Chapter 1
1
MARNIN
T hreesomes used to be more appealing than this.
The sheets tangled around us like the aftermath of a silk storm, the dim light from the bedside lamp casting shadows that danced over the smooth, sweat-glistened skin of the husband and wife entwined with me. I traced the arch of her back with my fingertips, her slopes and hills sensual and inviting, while his hands, callused yet gentle, roamed with purpose over my back.
She was five-foot-five of luscious curves, a generous D-cup, and insatiable horniness, open to taking multiple cocks at once. Her husband was a classic case of tall, dark, and handsome, with a gorgeous copper-colored complexion and seven inches of hard steel he’d be all too happy to bury inside me, he’d made crystal clear.
And I was bored out of my fucking mind.
“Tell us what you want, Marnin,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire, echoing the chorus of lustful anticipation that had become the night’s soundtrack.
“Keep doing…that,” I managed to say, though the directive felt more like an echo of past excitement than a command spurred by current passion.
I’d entered their bedroom with the hunger of a man who hadn’t eaten all day, eager to indulge in the feast of sensation only a ménage à trois—or a foursome or orgy, I wasn’t particular about the number of participants—could offer. The initial rush of arousal had been electric, every caress sending currents of pleasure coursing through me, every shared kiss igniting sparks bright enough to rival the Seattle skyline at midnight.
Yet now, as their willing hands and mouths continued their fervent exploration, I found myself retreating into disinterest. I was there, tangled in the heat of their embrace, but my mind wandered, unmoored from the once-captivating allure of carnal gratification. My body felt like a foreign entity, my cock a stubbornly soft betrayal that refused to play its part.
I was plastered between two incredibly attractive people who should, by any standard, push all my buttons, yet I found it tedious and tiresome instead of tantalizing and titillating. What the hell did that mean? What was wrong with me? I’d participated in dozens of these, if not more, and they’d always provided ecstasy, so what had changed?
“Something wrong?” he asked, pausing mid-caress.
“Nothing, just a long day,” I lied smoothly.
Frustration clawed at me. Why had the thrill deserted me so abruptly, leaving behind a hollow void where voracious need used to reside?
“Let’s change things up,” she said in a silken promise. “Gary will fuck me, and once I’m warmed up, we can do a DP.”
“Sure.” What should’ve sent desire through me instead felt like another task on my never-ending to-do list. I loved DPs, anal or vaginal, regardless of people’s sex. A manwhore was what I often called myself, and I was proud of it. Kinda hard to be one right now when my cock wasn’t even at half-mast.
Next to me, the couple moved with a grace and eagerness that should’ve had me mesmerized, but all I could summon was an almost clinical appreciation for the aesthetics of their passion—a detached admiration for the way her hair fanned out across the pillow, how her boobs bounced as he fucked her roughly, the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad chest. They were masterpieces of the human form, yet my ability to engage with the art before me had slipped through my fingers like sand.
No amount of changing positions or novel stimuli could rekindle the flame that had extinguished without warning. The realization seeped into my consciousness, cold and uninvited. I felt like an actor forgetting his lines, the script lost somewhere between the wings and the spotlight.
“Sorry,” I finally muttered, rolling away from them. “I can’t today.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” She reached out to graze my arm. The gesture was probably meant to soothe, but it felt like a courtesy rather than an intimate connection.
“Another time.” Her husband masked his disappointment with a supportive smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Another time,” I echoed, though we all knew it was a polite lie.
I got dressed in seconds, hurrying out the door without looking back.
The drive back to my condo was a blur of streetlights and shadow, my mind caught between irritation and self-analysis. What the hell was wrong with me? This wasn’t the first time my desire had failed to show up for the main act. I’d had a few close calls recently. But tonight, the absence of pleasure had been so stark it had bordered on anesthetic.
When my thoughts turned too depressing, I told Siri to call Auden. He’d called earlier that day, but I’d been in a meeting and had promised to call him back. “Hey,” I said when he picked up. “What’s up?”
“How’s life?” he asked.
Like I was telling him the truth. Hell no. “Busy at work and fucking my way around the city.”
Auden chuckled. “In other words, same as always.”
“Pretty much, yeah. And with you? Caught any bad guys lately?”
Auden was the sheriff of our small hometown of Forestville, a quaint little town about an hour east of Seattle. I’d been all too happy to leave after graduating from high school to escape the drunk son of a bitch whose sperm created me. But lately, I’d been spending more time back home, since most of my close friends had moved back for varied reasons.
“Clocked a guy in a Ferrari yesterday who was doing ninety-two miles per hour on Route 2.”
I whistled between my teeth. “That’s way too risky. I’m not sure I’d even have the balls to drive that fast there.”
“Well, he won’t get that chance again anytime soon because we confiscated his car and he won’t get his license back for a while.”
“Good. You probably saved some lives by getting him off the road. Anyway, what were you calling for earlier?”
“It’s Violet’s seventeenth birthday next week, and she asked me to invite you. We’re celebrating on Friday evening at our house, and you’re more than welcome for dinner as well.”
I wanted to go, but why had Auden’s oldest daughter asked for me specifically? Eighteen years ago, when Auden had confided in me that he was sterile, I’d offered to donate my sperm so he and Tricia could have kids. They’d taken me up on my offer, so Auden’s two girls were biologically mine. That didn’t mean anything though. I was Uncle Marnin to them, their dad’s best friend—though they’d known I was their sperm donor for a while now.
“Who else is coming?” I asked.
“Her mom and Jason, of course, my parents, my brother… It’s a family thing, basically.”
Auden and Tricia had been divorced for a number of years now, and both had remarried. Auden was the happiest I’d ever seen him with his husband, Keaton. Those two were nauseatingly blissful but perfect for each other.
“Then why am I invited?”
Auden was quiet for a beat. “Because she sees you as family? Which you are, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Auden, I don’t want?—”
“There’s no deeper motive, I promise. She’s not trying to build a father-daughter relationship with you.”
I breathed out in relief. Thank fuck Auden knew me so well after forty-four years of friendship. Jesus, we were getting old. “I just wanted to make sure. They’re your girls, and I’d never do anything to risk your bond with them.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. But don’t be afraid to hang out with them. They like you. Violet thinks you’re hysterically funny. Her words.”
Hysterically funny? I’d never heard a descriptor of me that was less accurate. Not that I was going to argue with her. I knew better by now. “I’ll have to take her word for it.”
“Yeah, it didn’t ring any bells with me either.”
I laughed. “Then we’re on the same page. Okay, I’ll be there around six, depending on traffic. That okay?”
“Perfect. We’re having a barbecue, so very relaxed. It’ll be fun.”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
It had been good to hear Auden’s voice, even in a mundane phone call. Somehow, he always grounded me. There was a guy who had it all figured out—stable job, beautiful family, loved and admired in his community. I wondered if he knew how much I envied that sense of completeness, maybe because I’d never had it.
“Too fucked up for love,” I muttered, the words a mantra that echoed in the hollows of my ribcage. It wasn’t self-pity. It was fact. A lifetime of guards and walls made sure of that. Sex was easy. Raw, physical, and simple to walk away from—what more could anyone want? Emotions, though? That was the uncharted territory where I could—and would—get lost.
My car was strangely silent after the call, and I quickly turned on the radio to listen to my favorite jazz channel. At least I had something to look forward to now. Weekends in Forestville were fun, though they did feel different lately. My status as a bachelor had never bothered me, but now that all of my closest friends had found their happily-ever-afters, I was the last man standing. Alone.
Which brought me right back to tonight’s depressing events. What the hell had that been about? I hadn’t had a hookup in a week, so I should’ve been chomping at the bit. Was this what burnout felt like, or was I losing interest in the game? By the time I pulled into the familiar dark of my building’s parking garage, I was no closer to an answer.
As I stepped through the door, the silence of my condo slapped me with its cold indifference. There were no lingering scents of sex or the residue of human connection—only the sterile neutrality of expensive furniture and high-tech gadgets, just the way I preferred it. I never arranged hookups in my condo. This was my private space, my sanctuary.
“Great,” I said to the emptiness, tossing my keys on the counter. “Another thrilling night.”
I glanced at the clock. It was late, but sleep felt like a distant prospect. Dragging my feet to the bedroom, I shed my clothes along the way, then dropped them in the laundry basket for Helga to take care of. The neatly made bed looked no more inviting than the one I’d just left, but at least here, the lack of arousal made sense. I could be alone with my thoughts without the pressure to perform or pretend.
But even lying in my comfortable, expensive king-size bed brought no relief. There, in the darkness, the day’s events replayed in my head—a vivid highlight reel of my failure to connect, my inability to take pleasure where it was freely offered. I turned onto my side, facing the wide expanse of mattress that seemed to mock me with its emptiness.
Fuck this. I heaved myself out of bed, restless energy propelling me forward. If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well make myself useful and get some work done. The night stretched out before me, a blank canvas that I painted with work because it was either that or face the void that yawned within me. I wasn’t built for idle hands. Idle hands led to wandering thoughts, and those were far more dangerous to my health than any amount of work ever would be. Anything was better than lying awake, sinking deeper and deeper into this terrifying restlessness.
With a glass of water in my hand, I headed for my home office, which was neat and organized, everything exactly where I wanted it to be. The glow from the city’s skyline filtered weakly through the blinds, but my eyes needed more light than that, so I flicked on the desk lamp. My office chair creaked as I plopped down, then cracked my knuckles. Within seconds, the screen of my MacBook Pro flickered to life, always eager for my input.
I settled into the chair, surrendering to the work that demanded my focus. Let it consume me. Let it be everything and nothing. Because buried in my job, I could pretend I wasn’t searching for an explanation for why I felt so goddamn much when I wanted to feel nothing at all.