CHAPTER 3 #4
"Easy," he murmured. "I've got you."
I tangled my hands in his hair and let him take control.
The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth and the steady pressure of his tongue and the way he seemed to know, somehow, exactly when to change his rhythm—faster, slower, harder, softer—until I was balanced on the edge of something vast and terrifying and incandescent.
"That's it," he said. "Let go. I've got you."
I came with a cry that echoed off the bar's brick walls. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, each one stronger than the last, and Cole stayed with me through all of it—his mouth gentle now, coaxing me down from the peak instead of pushing me higher.
I was still gasping when the alley door swung open.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his duffel bag dangling from one hand, his mouth slightly open.
The bruise on his cheek was stark in the pendant light, and for a single frozen moment, the three of us were a tableau: me naked on the bartop, Cole on his knees between my thighs, and Marcus staring at us like he'd walked into a room and found a different reality than the one he'd expected.
"Shit," Marcus said.
Cole didn't move. He didn't pull away, didn't cover me, didn't do any of the things a man might do when caught in an intimate moment by his brother. He just lifted his head, his lips still glistening, and looked at Marcus with an expression I couldn't read.
"I thought you were leaving," Cole said. His voice was steady. Calm. The voice he'd used last night when he'd realized the intruder in his bar was family instead of a threat.
Marcus didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on me—on my bare breasts, my spread legs, the flush that had spread from my cheeks down to my chest. The look on his face wasn't shock, exactly. It was something more complicated. Something that made my skin prickle with awareness.
"Marcus." Cole's voice sharpened. "The door."
"What?" Marcus blinked, finally tearing his eyes away from my body. "Right. The door. Sorry, I just—" He stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him. The magnetic catch didn't engage. "I forgot my—I forgot something."
"Your wallet? It's on the back bar."
"Right. My wallet." Marcus didn't move toward the back bar. He was still looking at us—at me—and his expression had shifted into something I didn't want to name.
I sat up slowly, reaching for my sweater. Cole's hand on my thigh stopped me.
"Don't," he said, very quietly.
"Cole—"
"Trust me."
Marcus took a step closer to the bar. Then another. His breathing had changed—faster now, shallower—and I could see the pulse beating in his throat.
"She's beautiful," Marcus said. The words came out rough, almost reverent. "You always did have good taste."
"Marcus." Warning in Cole's voice now. "What are you doing?"
"I don't know." Another step. He was at the edge of the bartop now, close enough to touch. "I really don't know."
The air in the bar had gone thick. Electric.
The pendant lights hummed overhead, and somewhere in the basement, the backup generator cycled on and off in a test pattern, and I was still naked on the reclaimed walnut with one man's hand on my thigh and another man's eyes on my body, and I didn't know what was about to happen.
"Tell me to leave," Marcus said. He wasn't looking at Cole. He was looking at me. "Tell me to leave and I'll go. I'll walk out that door and you'll never see me again."
My heart was pounding. The heat from Cole's mouth was still between my legs, and the way Marcus was looking at me—hungry, desperate, ashamed—sent a thrill through me that I didn't want to examine too closely.
"Why don't you ask your brother what you should do?" I said.
"Because I'm not asking him." Marcus's voice dropped. "I'm asking you."
Cole's hand tightened on my thigh. I could feel the tension in his grip—not anger, not jealousy, but something else. Something that felt like permission.
"Mara," Cole said. His voice was low, intimate, the same voice he'd used when he'd asked me to taste the pomegranate tincture. "What do you want?"
What did I want?
Marcus was still standing at the edge of the bartop, his bruised face half in shadow, his rumpled clothes and tired eyes making him look like a man who'd been running for years and was finally out of places to run to.
And Cole was still between my thighs, his hand on my skin, his expression unreadable.
They were brothers. They were the same dark hair and broad shoulders and stubborn jaws, but they were also completely different—Cole all control and careful deliberation, Marcus all impulse and regret.
"What do I want?" I repeated.
"Whatever it is," Cole said. "It's yours."
I looked at Marcus. At the bruise on his cheekbone, the hunger in his eyes, the way his hands were trembling at his sides. At Cole, still on his knees, still patient, still waiting for me to decide.
The alley door was still unlocked. Anyone could walk in. The thought should have frightened me. Instead, it sent a pulse of heat straight to my core.
"I want—" I started.