Of all the people to find standing in the hallway, there’s Max, the employee who doesn’t understand the word no. He steps back, eyes wide, as Trace leads me out of the men’s bathroom.
“Are the walls sound-proof?” I grin over my shoulder at Max, walking quickly to match Trace’s long gait.
“Um…not really.” Max rubs the back of his head.
“Oh good. See you around.”
Trace grabs our cart of groceries, and we make our way to the front of the store. He’s quiet to the checkout line, quiet on the drive home, and quiet still when he parks in the garage and stares straight ahead.
“What’s wrong?” I unlatch the seatbelt and lean toward him.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been giving me one-word answers since we left the store.”
He unbuckles his seatbelt and drops a quick kiss on my lips. “I’m just mentally preparing myself.”
“For what?”
The door to the kitchen opens, and Cole steps into the garage. Trace glares at him through the windshield.
That’s what Trace was preparing for—Cole, this arrangement, and the inevitability of watching another man make my heart race. My chest constricts.
“There will come a day when…” He grips my chin and growls against my lips. “I’ll show no restraint.”
As the last of the groceries are put away, Trace gets a call and strolls toward the rear of the house, arguing with whomever is on the other line about regulations on new gaming machines. With the phone at his ear, he steps outside, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Cole.
“How was fishing this morning?” I dig around in the fridge, avoiding Cole’s eyes.
“Peaceful.”
I keep my back to him, as if the row of fruit-flavored yogurt requires my attention when all I’m really thinking about is Trace’s growled-out promise in the car.
If he showed restraint in the Walmart bathroom… Sweet lord. My skin tingles with his possessive marks, from the imprint of his teeth on my neck to his come rubbed into my back. He took me thoroughly and aggressively, and we didn’t even have sex. The memory alone makes my muscles clench low in my body. I ache to put my mouth on him, to hold the weight of his cock—”
“How far did he go?” Cole glares at me from his perch on the stool at the kitchen island.
“Excuse me?” My neck goes stiff, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth.
“I won’t repeat myself.” His hands rest on the counter, cupped around a beer bottle.
There’s no tension in his posture or expression, but something dark and restless churns in his brown eyes.
I close the fridge and stand on the opposite side of the island, facing him with lead in my stomach. The urge to glance at Trace’s silhouette beyond the windows claws at me, but I keep my gaze on Cole. “What are you talking about?”
He jerks forward, his eyes thrashing. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“How far did Trace go?” My hackles rise defensively. “Are we talking in terms of first base, second base…? Maybe we should put on pajamas and braid each other’s hair while I tell you all about it.”
“Do not fuck with me!” he roars, crashing a fist onto the counter. “Understood?”
“Do not yell at me,” I say in a low harsh voice and lift my chin. “Am I under-fucking-stood?”
He flattens his mouth in a line, staring at me blankly. Then he blinks, and a surprised sound heaves past his lips, an almost laugh thick with frustration.
Outside, Trace moves in my periphery. I meet his icy eyes through the windowed door. He’s still on the phone, his mouth moving rapidly as he reaches for the door handle. I give him a sharp shake of my head, and he lowers his arm.
“You got your backbone back, baby.” Cole rubs his hand over his face and drops his elbows on the counter, smirking to himself. “It’s hot as fuck when you stand up to me.”
The tightness in my neck loosens. If Cole were a dance, he’d be the Tango. It’s moody, volatile, and thrums with passion. It gets angry, goes ballistic, and the choreography makes a dramatic display of feelings, severe expressions, and snapping arm gestures. Then it reconciles, composes itself, and dims the lights. Cue the romance, the seduction, and the slide of a hand over fishnet stockings. Hearts beating, bodies in a close embrace, it burns and consumes and never lets go. That’s Cole in a complex nutshell.
I glance at the tall, refined figure on the back terrace and smile inwardly. There’s no dance more stately, elegant, or alluring than the iconic Waltz. The footwork is timeless and controlled, augmented by proud posturing as it travels deliberately, gracefully, to the ends of the world. It’s a legendary fairy tale, a well-dressed prince, and a palace glittering with promises. Trace is a beautiful Waltz.
Turning my attention back to Cole, I find his head lowered and sedate eyes fixed on his beer bottle, with a grim twist to his mouth.
My insides clamp with realization. He loses his temper when he’s hurting. And he’s hurting because of me.
I approach him hesitantly, noting the subtle twitch in his whiskered cheek. I search for something to say, and all thoughts lead to Trace and our stolen moment in the bathroom. That’s what this is about.
When I step close enough, he reaches for me, pulling me between his legs with my back to the island.
“If you don’t tell me what happened with him,” he says quietly, staring at his hand on my waist, “he will tell me. That’s the deal.”
“What deal? Are you talking about the rules?”
“Yes.” He rests his brow against my breastbone.
“You won’t tell me the rules, because you don’t want me dwelling on them. But you know what? I’m dwelling on them because you’re keeping them from me.”
He releases a defeated breath. “It’s really quite simple. My actions set the limits for his and vice-versa. If I kiss you, he can kiss you. If he touches you here…” He cups me in between the legs and lowers his hand. “I can touch you there.”
A chill ripples through me. That’s why they were arguing about kissing me yesterday.
My knee-jerk reaction is to scream, Have you lost your ever-loving mind? But if I compartmentalize my emotions and look at it from their perspectives, it’s not a bad approach. If Trace would’ve fucked me in the bathroom, it would’ve given Cole the green light to do the same. Trace doesn’t want that, so he jerked off instead.
By controlling themselves, they’re controlling each other. That’s a whole lot more effective than my sad attempt at setting rules. But there’s something I don’t understand.
“What about the six-month time line?” I ask.
“We agreed to no sex while you’re in limbo.” His brow furrows, expression pensive. “It was my idea. I want you out of his bed until you make a decision.” He gives me a pointed look. “Until you choose me, at which point you’ll never fuck him again.”
A swallow sticks in my throat. I don’t blame him. Whoever I choose will carry the memory of seeing me with his best friend. How can either of them live with that?
“The problem is,” Cole says, “I don’t think I’ll last six months.”
No shit. I run my hands through his tousled hair, untangling the thick strands on top. “I need to just make a decision and end—”
“No.” He tightens his grip on my waist. “You’re not going to rush this.”
“Why not? Dragging it out doesn’t help…”
Then it dawns on me. They’re not ready for this to end. They put off these confident vibes, speaking in terms of when, not if, but deep down, neither one is certain he’ll be chosen.
“You’re prolonging this.” My gaze drifts to Trace on the terrace. “Because you’re afraid.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid.” Cole straightens, eyes flinty. “I’m afraid you’re going to flip a fucking coin and let luck decide. Right now, you don’t have a clue who you want, and until you know, this is how it’s going to be.”
A ragged inhale shudders my chest. “I hate this.”