Page 71 of The Pairing

There it is. The reason we’re really here.

We glide easily through the preamble, the feeling each other out, the flirting. It’s nobody’s first time, and all three of us are loose-limbed and quick to confidence. Then Émile calls us a beautiful couple, and Kit says, “Oh, we’re not together.”

I shoot him a glare, and he quickly recovers.

“I mean, we’re notexclusivelytogether.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Émile says. “I wonder if you would let me watch.”

Of all the scenarios discussed, I didn’t consider the possibility of Émile simply wanting to watch us together. I glance at Kit, wondering if he’ll back down, but he looks calm, so I decide to be calm. I reach down to the platter of fruit laid on the table between the canvas-cushioned daybed where Kit and I sit and Émile’s deep leather chair.

“What would you like to see?” Kit asks.

The grape I’m grasping nearly slips out of my fingers.

Émile shifts the ice in his cocktail glass. He turns his gaze to me.

“Does he know how to show you pleasure?”

What a fucking question.

I look at Kit as I answer, daring him to keep his composure. “Yes.”

“Will you show me?” Émile asks Kit.

Kit’s eyes search my face. He’s deferring to me, letting me decide what happens next. If this is a game of chicken, I won’t lose. But I also won’t beg.

“I’d rather him teach you,” I say to Émile.

I watch as Émile climbs to his feet and takes off his shirt, revealing sculpted, tanned muscles, including what could undeniably be described as cum gutters. He tosses the fine linen over his chair and turns to me with his hand offered, his manicure pristine but his palms meaty with a working man’s muscle.

I’m tracking Kit’s reaction as I let Émile pull me to my feet. I see the way he leans forward, how he sucks on the rim of his champagne flute.

When Émile presses his lips to mine, I taste custom leather interiors and syrup-soaked fruit. He kisses with the directness of a man who has fucked more people than I’ve ever met and the thoroughness of a lover who still cares about making it good. I find myself looking forward to when he’s kissed Kit and we can compare notes.

Kit watches it all.

He parts his thighs at an instruction from Émile, and I have to stop my reflex to praise him for how well he takes directions. Like this, his little gold swim trunks leave nothing to the imagination, and I can see just how much he’s into this. My eyes skim over his taut stomach, up the graceful planes of his chest and the gentle curves of his biceps and shoulders, to his mouth, slack with anticipation, and his dark eyes, which are fixed on my face.

I touch my chin with my thumb. Kit does it back. Green light.

“Good,” Émile says, unaware of this little conversation. He guides me down between Kit’s splayed legs on the daybed, myback to Kit’s bare chest, my legs falling open against the sun-warmed insides of Kit’s thighs. While my senses are overwhelmed with all ofthat,he leans in and kisses Kit.

It’s happening inches from my face, so close that I can feel the vibration of Kit’s moan in my own chest and see the pink flash of Kit’s tongue as it slips into Émile’s mouth. I’m so thankful for champagne, for reckless spite and the rush of salt water, because watching them doesn’t sting like it might have yesterday. It makes me wet.

They break apart and Émile returns to the platter of fruit, all of it ripened to softness by the evening sun. I stare down at my open legs between Kit’s, wondering what comes next, wanting whatever it is. Kit’s heart is pounding fast against me, but his hands rest at his sides, not touching me at all. What happened to the Kit who was unable to keep his hands off me, who couldn’t go three days without going down on me? What kind of Sex God has this much restraint? What do I have to do to get him to fuckingtouchme?

Experimentally, I tip my head back and let it rest on his shoulder, my face tilted toward his. I watch his pupils dilate, his lashes flutter as his gaze drops to my mouth, my exposed throat. Still, his hands stay where they are.

Émile kneels between our outstretched legs, the gold around his neck and the saltiest bits of his stubble catching the sun as he edges forward on his knees. He holds half a peach, its flesh wet and golden, a raw opening at the center where the pit must have been, and tells Kit to use it. To show him what I like.

JesusfuckingChrist.

Kit takes the fruit, examining its contours, palming its velvety skin. I begin to wonder if he’s stalling, if he’s forgotten how I like to be touched. But then he slowly traces the pad of his thumb around the rim of the peach’s red center, making a loose, messy circle, pressing harder when he reaches the darkest flesh at the crest. I swear to every god, I feel the touch between my legs.

A wounded sound catches in my throat.

I lay my hand on Kit’s thigh to tell him I’m hot for this—so incredibly fucking hot for this—and when he nods, I know it’s more for me than Émile. It almost feels like I’m dreaming when he brings the peach to his mouth and puts out his tongue.

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