso, his right shoulder where the exit wound is ragged and raised because it got infected.
That alone pulls something tight in my chest.
The fabric lifts. I push it over his shoulders, my fingertips dragging lightly as it goes, and his breath catches. The exhalation is barely there, but I feel it where our bodies are close.
I look up.
For a second, I expect distance. Politeness. That careful space we’ve kept between us for too long.
It’s not there.
His pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing the blue I know so well. His breathing is uneven, chest rising a fraction too fast, like he’s trying to keep control and not quite managing.
It hits me low and deep.
My hands move back to him, slower now, tracing across his chest, over skin I used to know without looking. My thumbs brush over the flat disks of his nipples, and his muscles shift under my touch. A response he’s not hiding.
Warmth spreads through me.
My fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans. Some raised scar tissue from shrapnel beneath my fingers reminds me I’m lucky he’s still with me. I ease his jeans down, watching myhands move, feeling every small contact. I graze my knuckles over the bulge between his legs and smile at the slight hitch in his breath.
