Complete Bliss (a Her Billionaires novella #3) (4 page)

All were completely sated. Sexually, that is.

“Who’s getting up for the ice cream?” she teased. Sort of. It had been a longstanding joke among the three of them to share a pint of something gooey and sweet right after sex, but they hadn’t done that in months. Too many quickies, too many hot, frantic sex sessions done under the watchful timeline of a baby who might wake up at the slightest noise.

“How about steaks and shrimp?” Mike asked, peeling the covers off him and moving like a human gazelle toward the kitchen, his strides more than double the length of hers. That dimpled ass always made her sigh. His body was a series of gears and pulley lines, all muscle under skin, and watching him was better than anything on Netflix.

“Sounds incredible,” Dylan murmured, turning over on his stomach, stealing the pillows Mike had just abandoned. His leg slid up against Laura’s, and she found a warm, tingling sensation beginning at her “V”. Again? Again! How could she still want more?

Mike wandered out to the deck and opened the top of the grill that was, conservatively speaking, the size of a small compact car. Built-in refrigerator, four gas burners, an espresso machine with a blender, and separate shelves for bar items. You could live in the damn thing in a pinch. The next version of the grill probably would come with a bomb shelter attached.

“Fired up!” he announced.

“Sure am,” Laura muttered.

Dylan snorted, then turned on his side, propping his head up on his elbow. One eyebrow arched slowly, with suggestion. “You ready for a little something else to top you off?”

Her breath caught in her throat. She felt so vulnerable suddenly, so exposed. Not in the same way she’d felt postpartum, but more that the inner self in Dylan saw
her
inner self. Like they weren’t just naked together.

They were
naked
together.

Caught off guard, she uttered a little white lie. “No. Just joking.”

The eyebrow lowered and Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “I can tell when you’re hiding something, you know.”

“Okay! Okay! I spent $300 on a new Coach bag last week! It was a splurge!” she confessed abruptly, knowing that was absolutely, positively not what he was talking about.

The diversion did not work. “I don’t care about purses. I care about pussies,” he crooned, reaching down her belly, hand sliding to the spot she needed him to touch—again. Again! Her body warmed—revved, really—under his steady command, fingers finding the spot where she needed them, and the surge of pleasure that pounded through her made her grin. 

“Happy?” Dylan asked as he glanced up at her, hands parting her thighs, face flush with want.

“More than happy.”

“Is that possible?”

“You make it possible,” she whispered, her voice catching on the last syllable as his hands caressed her belly, his mouth paying attention to the soft folds of tender skin a bit lower. When he went down on her it was like being transported to a slightly different universe, one where feeling and sensation replaced thinking and talking. If only you could live in this world forever.

Too bad it took sex to teleport oneself into it.

Note to self
, she thought.
Need more sex.
 

And those were the last coherent thoughts Laura had until she called out Dylan’s name, cried for mercy as the climax grew to be a force so big she couldn’t release it. Muscled hands pinned the soft flesh of her hips, holding her in place, not letting her buck away from her own clenching climax. Emotion and pure kinetic energy tried to find its way out of her with a controlled sort of letting go, and that was the hitch: you couldn’t control a supernova. You couldn’t control a superstorm. 

You could try, but you’d only be left frustrated.

And very,
very
wet.

Dylan’s tongue strummed her like a stringed instrument, the butterfly movements making her arch up and shift into higher, deeper, finer levels of arousal and build-up, the layers interwoven and seeming not to be related until suddenly the climax was there, at the ready, a big wave of orgasms that made her move without will, grind against his mouth without humility, seek pleasure where pleasure was offered and trust that Dylan would give and give and
give
until she was sated.

That was intimacy, right? The ability to be completely bare with another person, raw and real.

And if you were lucky, like Laura was, you got love
and
intimacy, too.

Times two.

Her pussy walls moved of their own accord, like they had a hive mind that made them twitch with delicious glee, paroxysms of ecstasy slowly, lazily finding their way out of her, drawing out the joy of what Dylan had just done. She rested on her back and closed her eyes, reveling in pure sensation.

Mike sauntered back in, whistling some tune that Laura knew was a pop song from one of the smaller college radio stations in the area. That was the only way he could possibly know that short melody. “You two done?” he asked, not at all seeming to be bothered by the fact that she had just gotten one of her orgasms in quite nicely,
thankyouverymuch
. And was now in the lead in The Great Orgasm Race. 

“She is. I’m not,” Dylan said, pulling the sheet up and peering down at his own upright cock. “Looks like my refractory period is a bit faster than yours.”

“I wasn’t hanging out in bed with a luscious piece of ass for the past ten minutes. I was busy putting marinated steaks on the grill and making garlic bread.” Mike reached down to give Laura a quick kiss, and she tasted garlic, oregano, basil, and something else.

As if reading her mind, he whispered “Marjoram” in her ear, and she giggled.

“It’s true, Dylan. Mike was playing Anthony Bourdain while we were just having more orgasms.”

“‘Anthony Bourdain’ and ‘orgasm’ don’t go in the same sentence,” Dylan declared, checking under the sheet again. “And…gone. Bye bye, refractory period,” he whispered to his own penis with a little wave.

“You wave at your body parts?” Mike teased.

“Only the ones I name.”

Mike had been walking to the doorway, but came to a dead halt. Laura loved how the muscles down his back, ass, and thighs all stopped with pinpoint precision, a long assembly line of kinetic perfection.

“You named your—your
penis
?”

“Yep. Every guys does.”

“Uh, no,” Mike announced. “No, we don’t. Quit claiming to speak for all men. How did I not know this about you? We’ve known each other forever.”

“You know damn well I named it. You’ve heard me call it by its name a million times.”

Laura’s turn to get confused. “We’ve been together now for long enough that I’d know you named it. What’s its name?”

“‘My appetite.’”

Laura and Mike shared a WTF? look. “My appetite?” they asked in unison.

Dylan nodded. “That’s right.”

“Why?” they asked.

“Because it’s my appetite!” Dylan said the words as if they were self-explanatory, hands outstretched in a gesture of emphasis.

“What do you mean?” Laura asked slowly.

Dylan sighed, looking at the ceiling. “A long time ago some friends and I were joking around about what to call our cocks.”

Mike placed a hand on Laura’s arm and squeezed. The look on his face was priceless. Wide ocean eyes looking at her with incredulity. “Men don’t really do that. Don’t believe a word he says. I think he binge watched too many bromance movies and this is the result.”

“Not! Not!” Dylan barked. “I knew loads of guys in college who named their dicks.” 

“And they tended to be assholes,” Mike drawled.

“Sure, that’s true, but—hey, wait a minute!” Dylan muttered, still not getting up from his position in bed with Laura, furry legs rubbing against hers, her fingertips massaging the soft skin at the nape of his neck. She could stay like this all day, but a quick glance at the clock told her they had exactly one hour and six minutes before they needed to be in the Jeep and driving back to the main house to take over with Jillian.

“Assholes. All of them. Frat boy weirdos,” Mike continued, clearly enjoying working Dylan into a tizzy.

“You’re just goading me,” Dylan said with an eye roll.

“Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Who does that? I hate that saying. It’s so strange, because would you seriously dump a bunch of fish in a barrel of water and start shooting at them? Wouldn’t that be the epitome of stupid?” Dylan groused. Mike waved a dismissive hand his way as he left. Laura saw him in front of the grill on the deck, turning steaks over.

“You two sound like a couple of teen boys having an argument,” Laura said with a grin.

“You couldn’t pay me enough to go back to being a teen boy,” Dylan said. “Even with a better refractory period.” He looked under the sheet again with a concerned expression. “Up, boy, up!”

“Your appetite isn’t very big right now, is it?”

He groaned. “Foiled by my own joke.”

“You make it so easy, honey. Like shooting fish in a—”

“Don’t say it!” He grabbed a pillow from under her head, making her thump onto the mattress, and began beating her chest with it, the pounding fun at first, until he started tickling her.

“Stop!” she screamed, the sound coiling out of the bedroom and up over the mountains. At least, that was how loud it seemed. To her.

“Quit tickling her,” Mike called out. “You know she hates it.”

Dylan pelted her with the pillow a few times, making Laura roll over onto her stomach and bury her head under an unused white puff. Mike came to her rescue by laughing and throwing pillows from the couch at Dylan, until the distinct scent of charred steak wafted into the room. 

Laura sat up and said, “Something’s burning!”

Mike bolted outside, and she and Dylan froze, waiting with bated breath to see whether their meal had been ruined by playful fun. Wouldn’t be the first time, but marinated steaks lost to overcooking were a tragedy.

“They’re fine! Just in time!” Mike called out, and Laura took the distraction to jump up and throw on her clothes.

“Why are you getting dressed?” Dylan asked with a pout.

“Because the last time I wandered around the deck naked, I had about two hundred mosquito bites the next day. One of them managed to get on my labia! You ever try to scratch
that
?”

He leered. “I have a very scratchy tongue. Next time you get one there—”

She threw a pillow at him and left him to laugh. The scent of spices and charbroil made her mouth water. Mike’s naked body was covered in a red chef’s apron, his hand filled with a plate of half-bloody steaks.

“Salad’s over there,” he said, pointing with the grill tongs, “and the steaks are coming up.”

“Dylan should be coming soon.”

“Again? He is so damn competitive sometimes. Three in four hours should—”

“I meant coming
here
. Not, you know....”

Mike’s ire faded quickly. He looked quite adorable standing tall, the apron covering his happy bits, the strange mixture of culinary convention and nudist subversion making her nose twitch with laughter. She couldn’t stop eating him up with her eyes.

“What?” he finally asked. “Why are you staring?”

“The Nudist Chef. You could star in your own reality cooking show.”

“No way. Can you imagine if someone found a hair in the food? Try explaining that when you cook naked.”

She looked at the steak with a stink eye. “Do we need to get you a little hairnet for down there? I’d be happy to design one and help tweak it.”

“Tweak it? Lots of fittings?” He reached over with his empty arm, steaks now in her hands on the plate, and kissed the top of her head. “Sounds interesting, but I’ll pass. The idea of fitting a hairnet over my balls is one of many reasons not to have a nude cooking show.”

Dylan sauntered out in his jeans, barefoot and inhaling deeply from the fresh air. “Nude cooking show? Where? What channel? I’m in. Let’s binge watch!”

“
I’m
the nude cooking show,” Mike explained as he made sure the food was set and began pouring red wine for everyone. Laura held her hand over her glass.

“No thanks. I’ll be nursing soon.”

Mike nodded. “Got it.” He poured glasses for him and Dylan, then winked at her. “I’m a wee bit underdressed for this gathering, so if you’ll excuse me…” 

She spanked his tight ass as he turned around. “You’re wearing an apron. That’s enough. And it shows off your finest assets.”

Dylan snorted, apparently inhaling a noseful of red wine. “Ow ow ow ow ow,” he hollered as Mike howled with laughter. By the time Mike returned, wearing jeans and some old Coldplay t-shirt Laura hated, Dylan had cleared his nose and was eyeing the wine with suspicion.

They dug into their steaks, and within minutes had wolfed down the lovely dinner, which was fine with Laura. The sooner she told them, the better, and it was so much nicer to face a full, sated set of guys when she had a minor bomb to drop.

“So…” she began. 

Both came to an abrupt halt in their movements.

“Yes?” Mike asked slowly. She saw his eyes flick toward Dylan and then return, the micro-movement so rehearsed she might never have noticed it if she weren’t so intimately familiar with the two of them. 

“What the
hell
do you think I’m about to say?” she demanded, the air charged suddenly, leaving her imbalanced and agitated. Like a switch had been flipped, she went from lightness to dark. Why would they look at each other that way?

Neither of them answered her, instead looking at her with such intensity her heart turned into a cyclone.

“Guys?” she pleaded. This felt so far out of the range of normal.

“Are you…” Mike began. He stopped and looked at Dylan.

“What?” Laura practically screamed. What the hell did he think she was about to say?  

“Are you pregnant?” Dylan asked.

A huge stream of air poured out of her lungs, the relief evident in the way her shoulders relaxed, her body poured the worry out through her sigh. “God, no. No!”

Dylan’s face relaxed with relief.

Mike’s collapsed with disappointment.