Page 47 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

I nod. “Yes.”

Aug and Lance pull me into a hug, then lead me to the dining room table where Lance and I sit as Aug returns to his pan of food, plating up something that smells like heaven. My stomach rumbles loudly.

Lance gives me a pointed look. “You shouldn’t go so long between meals.”

“It’s better for my metabolism. Makes me burn through the food faster,” I reply, using the same explanation that I give Winnie as to why my stomach is always growling.

Lance shakes his head. “No.”

I snort, sipping my carbonated water that Aug brought from the counter to the table. “No?”

Aug lowers plates down in front of Lance and myself, returning with one for himself.

“Chicken and pasta primavera,” he announces, passing red pepper flakes to me. I layer them on the steaming food and as my mouth waters, I ask, “how did you know I liked red pepper flakes?”

He grins. “It’s the only spice you had in the cabinet.” He points his fork at me, the tines loaded with noodles and meat, and adds, “And no. No more tricking your metabolism bullshit. You eat, keep your energy up, not just for sex—” he winks and my cunt pulses. “But for work. Long days on set become unmanageable without proper nutrition.”

I nod, feeling somewhat scolded, but as soon as I take the first hot, creamy bite, all other thoughts fade away. “Oh my God,” I moan around the veggies. “This is so good, Aug.”

Lance finishes his bite, nodding. “Fuck. I missed your cooking,” he says, and they share a quick look, one that doesn’t alienate me, surprisingly. Instead, their exchange leaves me feeling included, like I’m part of this big private thing that no one else is privy to. I feel special.

We eat for a few minutes before Aug lowers his fork to his plate and places his palms flat on the table. “Okay, so first we talk about our thing or we talk about why you’re ignoring your dad’s calls. Which is it?”

“Your thing?” I ask, my eyes bouncing between them. Lance looks to Aug for a long moment, his brows etched with concern.Thathas my interest. And also, fuck Quincey Parker and his ability to worm into my life even when I’m ignoring him. “Your thing,” I say again, only this time as an answer, not a question.

Aug wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “Got any wine?”

nineteen

Fill yourself up, my good pup

augustus

I lovethe way she wrinkles her nose and folds her arms over her chest. I should’ve known I liked brats, I mean hell, Lance isn’t exactly a sweet, agreeable thing. And I’ve never been attracted to anyone the way I want Lance.

Until Brielle.

“What?” I ask, forcing my lips not to twitch with a threatening smile. She gets saltier if I hold my ground, and I’m already hard at just her body language. I adjust myself beneath the table, but not without Lance noticing.

“I thought you don’t have alcohol with these talks, or whatever it is you said the other night,” she says, a piece of her air dried hair slipping over her shoulder as the heat kicks on overhead.

“We’re not getting drunk, but a single drink may help with your… reactionary nerves.”

“Reactionary nerves,” Lance repeats on a hearty chuckle as he pushes back from the table, exposing his lap. I hold in a groan at the sight of his cock thickening against his thigh. I swallowed his cum the other night—it had been so long since I’ve done that. And he swallowed mine. He put his mouth on me. He—fuck. I’m getting way too turned on thinking about us coming together again. “That’s actually a great way to describe it.”

Brielle drops her palms to the table with a thud, making our forks clank against our clean plates. “It?” She searches our eyes, her big green ones ping-ponging between us. Finally she says, “There’s whipped cream flavored vodka under the sink.”

Lance shudders and I can’t help but laugh at that as I get to my feet and collect the bottle. “And whipped cream flavored vodka is less gross than wine?” I tease, pinching three small glasses from her cupboard before returning to the table.

I pour each of us a small amount before screwing the lid back on.

“It’s from my undergrad days,” she admits with a smirk. “My best friend Winnie brought it over to celebrate the end of finals week. We went hard,” she points to the spot on the bottle where the liquid rests. “And then never wanted to drink it again.”

I take a sip and my eyes and nose burn with saccharine vanilla and rubbing alcohol. “Jesus Christ, this is awful.”

Lance snorts. “You’re really selling it.”

I finish mine and look between them, but Lance, knowing what’s coming, finishes his too, baring his teeth on a hiss as he swallows. Brielle drinks hers too and we all take a minute to calibrate old whipped cream vodka.

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