Page 120 of A Million To Fall

I turn off the shower, dry off, and pull on fresh clothes.

I’m halfway to my room when I hear Mrs. Davis. “Boston,” she calls.

I expel a quiet sigh but walk out to the living room.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you come sit with us for a few minutes,” Mrs. Davis says, chipper. An empty wine bottle sits on the coffee table, and a second, already half-empty, rests beside it.

“I’m pretty tired, actually,” I say, but her expression makes it obvious this isn't really a request. So, I take the few steps, then lower myself onto the couch next to Mrs. Davis and across from Rachel.

“You want anything to drink?” Mrs. Davis motions toward the wine.

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

I’ve never been much of a drinker. I’d have one here and there when I was younger, usually at one of Jake’s parties, but that was years ago. Alcohol’s expensive. And what’s the point? I don’t have time to party, and I sure as hell don’t have people to party with.

I mean, there are Jake, Pacey, and Jonathan—and, fuck, I’m glad to have them back—but if anything has become clear since returning to Stillwater, it’s that our lives could hardly be more different. They go to the gym while I work the front counter. They meet up at AJ’s for dinner while I serve them. They spend weekends at cabins and lake houses while I visit my mother in jail.

On my worst nights, when I can’t shut off my brain, I wonder if they only keep me around because they feel responsible for me. Especially Jake.

“Alright, well, it’s probably better anyways. My husband always has a difficult time performing when he drinks.” Mrs. Davis smirks, winking at her friend.

My stomach drops.

Wait…

Mrs. Davis sets her wine glass down, then slides her hand under the hem of my shirt. I go rigid.

She traces the lines of my stomach, moving up to my ribs, my chest. Her mouth is suddenly on my neck—hot and wet—while her hand slips lower and into my sweats.

“Mrs. Davis—” I start, tense.

Rachel’s eyes are glued to us, waiting, watching as she sips her wine. What the hell is happening? “I don’t think—”

Mrs. Davis moves her lips to mine, her tongue invading my mouth, silencing me.

“I’m going to have you right here, right now,” she whispers, her hand around my cock, stroking me like my body is hers to take. “Don’t worry about Rach,” she breathes. “She wants to watch.”

What?

No.

That wasn’t the fucking deal.

I shift, trying to pull away without upsetting Mrs. Davis too much. So much depends on my arrangement with her, but this—Rachel—was never part of the conversation. “No, that’s—”

Mrs. Davis puts a finger to my lips like I’m a disobedient child. “Shh, baby,” she hisses. “I promise the show won’t be for free. Rachel’s going to sweeten the pot a little bit. Consider this a bonus night.”

She lifts my shirt over my head, tosses it onto the floor, then kisses down my chest, grating her teeth over my nipple.

My breathing is erratic. God, this is all so fucking wrong.

It only gets worse when Rachel moves to sit in the unoccupied spot next to me, watching.

Then touching.

Mrs. Davis giggles. “Rach, if you’re playing, that bumps the cost.”