Page 52 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

At last, Slate pulls back. He looks at me with those perfect blue eyes, swallows. He runs one thumb across my lower lip, his eyes following it.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he finally says.

“Me too,” I whisper, and it’s true, even though I still feel strange about it because the truth is that I’ve been wanting to do that while also kissing his bandmates.

It’s a very, very strange feeling to have a romantic moment with someone while also knowing that last night, his guitarist pulled your hair while he fucked you in the ass, or that the night before that you were on your knees, sucking his drummer and bassists’ cock at the same time before they took you together.

As if he’s reading my mind, Slate says, “I know about you and the guys.”

I turn red. You’d think that by now, I wouldn’t, but I do.

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

“Hard not to, really,” he says. “You get a little noisy sometimes.”

I look down, also smiling.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be.”

He kisses me again, harder this time, pulling me against him. A thousand questions stampede through my mind all at once — what does this mean? Does he want me, too? Why didn’t he say something earlier? — but they’re all quieted by his mouth on mine.

Then he pulls back. He takes my chin in his hand, looks at me thoughtfully again.

“We should go,” he says at last. “We’ll be late for dinner.”

With that, he takes my hand and pulls me toward the ballroom exit, leaving my head spinning.

Chapter Twenty

Slate

Over dinner— Gavin made it, so we’re having Thai curry and sticky rice, a welcome change from Cash’s parade of casseroles — Larkin keeps looking at me, her beautiful eyes questioning.

I’m not an idiot. I know exactly what questions she’s asking me, and I can’t quite meet her eyes.

“All the storm shutters are fastened down,” Dalton is saying, digging into his second helping. Luckily, Gavin made food for days — I guess that’s what happens when your parents own a restaurant.

“Thanks for doing that,” Cash says, spearing a slice of eggplant on his fork and looking at it.

This is just the latest in their food debate: Cash is a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, while Gavin grew up in his immigrant parents’ restaurant in London, with decidedly more worldly tastes.

Cash finally eats the piece of eggplant. He doesn’t look thrilled about it, but he also doesn’t complain.

“There’s a huge stockpile of wood, just in case,” he goes on. “The lounge over on the east wing has a woodstove in it, and Poppy left instructions for using it for heat just in case the main system and the generator both go out.”

“I checked the generator,” I finally offer. “Looks like it’s in good condition. Plenty of fuel, all the parts work, that sort of thing.”

Mechanical things always fall to me. I don’t mind, though; my dad’s a mechanic, so I grew up covered in grease. I could change a tire by the time I was eight. Generators are no big deal.

“And provisions are set,” Gavin says, and points his fork at all of us. “And remember: if the power goes out?”

“Keep the fridge and freezer closed,” the four of us all chorus together.

“Brilliant,” he says, grinning.

They keep talking about the storm that’s coming. The news keeps calling it ‘the storm of the century,’ but none of us is all that worried about it. After all, if The Centennial has been here since the late 1800s, it’s already withstood at least one storm of the century, and it seems fine.

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