CHAPTER FOUR
No one stops me. I don’t think I expected them to, or maybe I did. Maybe I thought they’d try to push the issue again, but they continue to say nothing as I leave the room.
In the corridor, I pick up my pace. I reach the foyer where my duffle still sits next to all the discarded shoes now stuffed inside the rack.
I gather up the straps and sling them over my shoulder.
My gaze flicks to the oil painting mounted over the hallway table.
The grotesque depiction of Dante’s Inferno.
The sight of it has me shaking my head and turning away.
I stop. My hurried attention catches on the clock and the silver hands resting on the seven and one.
Weird.
I could have sworn the hands were gold, but I let it go as quickly as the thought jumped into my head and continue the rest of the way up.
It doesn’t take rocket science to not pick the last door at the end of the hallway.
As much as I want that masterpiece, sleeping in Aunt Laura’s bed, in her room, in her house, feels wrong.
Like an intrusion. The woman may be dead, but that doesn’t mean she’d appreciate someone making themselves comfortable amongst her things.
Instead, I choose the blue room with the queen-sized bed and its own private bathroom. My duffle gets tossed down on the mattress. I gather up a bundle of clothes and duck into the bathroom.
I could take my time. We have an entire night of this storm and being trapped in this house.
I, for one, have no desire to try and maneuver through this chaos in the dark again; I already nearly died once and that’s enough for me.
But I do take a shower. I wash the damp remains of my release from between my thighs and lather my favorite body wash thick across my skin.
As an afterthought, I wash my hair. I know there’s a chance that nothing might happen, but I want to smell good.
I want to make them remember me when they return home.
Fresh and clean, I emerge from the steam with a towel twisted tight around my body. I dress in loose house pants and a pink camisole that does magical things to my breasts under a loosely knitted cardigan.
I’m doing too much. I know it when I add a coat of mascara and sweep cherry gloss over my lips.
Or maybe, I’m doing enough. As someone who hasn’t dated in a hot minute, I’m definitely setting myself for something I’m not sure I’m ready for, but open to if it happens because .
.. well, I haven’t felt like this outside my dreams with anyone and if this is what finally kicks my libido into action, I have to try.
Besides, my fantasy demon may get me off multiple times in my dreams, but waking up alone and being forced to use my hand is starting to give me carpal tunnel.
I need a man. I need a thick, hungry cock that will destroy my insides and make me bite the mattress.
The way I want to get ruined should get studied, but I’ve also been let down enough that I know I’m asking for the impossible.
Men who break your vagina don’t exist outside of books.
But I have to hope that between the three of them, they can come close.
Would I sleep with all three brothers? Most definitely. Will it be a problem? That is up to them, because I don’t have a problem with it. I am willing, ready and able to let them do whatever they want to me if it means I don’t have to use my hands tonight.
Satisfied that I am as ready to face the three as I’ll ever be, I pick my way back downstairs. I’m mortified by the growing dampness rubbing against my sex with every step. Premature is an understatement, but it’s a sad testament to just how badly I need a little action.
Calm down, I tell my sex starved brain. At this rate, I’ll start humping their legs if I don’t pull my shit together. I’m nearly in control of my libido by the time I round the corner and reach the kitchen doorway ... and stop.
“It’s not going to matter if we fail this,” Lukan is saying, voice a tightly wound knot of agitation. “These fucking pockets are impossible to work with.”
It’s hard not to frown at the statement. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone so frustrated with their pockets before. Hell, half the things I own don’t even have any because women don’t need them, according to whoever makes women’s clothing. But he seems genuinely pissed over the fact.
“We just need to be patient and gentle,” Kellen murmurs. “We can’t push. If we scare her...”
I realize they’re talking about me and my ears perk.
“I think she’s stronger than you’re giving her credit for,” Roan states. “If we explain—”
“She’ll think we’re insane and completely shut down,” Lukan snaps back. “She needs to remember on her own. That’s the key. Once—”
“We could just take her there,” Roan cuts in.
“She has to willingly accept,” Lukan reminds him.
“I think she will,” Kellen murmurs. “Aamon is right. We could explain. She’s smart. She’ll listen.”
I’m beginning to think they might not be talking about me. Or they are and I missed a large, crucial piece of information.
And who the hell is Aamon?
“I’m not saying she’s not smart, but remember what happened last time?”
“This is different,” Roan stresses. “Things are different. I say we just tell her.”
“Can’t tell her,” Kellen interjects in that calm manner of his. “We swore we wouldn’t.”
Silence extends for several heartbeats and I can just picture them in the kitchen, standing around the island, faces dark with concentration. It would be amusing — the level of frustration coming from the room — but I’m too curious to care.
“We stick to the plan,” Lukan decides at last with a sigh that sounds more like a growl. “Let’s just pray she listens to reason.”
“She will,” Roan insists without missing a beat. “I know she will.”
“But we should also be prepared that she might not,” Kellen says slowly.
“That won’t happen,” Roan snaps, voice sharp. “I won’t let it.”
“None of us will, but we should make a backup plan in case,” Lukan presses.
“I think we need to see this through. We have some time. If he ... we stick to the plan...” Kellen trails off.
“He will. This means everything to him. He’ll make sure nothing goes wrong on his end,” Lukan says softly. “We just need to hold up our end.”
I realize the conversation is over when they fall silent. Seconds pass and they remain lost in their own thoughts.
But now I have my own questions. I have an entire maze of confusion winding through my skull.
None of what they said makes sense. I want to think they’re talking about me but it could be a million other possibilities.
They have an entire life I don’t know about back in Vancouver.
They have jobs and other obligations that they could be talking about, but I’m not dumb enough not to rule myself out.
I could ask. I can march in there and demand answers and learn they were talking about a work thing and I come off crazy. That weirdo that eavesdrops on people’s private conversations and makes it about herself.
Or I can wait and play this out. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want, but I can listen and gather more information before making any decisions.
I opt for the latter. It’s the saner voice of reason. The one that won’t make me out to be unhinged.
Mind set, I take a step back and pretend to just be arriving and step into the kitchen.
All three heads jerk up with my arrival.
Their focus is absolute. Centered. The feral intensity of guard dogs on alert, except, they’re watching me like I’m the threat they’d like nothing more than to devour.
The palpable desire is enough to reignite the heat simmering between my thighs.
All my hard work talking myself down amplifies with the weight of testosterone choking the air.
“We were about to come get you,” Roan says in a way that definitely sounds like a threat.
The edge has me wondering what would have happened if they had shown up in my room while I was wet and naked from the shower. Would they have stayed and watched me get dressed? Would they have even let me? I have a feeling that clothes would not have been allowed.
I shake the fantasy of them wrestling me down right there on the bathroom floor from my head. I tell myself the chances of being held down and used is an unlikely scenario, but it still has me shifting to ease the rush of moisture filling my underwear.
At this rate, I might need another shower.
“Was I gone that long?” I tease, moving deeper into the room in the direction of the empty seat next to Kellen.
“Too long,” Lukan states, pushing out of his stool and moving to the steaming kettle resting on the stove.
I move to claim my spot and watch Lukan drop a teabag into a mug. It’s been years and yet, he loads two scoops of sugar in next before filling it with hot water. Just the way I like it.
“You remembered how I like my tea,” I say, touched by the simple gesture.
Lukan chuckles. “We remember everything about you, sweetheart.”
I doubt that, but I let it slide. Instead, I reach for my chair only to have my wrist captured by Kellen and I’m dragged between his knees. The island top digs into my abdomen as I’m held in place by the giant hands he folds across my pelvis.
“Roan, build Rina a fire in the other room. The house is cold,” Kellen tells his brother. “Lukan, get the room ready for her. Take her tea.”
I don’t understand what’s happening, nor do they argue when Roan leaves the room and Lukan takes my mug and follows.
Then it’s just us.
Me with my back resting against this giant’s chest. His arms caging me. His breath warm against the side of my face.
“Kellen?” I tip my face back and I’m immediately captured by those eyes.
“Yes, my love?”
My heart flips at the sweet endearment.
“What are you doing?”
His eyelids slip a notch to half mast. His big hands roam up to pop open the only button holding my cardigan closed.
“I’m going to finger your pussy, little one.”