Page 11 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

And now I’m thinking of us doing that to Larkin in the pool. The way she’d look as we fucked her together in perfect time, she way she’d shudder and moan in my arms, completely taken over by ecstasy. I’m already smitten with the girl, but imagining her with both of us?

Fuck.

My cock responds. Even though I’m just walking down the hall, my cock springs to life at the mere thought of Larkin like that, sandwiched between us and whispering our names while we both take her.Fuck.

“Could you not?” I growl at Dalton. “It’s not going to happen. Caroline was a…”

I trail off, because I don’t feel like going down this road right now.

“Larkin’s not the same kind of girl Caroline was,” I say, changing tacks. “So just forget it, okay? No one touches her. We leave her alone to do her thing.”

Dalton chuckles.

“All right, all right,” he says. “I was just floating the idea. Forget it.”

“Good,” I say.

* * *

The next day,Poppy and William leave. That’s part of the deal: from January through March, The Centennial is too cold and snowed-in to have regular guests. They used to hire caretakers for the places, but then Poppy had an idea: they’d open it up as a free, three-month-long artists’ retreat.

Artists could have peace and solitude for a while, with their food and shelter taken care of, and The Centennial would have someone to keep an eye on things while the owners were away. It’s a win-win scenario.

And it’s perfect. After a whirlwind year — our first record blowing up, a stadium tour, more, our faces seemingly on every magazine out there, our music videos in constant rotation — we needed a break, and not just any break.

We neededout. Slate especially, because being the lead man is clearly wearing on him. Everyone always wants a piece of him, and the poor guy never gets a second to himself to work on the next album.

Then, our manager jokingly sent us an article about The Centennial’s artist retreat, and the rest is history. Our manager’s not thrilled about us essentially going into hiding for three months, but in the end he relented. Not that we gave him too much of a choice.

Before they go, Poppy lines us up and gives us sweet, grandmotherly kisses on the cheek, Larkin included. William waits patiently at the door, holding her bag.

With a final wave, she’s gone, their four-wheel-drive barreling down The Centennial’s long driveway and out to the main road. Thatcouldbe our last outside human contact for three months — we’re set to get a few supplies delivered every other week if the weather holds, but we can go without if we need to.

The four of us turn to each other. Slate’s not here, so it’s just Dalton, Gavin, Larkin, and me. Larkin’s not wearing the leggings that she arrived in yesterday, and I miss them already, but she’s got on worn, faded jeans that still hug her curves in all the right places and a loose sweater that’s constantly threatening to fall off of one shoulder, nothing but a tank top beneath it.

It’s tempting as hell. I’ve barely been able to string together more than a sentence or two while she’s in the room, because every single time I try, I’m distracted by the thought of my mouth on her skin, of how warm her neck and shoulder would be beneath my lips.

The thought of her dark brown hair splayed against the bright white of my bedsheets, her blue eyes glinting hazily as I’m on top of her—

“I guess it’s time to get to work, huh?” Larkin says, both her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “That’s what we’re all here for, right?”

Her sweater slides another centimeter toward her shoulder, my eyes following it hungrily.

“Right you are,” Gavin says, then turns to us and raises one eyebrow. “Shall we, lads?”

Chapter Six

Larkin

After a few days,we all get into a rhythm. Or, I should say: I fall into their rhythm, more or less. It’s obvious that the guys have been working as part of a group for a long time, because they’re so at ease with each other, and know each other’s habits perfectly, inside and out.

The four of them are like a well-oiled machine. Or, three of them are, anyway. I still haven’t met Slate, and I’m starting to tease the other three that he’s a figment of their imagination.

“Like in Fight Club?” Gavin asks one day over lunch.

Dalton frowns, chewing his bite of chicken salad sandwich. Cash made them, and they’re pretty good for someone who claims to know nothing about cooking.

“That’s not really what happened in Fight Club,” Dalton says, swallowing.

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