Page 76 of Triple Play

Shira picks up her glass but doesn’t get further than that. Her eyes have a teasing edge. “You gonna drink this off my tongue?”

“Sure.” Blake actually smirks. “To start with.”

That gets Shira’s laugh. She sips a thimbleful of bourbon, looks up at Blake with parted lips.

They kiss—not just kiss. Shira ends up in his lap, his arms around her, their tongues sliding against one another. Blake groans, like some tension has gone out of him, even as his hands find the soft curvature of her hips.

Fuck, you’re beautiful. I must say it out loud because they end their kiss and look at me, wild, wicked, and it takes everything I have not to fall to my knees. For both of them.

Even as Shira plucks Blake’s hand, places it on her thigh, guiding it below the hem of her short black dress. “You want something else to taste?” she asks.

Blake issues a single syllable, like his daring has been caught in his throat. Until he does something below the table in the dark invisibility beneath Shira’s dress. She moans, rolls her hips, like she might ride his fingers to orgasm right there.

“Shh,” Blake says, and does it again.

Shira’s gasp echoes around the emptied room. They both freeze as if waiting for the server to return and stiffly ask us to leave. No one appears.

I pick up my glass of bourbon, take a sip. It’s warmed enough that I can start to appreciate its complexity, the smokiness buried underneath its bite. “She didn’t tell you to stop,” I say to Blake. It’s not a request.

Blake’s throat bobs. His arm tightens around Shira. I can just see the barest action of his wrist under her dress like a tease.

“She’s wet,” I say. Another non-question.

Blake nods. “Soaked.”

“Good work.” I take a sip of my drink. “Now make her come.”

He arches an eyebrow as if he’s about to object to doing this in public—as if the bourbon, and the meal, and the looseness that comes from having been on the road for three days, haven’t entirely washed away his common sense. But his hand keeps moving.

Shira’s nipples tighten against the thin fabric of her dress. She’s making noises, bitten-off gasps like she’s afraid of being overheard. I want to hear her someplace she can be as loud as she wants. I want to hear what they both sound like when they’re lost in one another.

“Are you thinking about sliding into her right now?” I ask. “Pulling her dress up, pushing her panties down.” I aim the next question at Shira. “You want to walk out of here dripping with him?”

She shakes her head. That’s enough to make Blake pause. Until her smile goes electric. “He’s gotta earn that first.”

“What am I gonna do with y’all?” But Blake speeds up his fingers, lets his other hand drift up to the low vee-neck of Shira’s dress, slipping inside. For a second, he looks almost quizzical. “There’s a lot of straps.”

“You’re a smart boy.” Shira lays a kiss on his neck. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Blake groans at that, full throated, then obviously does figure it out, because I can see the flash of the bra Shira’s wearing. Wine red. Is that the same one…? It must be, from the way she’s grinning.

He catches her nipple between his fingers, rolling it as he continues to stroke her pussy under her dress. I shouldn’t be surprised: he learns quick. Jealousy surges through me. If they’re together, what do they need you for?

Until Blake nods to me with a defiant tilt to his chin. “She’s almost there.” Like he’s doing this for me as much as her.

Shira’s biting her lip to keep from crying out. I can’t see anything beyond a sliver of her bra, her bunched-up dress revealing the line of her thigh. “You look incredible,” I say.

She laughs. “Feeling pretty incredible right now.”

“He making you feel like that?”

“You both are.” As if this is a group effort. “Only…” She cast a look around. “I might need more.”

At that moment, a noise emanates from the kitchen. Blake stills as if spooked, then inches her off his lap. For a second, they both just sit there panting before Shira fixes her dress and pats a few stray wisps of her hair.

Blake reaches down, adjusting himself where he’s clearly hard against the zipper of his pants. He groans like he might get off from that friction alone.

“You know,” I say to him. “You never picked.”

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