Now, two years later, I lie on his back, its firm strength golden in the morning light. He paddles, his muscles working smoothly underneath me, stroke after stroke that carry us farther and farther from shore, the sounds of the shore disappearing, replaced with sea gulls and ocean surf. He takes us out, till the waves subside and there is only calm, smooth rocking every ten seconds, my eyes closed, head flat against his back. Silence. No need to say anything, do anything that will break this perfect moment.

“I love you.” His words quiet.

I know. My unspoken thought floats away from our bodies. “I love you too.”

HOLLYWOOD, CA

My men are so different, yet similar in so many ways.

Their eyes, a similar tint of blue, yet Paul’s smiles at me with carefree abandonment and Stewart’s pierces my heart with its dark intensity.

Their bodies. Paul’s naturally muscular, his arms developed from hours of surfboard paddling, his abs ripped from balancing on a board, his thighs and calves strong from jumping, balancing, and kicking through currents. Stewart’s body, attacked like everything else in his life, with fierce devotion, aggression worked out with miles on a treadmill, weight-lifting, sit-ups, pull-ups, and calisthenics.

Their love. Paul loves me with unconditional warmth, his affection public and obvious, his arms pulling me into his warmth, his mouth littering my body with frequent kisses. Stewart loves me with a tiger’s intensity, his need taking my breath away, his confidence in our relationship strong enough to not be bothered by the presence of another man. He stares into my soul as if he owns it, and shows his love with money, sex, and rare moments of time.

Tonight is one of those rare moments. I have his attention, his cell phone is away, and he is staring at me as if I contain everything needed to make his world whole. I step forward, towards his seated form, the dress hugging my form to perfection. He sits up in the chair, spreading his knees and patting his thigh, indicating where he wants me. I sit sideways on his thigh, my eyes held by his, his hand stealing up and running lightly along my bare back. “You are breathtaking.” His voice gruff, he leans forward and places a light kiss on my neck. “And you smell incredible.”

“Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.” And he does. In a suit that no doubt costs more than my dress, he looks every bit the successful executive that he is. Short, orderly hair. Clean-shaven chin. Those intense eyes staring out of a strong face. “Is the car here?”

“It’s downstairs. But it can wait.” He runs a hand up my knee, sliding the material of the cocktail dress up.

I wait, my breath becoming shallow, my concentration focused on the path of his fingers, as they travel higher, taking their time, the tickle of rough skin against soft flesh. He leans over, brushing a quick kiss over my lips and then moves lower, soft kisses making the path down the line of my jaw, whisper soft against my neck, and deepening in touch when they reach my collarbone. His hand caresses my thigh, the brush of his thumb moving higher up my thigh until it is just breaths from my sex. I groan, sliding my h*ps forward, but his hand stops me, gripping my thigh and holding me still. “Not yet. Let me enjoy you for a moment.”

There is the sound of approaching footsteps, and I open my eyes to see a suited man, our driver, round the corner and stop short when we come into view. His eyes drop respectfully and he speaks softly. “Mr. Brand, I’ll be downstairs with the car when you are ready.”

Stewart mutters something unintelligible, the man taking the cue and leaving, the firm pull of the door behind him leaving us alone. Stewart’s hands push apart my legs, moving the fabric of my dress aside and leaving me bare and open to his eyes. He looks down, examining the exposed skin, his mouth curving into a smile. “No panties?” His eyes flick up to mine.

“They’re in my purse. I figured they would be useless until we got to the event.”

“That,” he says softly, his fingers teasing the edge of my lips, circling the edge of my sex in slow, tantalizing brushes, each touch closer but not yet there, “is why I love you. You know me so well.”

His eyes stare at me, dark pools of lust and want. While Paul and I talk, incessantly, often, about anything and everything, important or not, Stewart and I f**k our way through this relationship, our time often too short for anything more than physical contact. Sex is how we connect, share our feelings, emotions, and love. I stare back into his eyes, my eyelids closing slightly when he slides one confident finger over the knot of my clit, that finger effortlessly sliding down and into me, the small invasion a tease of perfection. “Look at me,” he breathes. “I want to see your eyes.”

I reopen my eyes, my mouth parting as he cups my sex, slipping a second finger in with the first, both of them working together, stimulating me in their movement, his thumb staying firm on my clit, soft pressure that moves slightly with each stroke of his fingers. He watches my eyes, sees the moment that the fire of my need hits them, sees the crescendo and burn of my arousal, adjusting the pace and pressure of his fingers in accordance with my want. I feel the curl of pleasure, growing in my belly, our eyes caught in a web of want, pulled to each other, my eyes barely noticing the sexy pull of his mouth into a smile as my breathing increases and I thrust into his hand. His other hand steals around my waist, sliding up my chest and pulling on the fabric there, tugging my neckline down till a breast is exposed, his hand gripping and tugging on it just hard enough to make me gasp.

“I want you like this forever,” he whispers. “Spread open on my lap, your skin in my hands, your pu**y hot and tight around my fingers. You are so f**king beautiful.”

I buck under his hand, my heels finding the floor and pushing off, my hand sliding up his pant leg, desperate to feel the heat of him in my hand before I come.

Blackness.

My eyes shut and I moan, my legs convulsing around his fingers, the strum of his thumb on my cl*tsoftening, whisper soft, stretching out my pleasure as I moan over and over again. When it fades, when it softly pulls delicious heat from every area of my body, the need grows. Intense, animalistic desire, a craving for every bit of him in every place on my body. My eyes snap open and find him watching, a curve already in place across that sexy mouth, his hand on his open fly, pulling out the object of my desire and stroking its hard length against my bare leg.

I push his back against the chair, stepping over his leg, straddling his waist and lowering myself down, my sex so wet it drips, my need so great I moan. His hands catch me, carry my ass down, impaling me with his cock, his own groan sounding in the large room, his eyes darkening as I tighten around him. “God, you were made for me.”

“I’m your dirty little slut,” I whisper, sliding up and down, my heels firm on the ground, his hands tilting and pulling my ass how he likes it, in a way that causes my cl*tto hit his pelvis, the tight squeeze on my ass pleasurable in its slight bit of pain.

“You are my slut,” he grounds out. “You need my cock.”

“So bad,” I agree. “I can’t get enough of you.”

He thrusts from below, pulling me down, the extra depth causing me to gasp, my body to grind, the pleasure shooting a spike of arousal through my core. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.”

“Again.” He thrusts, sitting up, looking into my eyes, our faces inches apart as I look slightly down on him.

“I love you,” I whisper, gripping the back of his chair.

Then his eyes close and he leans back, sliding his hands up and tugging the other side of my dress down, exposing both br**sts to his hands. And I know what he wants. I know, just like I know every inch of his body, exactly what he wants. I lean back, my hands resting on his knees, my back arched, my body open before him, and f**k his cock. Pumping up and down on his so-hard-it-will-break shaft, my legs carrying my body, his eyes opening and skimming greedily along my skin, his hand reaching forward and lifting the hem of my dress, strumming the bead of my cl*tuntil I come, body tightening, mouth screaming, world exploding.

Then he takes over, leaning forward and scooping me into and against his chest. My legs wrap tight around his body, his c**k stiff and slick inside my sex, he carries me over to the wall, presses me up against it, and holds me there with strong arms. Then he thrusts, over and over again, whispering my name softly, and then louder, ‘til he comes with a massive groan, his legs shaking beneath him, my own wobbly when he lowers me to my feet. He keeps me there, pinning me against the wall with his body, my br**sts tight against his tuxedo, his hands stealing into my hair, his mouth soft and sweet on mine. Drinking from my mouth, tasting me, taking his time, inhaling my scent.

“I missed you this week. I needed that.” His voice is gravelly, thick with satisfaction and truth. He tilts my head up, looks into my eyes, then lowers his mouth back to mine.

DELPHINE, W HOTEL

A-FRAME: [noun] Large wave with distinct

shoulders on the left and right side

of the peak. Can result in two surfers

surfing the same wave;

one going frontside

and the other going backside.

Two hours later, my fingers steal under the tablecloth, reaching over and gripping Stewart’s leg, sliding up his thigh, his hand catching mine, his eyes shooting a questioning look in my direction. He coughs gently, breaking eye contact as he glances to the woman on his right. “That’s correct, Beth. With quarterly projections where they’re at, there should be no need for additional debt. If anything, we should capitalize on our current assets.” He listens to her response, his hand firm on mine, keeping me at bay. But I need him. I need to feel his strength beneath my hand, to feel his arousal in my grip. When the conversation turns away from him, he leans over, plants a soft kiss on my neck, and whispers in my ear. “Do you need something?”

“Yes. You. Now.” It is an unfair request, one I shouldn’t make, but I am panting for him. I will not make it through this four-hour dinner, through the polite chitchat that will follow, cigars in the men’s club while I sit with dignified wives in the front parlor. I need a release, need firm hands digging into my skin, his mouth on mine, c**k inside of me.

He studies me, a war going on behind those eyes, his glance flitting around the table and then down at his watch. He leans forward again, close enough that I can smell his scent, the masculinity crawling across the table and robbing me of rational thought. He grips my wrist, pulling my hand tightly and places it on his crotch, brushing his lips against my ear as he speaks. “Call him.”

I pull back, confused, his hand cupping the back of my head, keeping me close to him, my eyes studying the tumulus depths of his blue. “What? Who?”

“Him. Call him. Have him take care of you. I can’t leave.”

There is only one Him in our life, our world comprised of only three people. I try to process his words, spoken without anger or light, in a serious, I’m-not-fucking-around tone. I shake my head, his eyes sharpening at my reaction, his hand pushing my own down on his cock. His voice rasps in my ear, thick with arousal and authority. “I want it, Madison. I want him to f**k you in the powder room while I sit here with these stuffed shirts. I want you to come back to this table with your cheeks flushed and his cum inside of you.”

I feel the twitch of him beneath my hand, see the flicker of excitement in his eyes, and realize the truth of his words. “Seriously?” I whisper, almost afraid to voice the question.

He slides my hand up, letting me feel the hard ridge of his arousal. It is pushing at his pants, his excitement unquestionably hard. “Call him. Now.”

I sit there for a moment, the hum of conversation muting as my mind processes this new avenue. My need moans between my legs, its intensity doubled by Stewart’s words, by the twitch of him that proved his sincerity. Can I go there? Can I bring these two worlds so close and still escape with our twin relationships intact? I excuse myself and step away, pulling out my phone, watching the dark gleam in Stewart’s eyes, a sexy smile crossing his lips. He is serious. He wants me to be f**ked while he sits a few rooms away, surrounding by wealth and business. I dial Paul’s number, biting my lower lip and step farther away from the table, holding Stewart’s gaze.

“Hey babe.” Paul’s voice is lazy, as if he’d dozed off on the couch.

“Come into town. The W Hotel in Hollywood. I need your cock.”

A minute later, I return to the table, smiling demurely at Stewart, who rises at my entrance and pulls out my chair, his napkin hiding any erection he may have. Leaning down as he pushes my chair in, he softly speaks. “Is he coming?”

“There are so many places I could go with that question.” I murmur. “But yes.”

He sits back down, reaching for his wine glass and smiling at me. “Good.”

I try to pay attention to the conversation. Try to eat my salad and smile politely, nod appropriately, laugh when the overweight man to my right makes a joke. But I am waiting, my leg jiggling nervously. Waiting for the buzz of my phone against my leg, for the moment when I will know that he is here. My call had surprised him, his soft voice hardening when he heard my directive. I could imagine him sitting up, trying to put the pieces together, hearing the raw need in my voice. He knows me, as well as Stewart does. Knows that when my blood rushes and need hits me, that there is only one thing that can satisfy it. Cock. Thrusting roughly, taking my body as its own. He knows that I can’t contain it, that the need grows and expands until my fingers or someone else’s body f**ks it to sleep. He knows that I won’t want to make love. He knows that I will need my brains f**ked out, and he knows exactly how I like that done. As Stewart does. They have memorized my body, learned my tells, f**ked me enough that every movement is delivered before I have to ask.