Double Team: A Menage Romance Read online

  Until now.

  I let out a long exhale. The problem is, I know before my cock even stops throbbing that this girl is going to be an addiction. I’m only going to want more. And wanting someone like her is a dangerous temptation because she's totally out of reach.

  25

  Grace

  It’s midnight. That’s what the clock on my phone says, and I know that because I’ve checked it approximately three hundred times. It’s midnight and I, Grace Sullivan, the head of a charity foundation and daughter of the ultimate spokesman for good old-fashioned American family values – am lying in bed between two men. Two really hot men. Two really, really hot men who just fucked the hell out of me, carried me into the shower again and cleaned me up, and then deposited me right back in this bed.

  Two football players who pulled me against them like this was the most normal situation in the entire world.

  And then promptly fell asleep.

  Now I’m sandwiched between Noah and Aiden, who are lying on their backs on either side of me, snoring loudly. These aren’t regular snores, either. They’re like two freight trains. Or chainsaws. Dueling snorers. I wonder how the hell I slept in this house without hearing them through the walls before.

  I should be exhausted after four orgasms. Four! The most orgasms a boyfriend had ever given me before in a single night was exactly one, and that wasn’t anything compared to this. I’m not sure what I had with anyone before Noah and Aiden was even an orgasm. What happened tonight with them was earth-shattering, toe-curling, axis-tilting sex.

  Filthy, uninhibited, holy-shit-what-am-I-doing sex.

  With two men.

  Two football players with wild reputations.

  Two men who were very good at what they did tonight – with their mouths, with their cocks. Sharing me.

  They’ve probably done this before, you know.

  The thought pops into my head, and my breath catches in my throat, my heart skipping a few beats.

  No, that’s not true. You saw how they fought over you, how they competed for you. These men aren’t in the business of sharing women.

  Except that they’re athletes. Football players have lots of groupies, don’t they? Women throw themselves at them like they’re rock stars.

  Kind of the way you just threw yourself at their feet? An image flashes in my head: me on my knees in front of them in the kitchen, sucking on their cocks one right after the other and then begging them to come on my lips.

  What the hell am I doing, begging for two men to fuck me?

  Sexually confident, drunk-on-her-own-lust Grace has suddenly disappeared, replaced by Scared Shitless Grace. This Grace is totally consumed by thoughts about the implications of what just happened between the three of us.

  We could get found out so fucking easily. It only takes one person walking in at the wrong time, or one person noticing a gesture or a look and…

  It would be on headlines across the world.

  Why did I let my libido get the better of me? Making impulsive decisions is not what I do, and this is the ultimate in impulsive decision-making.

  Panic rises in my throat, and I scramble out of bed. I have to get out of here. What if there was a threat, a reason my security had to find me in the middle of the night? That’s my rationalization for running away, even though the likelihood of that happening is infinitesimally small.

  I move cautiously, soundlessly, careful not to wake the slumbering giants. I shouldn’t be worried, though, because neither of them stir. I open a drawer in Noah’s dresser, lucking out that the first one I pull on is full of t-shirts. I slip a shirt over my head and sneak out the bedroom door, tiptoeing through the house and back to the kitchen for my clothes.

  For all of our clothes. Cleaning up the evidence.

  I’ve seen enough episodes of Law and Order to know that cleaning up the evidence isn’t really possible. Things like this are always discovered. Someone always finds out.

  I take the clothes back to Noah’s room, setting them in a small pile by the bottom of the bed. For a second, I consider getting back into the bed with them. I consider not being a chicken shit and going to sleep between them, waking up with them, and repeating what happened last night tomorrow morning.

  But I’m not that brave. Instead, I tiptoe back to the guest room, collapsing into bed and pulling the sheets up around me. I sit there for a few minutes with my phone in my hand before I muster the courage to text Vi.

  She’s the only person in the world I can trust to talk about what happened. She responds in less than a minute.

  You’ve been radio silent, you know. I was wondering when I was going to get this text. Call me.

  When I do, she answers the phone after one ring, her voice expectant. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “You’re the one frantically texting me at midnight. Spill it or I’m going to start trying to guess what you did.”

  I groan. “You’re not going to guess, because it’s ten times worse than anything you could imagine.”

  “Worse?” Vi cackles. “Oh, honey, tell me it wasn’t disappointing.”

  “You know what I’m talking about?” I ask, my voice going up an octave. I drop to a whisper. “You know why I’m calling?”

  I can practically hear Vi’s eyes roll over the phone. “Let’s see. I only have a bachelor’s degree in fashion design and not my private investigator’s license, but I’ll give it a shot. You left for a camping trip with two of the hottest football players in the world, out in the middle of nowhere at a luxury ranch.”

  “How did you know it was a luxury ranch?” I interrupt.

  “Let me finish,” Vi chides. “And, please, of course it was luxury. Noah Ashby is a multi-millionaire. He’s not living in a tiny log cabin without indoor plumbing. Anyway, two hot football players, a luxury ranch, and one uptight and repressed Presidential daughter? I don’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that you got plugged six ways from Sunday.”

  “I’m not uptight and repressed,” I protest, even as I wince at her blunt words. “And plugged? That’s really disgusting.”

  “That’s right. Repressed,” Vi reiterates. “And sex is inherently disgusting – bodily fluids, ham-hocks slapping against each other, spooge-shooters spraying spooge…”

  “Oh my God. Spooge? Who even uses that word? What is wrong with you?”

  “I was just showing you that using the phrase plugged six ways from Sunday is in no way, shape, or form as disgusting as I am capable of being.”

  “Can you spare me the evocative descriptions?”

  “If you tell me why the hell a women who was spit-roasted by two very fine men is calling me at midnight when she should be in the middle of a football player sandwich.”

  “Spit-roasted?!”

  “You know, a cock in both ends,” Vi elaborates. “I assume that’s how it went down. Unless you were going right for double penetration from the get-go, in which case you’d have my very enthusiastic congratulations and utmost respect.”

  “I’m being serious, Vi.”

  “So am I. If you took it up the butt and in the cooch, I would offer you a very sincere congratulations, with only the tiniest hint of jealousy.”

  I’m silent for a moment, pointedly ignoring her crude words. “I ran out of the room.”

  “Oh my God, Grace. You fled the scene when they were sticking it to you?”

  “No, not when they were sticking it to me,” I clarify, exasperated. “That part was… well, good.”

  “Good,” Vi interrupts. “You just had a threesome and all you have to say is that it was good? That doesn’t sound very good.”

  The ache between my legs reminds me of exactly how good it was. “It was… crazy, Vi.”

  I don't do crazy. I don't do wild or crazy or impulsive. I do… measured. In control.

  “Uh huh. And that’s why you’re now hiding under your covers in your room, talking to me in whispers on the phone instead of sucking the