Chapter 7
7
Anya
B reonna’s place is a small but cozy one-story cabin, elegantly put together, with a basement and a set of stone steps connecting the porch to the narrow country road that leads to the main route into town.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell Breonna as I climb the steps behind her.
The porch is quaint and comfortable. An old-fashioned oil lamp hangs from the edge of the roof, and ceramic pots adorn the windowsills.
“I come up in the summer, too, sometimes, if I need a quiet place,” she says. “That’s my favorite spot, right there,” she points to the outdoor lounge corner. “Sinking into those cushions with a glass of cold lemonade is next-level happiness, I swear.”
“Oh, I believe you,” I say and chuckle softly as we go inside.
The cabin’s interior is a tasteful mixture of luxurious minimalism and rustic—I find it odd that I’m able to recognize design styles, but I can’t remember where I was before the car crash, or my family, for that matter, other than a few scattered memories.
“The photography is beautiful,” I say, admiring the black-and-white image of a nimble dancer sashaying across the stage.
“Oh, that’s me in the photos,” Breonna replies.
I stare at her for a second, imagining her in a tutu, light as a feather as she moves to the classical music. I can certainly see how men would find a woman like her so appealing. Nimble, spry, aesthetically pleasing to the male gaze. But the photos are from her past.
“I was a professional ballerina,” she adds, “for the New York Ballet Company.”
“Wow,” I whisper. “That must’ve been an experience.”
“Grueling, truth be told. I trained under a former Bolshoi prima ballerina named Anastasia Lazareva. She was an expert in torture, but she did bring out the best in me as a dancer.”
She leads me past the bedroom door and into the kitchen area.
“Have a seat; make yourself comfortable,” Breonna says as she pours us a couple of glasses of water from a pitcher she keeps on the island counter. “I’ll whip up the hot chocolate in a second.”
“Thank you. Do you miss it?” I ask, taking a seat.
“What, dancing?”
The water feels nice rolling down my throat. It soothes my headache, too. Perhaps I was just dehydrated. A snippet of a New York winter crosses my field of vision. I see myself giggling as the snow falls around me.
“They’re like tiny marshmallows!” I hear myself as a child laughing.
My brother’s shadow is beside me, keeping me safe.
“You’ll really like this little treat,” Breonna says, pulling me back into the present. She just opened a packet of instant hot chocolate powder, and I can see the small white squares in a separate plastic sachet from where I’m sitting. “I told you; it’s really good.” She pauses to look at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, sorry. My head’s all over the place these days. I tuned out for a second. You were telling me about your ballet days.”
“And you asked me if I miss it,” she replies and prepares the first serving of hot chocolate using milk from the fridge and the steamer function on her coffee machine. The gurgling sounds it makes in its stainless-steel pot briefly hypnotize me. “The ballet. I’ll be honest, I do miss it, but I don’t miss the sacrifices it came with.”
“Oh?”
Another memory swoops in, of a favorite bistro in Manhattan. Sunlight streaming through the window, and the barista—whose name I remember, it’s Jeff—telling me they’re out of hazelnut syrup for my latte, but I should try the pistachio one they just got in. It’s Italian, he says.
“No social life whatsoever.” Breonna keeps pulling me back. Every sound and smell push a sensory button in my head, unraveling memories, but the conversation has me anchored in the present, whether or not I like it. “No friends. Barely enough food to function, truth be told. Anastasia wanted us as skinny as possible, especially before a show. The week prior to opening night, she’d have the entire company, the understudies included, weighed every morning.”
“That sounds… awful,” I mutter.
“You’ve never had a problem with that, clearly,” she chuckles dryly as she pours the first serving into a big ceramic mug and adds the mini marshmallows on top.
“Excuse me?”
“With a scale, I mean. You obviously don’t care.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Breonna gives me a wry smile, and it only serves to fan the flames of my indignation, even as she brings the mug over to me before she goes back to prepare her own. “You’ll have to forgive me, Anya, I’m the brutally honest type,” she says. “And I’m not really apologetic about it either. I tell it like it is. I mean, surely, you’re aware that you’re on the plus side, right?”
“I’m aware.”
“It’s not a problem, mind you. I’m not judging. But it’s just a statement of fact. In my line of work, my weight and figure were central to my success. And I excelled as a dancer. Now and then, I still fast for a day or two, just to drop a few extra pounds after the winter, but that’s the part I don’t miss about being a ballerina. The constant hunger was awful.”
I don’t know whether it’s microaggression or just Breonna’s personality, but I have mixed feelings about how she speaks about these things. Maybe I’ve always been sensitive about my weight. Maybe this sensitivity stems from childhood or adolescence. Kids can be mean.
“Fatty!” a young boy’s voice screeches in the back of my head.
“Say that again, and I’ll hang you up by your boxers, you little twerp!” my brother shouts at the bully. Yet another memory, loose in my train of thought.
“And what do you do for a living now?” I ask Breonna, trying to avoid another slip.
“I’m the VP of a marketing agency in Denver,” she says.
“Is it what you imagined yourself doing after ballet?”
“No!” She laughs bitterly. “I always wanted to start my own dance company. But then I met my husband, well, ex-husband now. He got me a job at his agency. I grew from there in the public relations department. Divorced his cheating ass. And here I am, three years later, climbing up the business ladder, I guess.
“Don’t get me wrong, I like what I do, and the money is sweet. It’s how I’m able to afford this and all my trips, of course. Part of me still wishes I could do something with ballet, though,” Breonna adds.
“How about you? What’s your career path?” She joins me at the counter island with a hot chocolate of her own, while I take a sip of mine.
“Oh, you’re right, this is delicious,” I say with a smile.
“I’m glad you like it,” she says, then waits for my reply.
I lower my gaze for a moment, trying to figure out an appropriate response. I might as well tell the truth. Breonna seems intent on giving me hers, whether or not I like it.
“I don’t remember,” I tell her.
She looks understandably confused. “What do you mean?”
“I hit my head pretty hard in the accident I had last week. I don’t remember much of my life before today.”
“Oh wow, that must be tough,” she says sympathetically.
“It is. I’ve been getting little flashes of what I think are memories the past couple days, but that’s about all.” I sigh in frustration.
“What do you remember?”
“Just bits and pieces, but not enough to give me a sense of identity,” I confess. “The Hayes brothers and I, however, go way back, and we’re still trying to figure out what I was doing out here in the first place. I live in New York. That part I remember.”
“What about your family?”
“I don’t know. They’re probably worried. But the cell tower is still down, so we can’t call anyone,” I say with a heavy sigh.
Breonna checks her phone almost on instinct, then frowns in disappointment. “Yes, that’s been a bit of an issue for me, too,” she says. “I’m so sorry you are going through this.”
“I’m thankful to be alive; the memories will probably follow.”
We talk awhile and despite her moments of abrasiveness, Breonna is starting to come across as a decent woman. Fierce and bitter about her divorce, sure. Gushing over Nico whenever his name pops up. But she seems nice enough. Friendly but edgy would be how I would describe her.
“How did you and the Hayes brothers meet?” I ask at one point.
“Up here,” she giggles. “They’re good neighbors. Good men. Hospitable and kind. Surely, you must’ve noticed how hot they are. Giving off sexy mountain man vibes with very little effort.”
I can’t help but laugh lightly. “They’re easy on the eyes, sure.” My cheeks burn as I remember our bedroom adventures.
“How long have you had this cabin?” I ask Breonna, trying to determine how long she’s known the guys.
“Ever since my divorce. Almost three years now,” she says, a warm smile stretching across her filled lips as she gazes out the window. “I still remember it; the first time I saw Nico. It was the middle of summer, and it was hot, but not city hot. Mountain hot. Nothing a cold lemonade and a fan couldn’t soothe.”
“Okay.”
What is this pang of jealousy in the pit of my stomach? I don’t want it.
“He was chopping wood,” Breonna remembers with stars in her eyes. “Bare-chested and sweating, those jeans barely clinging to his hips. My electrical system was still kind of shoddy at the time, so I went over to their lodge hoping to get some help. And boy, did I get more than I had expected.” She laughs.
Outside, the sun is setting. We may have lost track of time by the looks of it. Darkness will soon blanket the mountain, and the cold night will swallow everything in its silence. I’m startled by a knock on the cabin door.
But Breonna is unfazed. “That must be him.”
“Who?”
“Nico,” she says, a little too eager for my comfort.
I follow her to the door. When she opens it, Nico is standing there looking uncomfortable as all get-out.
“We’re headed back up,” he tells me, without even acknowledging her. “Let’s go.”
“Now, now, hold on,” Breonna replies with a flirtatious smile. “Let me make you and the boys some hot chocolate, at least. Anya can tell you it’s to die for!”
“We’re good, thank you. And thank you for keeping an eye on Anya for us,” he tells her, never taking his eyes off me. “How are you feeling?”
I offer a slight shrug. “I’m good to go.”
Once I’ve got my boots and coat back on, Breonna returns with two packs of hot chocolate. “Here, take these with you,” she says, shoving them in my pockets. “You loved it so much; you might as well make yourself some while you’re still up at the lodge.”
“Breonna, thank you,” I reply with a warm smile. “And thank you for the hospitality as well.”
“It’s going to be okay, I know it,” she says and pulls me into a hug.
* * *
Something bubbles beneath the surface.
An insecurity I can’t quite explain, recently exacerbated by Breonna’s words. The way she pointed out my figure left me feeling uneasy and frustrated that I couldn’t gather the nerve to ask her about how close she was to my men.
My men.
What a silly thought.
I sink into the sofa, gazing out the window and deep into the night. A full moon has risen, casting its silvery glow over the woods, which is otherwise shrouded in darkness. It’s quiet out there. Quiet and cold. But my heart burns brightly, and my mind keeps skipping through intrusive thoughts.
“What’s up with you?” Chance asks as he walks into the living room.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I reply with a weak smile.
“You haven’t been yourself since you came back from Breonna’s.” He takes a seat next to me, cautious and polite in his approach. His brow furrows with concern, and I think I miss seeing him laughing and smiling. Being happy looks better on him. “What did she say to you?”
I offer a shrug. “Nothing worth repeating. She’s a complex woman, isn’t she?”
“Not necessarily.”
“She didn’t say anything bad about you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He chuckles lightly. “I’m not worried about anything Breonna might have to say.”
“Then why were you and your brothers reluctant to let me spend time with her?”
Booker joins us in the living room, heading straight for the mini bar built into the library. “Reluctant isn’t the word. Breonna has a way of being nice with one hand and then jabbing you with a hypodermic needle of insults with the other,” he says. “I think it’s just the way she is.”
“That, I did notice”
“What did she say to you?” Booker asks, giving me a sideways glance as he pours himself a glass of scotch. “She must’ve said something.”
“Like I told Chance, nothing worth repeating.”
“It’s worth repeating if it’s got you in this sort of mood,” Chance says.
Fair enough. I can’t keep sulking and feeling like I don’t belong in my own body. I catch a glimpse of Nico resting his shoulder against the doorframe, quietly listening. It takes a couple of seconds, but I manage to muster the courage to put these thoughts into words.
“I got the distinct impression you had some sort of something with Breonna. And after spending time with her and her ballerina figure, I’m just wondering what you’re doing with someone like me.”
Nico lowers his gaze for a moment. “ That’s what’s bothering you?”
“Well, I’m obviously not a model,” I sigh deeply. “I’m a bit on the heavy side, and I doubt I’ll ever be a size sm—”
Chance cuts me off. “Stop, just stop.”
I stare at him for a minute. “You asked; I’m answering.”
“Do you have any idea how truly beautiful you are, Anya?” he replies, snaking one arm around my shoulders. Instinctively, I melt into his large, muscular frame. “Your curves make you so fucking appealing. These hips.” He lets his hand wander gently over my belly, fingers tenderly digging into my hip. “These thick thighs,” he adds, fingers moving downward.
It doesn’t even matter that I’m still dressed, I feel naked and wanting under his gaze. “Chance… I… …”
“And these plump lips.” Booker joins us, leaving his glass behind as he comes behind the sofa and cups my cheeks with both hands, beckoning me to tilt my head back so I can welcome his kiss. “These gorgeous eyes… Your radiant smile…”
“Anya, your beauty shines from within,” Nico says, and I hear his footsteps across the hardwood floor, though I don’t see him until he’s kneeling before me, hands eager to fondle my thighs. “We never look at a woman’s size or weight. Never have, never will. It’s always been about her character. Because trust me, once we get to know a person, they’re either more beautiful than the day we met, or the ugliest we’ve ever come across.”
“It’s who you are and how you carry yourself that makes you so desirable,” Booker says, his hands traveling down my chest. He takes hold of my breasts, squeezing through the sweater to feel my flesh, soft in his grip.
I moan harshly and spread my legs, quick to lose control as the Hayes brothers turn the heat up. All I can do is surrender and listen to their words as they pour like honey into my ears. I’m beautiful again. I’m a goddess in their grip. I’m a beautiful woman in their eyes. The only woman in the world.
“Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re less than because you don’t fit a certain standard,” Nico says as he rolls my pants down. I raise my hips to make it easier, and I find myself naked in no time as Booker gets rid of my sweater. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
Chance clasps my chin between his thumb and index finger. “Can’t you see us wanting you over and over?”
“I see you,” I whisper against his lips, just before they crash into mine.
Our tongues struggle in passion as liquid heat gathers between my legs. My eyes are closed, but I can hear their ragged breaths and the shuffling of clothes as they pile up with mine on the floor.
“Now that we’ve got you, we’re not letting you go,” Booker says, then jumps onto the sofa to flank my right side; Chance has my left.
They take turns kissing me before they each take a nipple in their mouths, massaging my breasts, while they suckle and lick the tender tips, tongues flicking until the fire in my core intensifies. I’m past the point of no return and crashing quickly as I glance down and lock eyes with Nico.
He looks up at me as he dives into my slick, hot pussy.
I love the growling sound that escapes his throat as his tongue slides through my folds, teasing my clit until it swells, until the pressure becomes too much to bear, while his fingers penetrate me. I clench myself tightly around them, thrilled by the buildup, by the rhythm that takes us to the next level.
“Oh, God, don’t stop!” I cry out as Booker and Chance nibble on my breasts, teeth grazing until the sting sweetens and spreads through my ribcage like wildfire.
The heat travels and rolls out into a quivering, mind-shattering orgasm as Nico’s lips close around my clit and I come hard.
“Take me,” I beg them. “I need you inside me.”
“You’re ours, Anya,” Chance whispers in my ear.
“No other woman has ever had us the way you have us,” Booker chimes in, planting wet kisses down the side of my neck.
“I need you,” I manage.
Nico spears me with his full, glorious length. For a moment, I’m paralyzed, filled to the brim and stretched beyond the realms of sanity, his cock throbbing inside me as I lock my legs around his hips.
Booker and Chance get up. I know what they want, and I am eager to give it to them.
With hunger driving me mad, I grip the base of their cocks, fingers barely wrapped around their generous girths, and stroke them gently as they gaze down upon me. Nico thrusts himself deeper and deeper. My breasts bounce as he fucks me.
I moan in delight as I take Chance in my mouth, first, tasting the pre-cum on his engorged tip. It tastes like heaven, so I let the whole thing slide down my throat while tightening my grip on Booker. The frenzy intensifies, their animalistic grunts thrilling me as I’m pleasured every which way.
Nico’s thumb presses against my clit.
“Oh, fuck!” I gasp, pausing for air before I let Booker deep-throat me into oblivion.
“That’s a good girl,” Nico growls as he pounds into me.
The heat rises. The pressure becomes too much to bear.
“Anya, fuck, you’re gonna make me come,” Booker warns, and he’s about to pull away, but I hold him and Chance close.
“I want you to come. I need you both to come,” I demand.
He stares at me for what feels like forever, as Nico grabs my breast while adding more pressure to the tender nub between my legs, as he rams into me. Over and over.
“Come for me,” I ask again. “I want to drink you both.”
“Fucking hell,” Chance snarls and slides his pulsating cock down my throat again. I feel the vein throbbing against my tongue as he comes, his hot seed spurting as I swallow every drop.
“God, this is heaven,” Nico manages as he stiffens deep inside me.
I feel the heat spreading. My pussy clenches, and I cry out in sheer ecstasy as I come again, just as it’s Booker’s turn to release himself. I welcome him, all of him, still stroking the base while gently fondling Chance’s balls.
Nico stills, my legs still locked around his waist as Booker curses under his breath and lets go. I taste the saltiness of his essence as it hits my tongue.
I swallow every drop while looking deep into his eyes.
I’m drunk with power, high from the arousal, twitching and trembling in the sweetest kind of agony. I’m the most beautiful woman ever lived, and despite the gargantuan gaps in my memory, one thing I know for sure.
They were made for me.
And I was made for them.