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“I think,” I say, my voice coming out rough and low. “I think I’d like that?”
I don’t sound certain, because I’m not.
“Oh, good!” Violet perks up. “You guys take your time. Have fun. I’m gonna see if Rom wants to play.”
Holy shit. Is this really happening?
47
SARAH
Ican’t even blame alcohol. I had, like, two beers, a million years ago. It’s long since passed through my system. I said yes while completely aware of my actions, for the simple reason that I want sex, and I think that sex with my friend would be satisfying.
He’s also my other friend’s husband, but she’s the one who offered him up.
We’re so fucking messed up.
“You’re tense,” Rhys notes, making his way to the bar in the lounge. “How about something a little stronger than chamomile?”
I nod several times. “Sounds good.”
My voice is all wrong, too dry and low.
I don’t ask what Rhys pours, gratefully taking the tumbler with a couple of inches of amber liqueur. I bring it to my mouth. Thankfully, it’s not whiskey.
This is a bad idea, isn’t it? But while my brain questions what’s happening, I can’t make myself say we should stop, abort mission, and pretend nothing happened.
I need a release like I need air, and my instincts tell me he can deliver it. Besides, I take a certain pleasure in the idea of taking what I want from someone other than Marius. He acts like he’s the only one who can make me feel any pleasure, the only one I crave. And maybe that’s not entirely wrong—my stupid body does want him. But something tells me Rhys is capable of pleasing me.
“Don’t stress out,” he tells me, after a sip of his drink. “This goes exactly as far as you want it to. You just want to chat, we can do that. You want me to make you come with my fingers, that’s no problem. You tell me; I’m your tool for the rest of the night.”
He’s so freaking sweet.
And that’s the problem.
My stomach sinks. “I—” How do I say this without sounding more insane than I already do? “I don’t like telling people what to do. I prefer when they just do it.”
There, that’s not so bad, is it? It’s not entirely accurate either.
What I would prefer would be not having this conversation at all, and being tied up, unable to move, locked into place. To not have a choice at all.
And it wouldn’t hurt if it was another dark-haired, blue-eyed man in charge. Rhys and Marius look nothing alike, even if their features aren’t all that different objectively. Where Rhys’s hair’s ink black, Marius’s is of a darker brown. Marius’s eyes are paler, colder. Rhys is the shorter of the two, with broader shoulders, no doubt because of his sport of choice. As a swimmer, Marius is all lean, slender muscles, tight waist, and hard, biteable ass.
Shit, why the hell am I comparing them at all? Marius has nothing to do with what’s going on, dammit. I have to do this, if only to expel him from my mind.
“Are you going to say no at any point?” Rhys tilts his head. “And if you do, should I listen?”
Why are my lips so dry all the time these days? I should invest in some balm. In the meantime, I just run my tongue over them to soothe them. “I might. And please, don’t.”
If my answer shocks anyone, it’s me, not him. He nods, taking it in stride without so much as a raised eyebrow. “I play this game with Violet often,” he tells me, leaning over the bar. “But she’s mine, so I know her tells, how far to push. With you, I need a safe word.”
A safe word. I know what it is; I’ve read about it in books. “So, I say it, and you stop.”
Something that would have been handy my entire life.
It occurs to me that Marius never offered me one of those. He likely doesn’t care.
“You say it, I pause and we discuss what you need,” Rhys amends.
