33. Serena
Serena
Why not share?
For what feels like the hundredth time in the last few hours, my mind is reeling as I try to process a new piece of information. The three guys are staring at me expectantly, and I can’t think straight.
Share. It’s a possibility that I haven’t allowed myself to consider. Of course, I’ve known that I didn’t want to have to choose just one of them—that I haven’t even gotten to be with Graham yet, despite wanting to—but that’s not the same as actually thinking they would be okay with this.
I would never cheat on someone. It’s not in my DNA. So the moment they shut it down, demanded monogamy from me, I would either have to choose just one or leave them all behind. Both options sounded like torture.
But now, here I am, being told I can have my (very tasty) cake and eat it, too. That they would be okay in a casual sort of arrangement. One in which I could sleep with, be with, all of them.
I open my mouth to say something, to respond to this, maybe just to shout yes! like a crying fiancée at a proposal, but at that moment, the speakers overhead crackle to life and announce we are about to land in Italy.
The guys busy themselves with pulling on their seat belts, and Graham reaches over me, so broad and strong, his hand skirting along my hip, to grab my seatbelt from a hidden pocket and pull it over my lap.
The air crackles with the weight of his touch, of what it means, of what’s left unsaid between us.
My hands grip the seat tightly as we land.
Once the plane has come to a stop, we’re all moving, grabbing our stuff, and the staff is lining up a set of stairs for us to walk down.
The sun hangs cheerily over the far hills here, which makes me feel like we’ve landed in some alien place.
Just hours ago, it was the darkest part of night.
On the phone, Travis says, “Yes, bring everything you have.”
Graham and Ryan stride with purpose toward the waiting SUV, just as luxe and black, but this time an Italian make. They tuck me into the back, and when Travis slides in with us, we take off again, driving through the winding hills of the Italian countryside.
It’s gorgeous, but I can hardly take it in. I’m still working through what Ryan said. Still thinking about the arrangement. Grappling with the thought of where we’re heading.
The four of us, alone in a villa together. My heart somersaults at the thought.
We drive for long enough that my head starts to loll against Ryan’s shoulder, but I wake fully when the car slows and turns onto a long driveway, eventually arriving in front of the largest, prettiest “villa” I’ve ever seen.
Like a kid, I practically press my nose to the window to take in the elaborate shrubs and flowers on either side of the road. The sunshine glittering off the still, ice-blue pool. The trees hanging with fat, bright lemons.
It’s the kind of picture of Italy you see on the front of a travel brochure. Impossibly idyllic. Impossibly sweet and grand and perfect.
“Go ahead,” Ryan leans over to whisper in my ear, and the brush of his warm breath makes me shiver. “Tell me what you think, Serena.”
Once again, I open my mouth to say something—though what, I’m not sure—but I’m stopped by the car braking, someone appearing and opening the car door for us.
When I stand outside the car and turn to look, I can see tall, stone fencing.
The kind that reminds you of a castle. The kind that, hopefully, will be able to keep any sort of press or other adversaries out.
“La mia villa è la tua villa!” Ryan cries, throwing his arms out and spinning around once he’s out of the car.
“I thought you said you could speak Italian,” Graham grumbles, rubbing his hand against his ear and looking generally grumpy at the change of scenery.
He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who stays in accommodations like this—he probably prefers a hammock on the side of a mountain, or something like that.
Then we’re heading inside, chattering wildly.
There are staff here—gardeners and housekeepers and a woman who shakes my hand, saying something in rapid Italian that I don’t understand.
Then Ryan addresses them, says something else I also don’t understand, and they trade phrases back and forth before the staff turn and disperse.
“He dismissed them for the week,” Graham murmurs. When I turn to look at him, his eyes are sweeping over me, then landing on my gaze, something heavy and wanting there. He could tell I was curious about what they were saying. And, apparently, he also speaks Italian.
Ryan grabs a small pair of keys, points at a Vespa outside, and announces he’ll be running to the market to get some supplies. Travis takes his bag and says he’s heading up to the office to get on a call with the team.
Before going, he stops at the base of the stairs, gives me his own meaningful look, and says, “They should be here with your clothes around five.”
That means nothing to me, since I have no idea what time it is now, but I wrap my arms around myself, remembering my ratty shorts and t-shirt, my hair pulled up into a lopsided bun.
Not exactly my best look. Not exactly the look I would choose for my first jaunt into a new, startlingly beautiful country.
And then Graham and I are standing together, alone in the great, shining living room of the villa.
He sighs, drops heavily onto a couch, and looks at me with an expression I can’t decipher.
“I’m sorry,” he says, finally, “if that discussion on the plane made you uncomfortable.”
In all my shock, I never answered them. Which means they don’t know that it’s the one thing I was hoping to hear.
“No,” I take a few steps toward him, stop, self-conscious of how I look, how I smell, everything that I would change about this moment. “I—I was surprised.”
“Surprised?” he tilts his head, analyzing me. I feel like I’m wildlife he’s trying to understand in its natural habitat. Or maybe I’m the gazelle about to be hunted, and I’m too dumb to realize what’s going on.
“Surprised…” I take a few more steps toward him, until my socked feet are just inches from his, “…and happy.”
“Happy.” This time, when he repeats it, a smile spreads over his face. I flush with satisfaction at having been the one to do it. “So, you’re okay with it?”
A laugh barks out of me, and I clap a hand over my mouth, shaking my head, “Well, yeah. Couldn’t you tell? When we were camping together…?”
He stares down at me, and I realize before he speaks again that he’s going to make me say it. “Couldn’t I tell what?”
My cheeks heat further. That warmth spirals down through my body, pooling between my legs. When I open my mouth, it’s my desire speaking in a bold voice, “That I wanted you to touch me.”
Graham’s jaw tightens, shifts, and after a long, painful moment, he swallows and asks, “Do you want me to touch you now, Serena?”
“Yes.”
I’m tissue paper. I could blow away in the wind. My legs might as well be shaking for how much it feels like my knees could give out. Even him looking at me like this is a physical caress.
“Then come here.”
It’s a demand, and I obey instantly, walking toward him on unsteady legs. His hands land on my hips as I settle onto his lap, body trembling with excitement and need. I’m finally getting something I’ve been wanting so badly.
Ryan said that to me—after the first time we were together. That waiting made it better for him. I can only imagine the same will be true for me, now. With Graham.
His mouth falls to my neck, and his hands slide around my back, pulling me flush to him. I gasp at the suck of his teeth on my pulse and grind down into his lap, which makes him let out a low moan for me, one hand lowering down, squeezing at my ass.
I can already feel him hard, straining against his pants, and his size is evident even with the layers of clothes between us.
We kiss for a long time, almost lazily. Maybe that’s what you’re meant to do in the Italian countryside, with the lemon trees outside and the fresh breeze rustling through the hall. It feels like a dream.
It’s like being back in that tent. My core clenches with wanting. A wanting to make him feel just as good as he makes me feel.
Rising up, I pull at the waistband of his sweats, and he wastes no time in tugging them down until I’m gasping at his straining cock, the sheer size of him. I don’t mean to do it. In fact, I never thought I would be the kind of woman to care that much about size.
Which, I don’t. Or, at least, I try not to.
But that doesn’t stop me from assessing him, from thinking that it might actually be impossible for me to take all of him at once.
Travis and Ryan are well-endowed, but Graham is gifted with the kind of length and girth that you giggle at in the sex toy store, wondering who in their right mind could possibly use a dildo like that.
Not only is it big, but it’s geometrically perfect. There’s a single, shining bead of pre-cum at the top, a tell of how much he wants me—as if how hard he is wasn’t enough.
For a second, I find myself admiring him as an artist would admire a sculpture.
I have a ridiculous urge to get my camera, to take pictures, to instruct him to wrap a hand around his cock, to stroke it for me. I can see each shot, the progression, the beautiful function of movement.
“It’s smaller than it looks,” Graham murmurs, breaking me out of my thoughts and pulling me into him, so his cock is trapped between our stomachs.
We kiss again, and his mouth skips down to my chest. Roughly, he tugs on my shirt and reveals my breasts, greedily taking one in his hand, the other in his mouth.
When we break apart again, breathing hard, I pull back to look at him.
“Take as much as you can.” Graham chokes when I wrap a hand around him, just to get a better idea. It makes my brain buzz when my fingers just barely overlap. “Go as slow as you need, Serena. That’s why you’re on top.”
He’s thought this through—about how to keep me comfortable.
When I lift up, Graham reaches down and pushes my shorts to the side, hissing when he finds me without panties beneath. I’m wet for him, and he drags a knuckle through it, dropping his head back against the couch with a groan.
“You are something else, girl. Fuck—I want to be inside you. Take me, baby. Please.”
I do what he says, body vibrating with anticipation as I guide him to my entrance. Even his tip stretches me, and it’s so delicious—stinging and pleasure all at once.
Slowly, I lower down, taking him not inch by inch, but millimeter by millimeter. I feel the stretch but also the way he fills me, like my organs are shifting, making room for him. The thought shouldn’t be so stupidly sexy.
Maybe I’m tired. Maybe it’s just Graham, the intoxication of knowing I get to have him, and I get to have the other men, too.
The thought of Ryan flickers into the scene with us, standing in front of me, his eyes on Graham and me, how Graham is cupping his hands under my ass, how I’m nearly all the way seated.
“That’s right,” Ryan might murmur, his hand working over his stiff length, his blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded, “take his cock, baby.”
I let out a moan and Graham follows, before covering my mouth with his hand, clearly remembering his brother is somewhere upstairs. Fuck—why does it feel so good to have his hand over my mouth?
When I’m fully seated on Graham, adjusted to his length and girth, I experiment with different movements.
Rolling my hips, rising up and down, rocking back and forth.
Graham likes all of it, based on the way his eyes go dark, based on the way his hands move frantically over me, gripping, tightening, adjusting.
He likes the bouncing most, I can tell, from how his eyes drop to my breasts, pulled free from my shirt and just in front of his face. When he takes a nipple between his teeth, I let out a sound into his palm, and he grunts.
Graham takes his hand off my mouth and cups both under my ass to guide my movement, wanting me to take him faster, harder. I do, mind flying in every direction, delirium setting in.
The Ryan in my head is moving his hand faster, biting his lip, stepping closer. In my mind, while riding Graham, I reach out and take Ryan in my hand, guide him to my lips. I lick around the length of him, pop him into my mouth, and smile around the sound he makes.
Graham starts thrusting up and into me, eager for more, and the movement would push Ryan further into my mouth, down to my throat.
When Graham grabs my hips and pulls me down roughly, bringing us flush, I cry out and fictional Ryan disappears.
All that’s left is the touch, feel, and sounds of the man under me, his chest beneath my palm, his breath on my neck, the fevered, urgent, animalistic jerking of his hips as we come apart together.