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No way.
Matthew was in Tristan’s apartment, but why? Did they have a girl in there? Were they having a threesome?
Shit.
They’d never told her they did stuff like that, but single guys in their late twenties were apt to do any damn thing.
More than ever, her virginity felt like a giant weight pressing down on her chest. And other overstimulated parts of her body.
If they were having a threesome, why hadn’t they asked her? She was their frigging best friend. The one who cleaned them up and dumped them into bed when they’d had too much fun on Saturday night, the one who picked out presents for Matt’s mom because he hated to and sent out office Christmas cards because Tristan’s handwriting looked like a mass murderer’s.
They were a trio, and as such, if they’d progressed to ménages, it only made sense that she be the third spoke of their sexfest.
She rubbed her knuckles against her hip and inhaled deeply. Wait, what? What in God’s name was she thinking? She didn’t want to have a threesome.
With them or anyone. Ordinary twosome sex was vexing enough.
Fisting her hands, Cait continued on until she reached Tris’s door. She pushed it open as quietly as possible and stepped inside the darkened living room. Silence prevailed but only briefly. Then the bed banging erupted again, more violently than before. The moans that sliced through the night mixed and mingled, though each was distinct and completely recognizable.
Jerks.
Their earlier conversation flashed through her mind, tinged heavily with a sense of betrayal she couldn’t repress. She never liked being left out, but this brought that feeling home with a vengeance. Just when she’d made a decision to take a definitive step toward embracing her sexuality, they had to reenact some kind of tawdry movie mere feet away from her own bed.
“Try not to go at each other too badly before I get home, ’kay?”
“We’ll try to control ourselves.”
Lie of the century right there. Control themselves? Not hardly.
Tristan and Matt were in that room. In the three years they’d lived together, she’d heard them more often than she could count, and she knew she was hearing them now.
“So you’re leaving us on our own tonight?”
Man, they’d jumped all over her absence, hadn’t they? She was thrilled she’d helped them get lucky.
Her heartbeat quickened as the groans hit a crescendo. The lump in her throat became a rock, keeping out the oxygen she couldn’t gulp in fast enough.
Still she kept moving toward Tristan’s bedroom. Crazy or not, she had to know who was in there with them. The woman must be the quiet type.
Cait would just ease open the door, peek in, get the scoop, and back out with no one the wiser. They’d never know.
But the door was already open, just a little. Just enough for her to see the action on the bed and the two figures going at it.
Two.
Only two.
The one beneath fisted his hands in the sheets, sheets that were already more off the bed than on. A strong grip was all that could anchor him in place with the force of the thrusts into his ass. Each one sent the frame clattering against the wall. Probably leaving scuff marks. Probably tearing strips out of the floor.
They’d spent hours varnishing that hardwood, lovingly restoring it after the previous owners’ lackluster care. Now it would be ruined.
Everything had been ruined. Everything.
“Fucking hell, I’m coming.”
Tristan’s exclamation sent her careening back into her body, ripping away thoughts of the floor, of life as she’d known it before she walked out the door that night. In its place was something entirely different, a new reality she couldn’t quite focus on as her eyes struggled to behold what her mind couldn’t—wouldn’t—comprehend.
“Me too. Shit.”
