Something Special: The Three Graces Book Six Page 3

Fuck me.

  They’re the other threesome.

  Chapter Four

  No wonder Grace is sure that Ron will walk her down the aisle. The man is in Posey’s original fucking ménage. From the grin on his face, he’s certainly okay trusting us with their secret.

  Grace and I see our guests to the living room while Nico adds another place setting and side salad to the dining room table. When the timer goes off a few minutes later, Grace excuses herself and heads for the kitchen.

  Curious how much she picked up on Don’s appearance ahead of time, I follow her, mostly to make sure she doesn’t need help. Small thing that she is, that bake pan is damned heavy, and hot to handle. She takes her gourmet lasagna out of the oven; the garlic bread goes in. She does it like a pro and beams a smile so full of pride, it makes me itch to swat her self-sufficient little ass.

  Fortunately Grace’s morning sickness has improved enough, she rarely needs meds these days. Tonight, seated at the dinner table, she inhales the rich, red, meaty sauce and gives me a look that promises dessert beyond lemon cake and key lime pie.

  We haven’t had much company since Anna left town to join her guys on tour. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed the sight and sound of Grace laughing with another woman, despite the profanities flying from both their mouths. Shit, before Grace met Anna, she didn’t swear. Didn’t have sex. Now she could make a sailor blush and keeps two men happy in bed. I’m sure Anna’s proud as fuck.

  Mona’s proud of our girl, too, I can tell. Turns out, Grace’s boss is a hoot. Like Anna, she has a naughty streak that’s a mile wide. Unlike Anna, while Mona is clearly a bottom, I don’t sense a submissive bone in her body. Ron and Don are great. Both men are hockey fans like Nico and Grace and ex-military like me. Ron is a pilot. Don is a trucker. Both of them are gone at odd times, and while Mona is seldom alone, she stage whispers that it’s a rare treat when the three of them are together.

  For all that Mona’s being open with us tonight, she keeps more secrets from the rest of Posey than conjugal visits by her brother-in-law. Not even her best customers know that internet sales are the bulk of her business. The off-limits room in the back of the bookstore is filled with erotica and porn. Mona still can’t believe that the “titanic” Jamie Cameron aka Cameron Colson has settled in Posey. The porn star, his biker brother Cord, and Rae – I mean Rachel, our favorite waitress at Wink’s Diner – form Posey ménage number four.

  Cam was gracious enough to sign videos that Mona is now selling at a premium. In return, she’s discounting the snot out of children’s picture books for Cam, Cord, and Rachel’s daughter Hannah.

  The evening is a success. Good food, good company, good conversation around a blazing fire while the hockey game plays out on the muted flat screen TV, occasionally diverting the attention of four of us but never for long. It’s painful for Grace to watch such a sad night for her favorite team, shut out, six to nothing. Even before our guests leave, I can see she needs cheering up.

  Once they’re gone, I make sure Nico’s good, then I draw a bath for our girl. She loves the en-suite’s soaker tub, which will more than fit the two of us.

  I undress Grace slowly, slipping off her flats and socks and peeling down her leggings. “Arms up,” I say, catching the hem of her flowing New Age top, pulling it up and off. She shakes her head, gives her ginger hair a toss in a sexy move that some strippers never perfect. All that’s left is a favorite set of lace and silky goodness. The black pops against her porcelain skin, framing her better than B cup breasts and underscoring her baby bump.

  I trace the edges of her bra, drawing an erotic V from left to right that has gooseflesh rippling out from my touch like water from a coin tossed into a wishing well. Grace catches her lower lip between her teeth and inhales sharply, her nostrils flaring, my musky scent mingling with the perfume of her arousal. I unhook her bra with my right hand – a feat that never ceases to amaze her – and pull it off with my teeth. With hands fore and aft, I slide my fingers down her spine and her stomach, catching the elastic waistband of her thong and pulling it down past the tempting swell of her hips and the juncture of her thighs, over her knees to pool at her ankles.

  “Step,” I say, and she does, placing a hand on my shoulder for balance. Done, I find an elastic tie, pull her hair into a high ponytail, then help her into the tub. She sighs, sinking shoulder-deep into the water as I start shucking my clothes. I slide into place behind her, taking the washcloth and the bottle of shower gel she’s picked from an assortment that seems to be multiplying. Aromatherapy, she calls it. Whatever. She already smells good enough to eat. Anything else is just icing on the cake.

  Tonight’s offering is a heady blend of jasmine and vanilla. She practically purrs when I lather her up and scrub her down, both of us aware of my erection massaging her low back and prodding at her waist. I slide my splayed fingers over her belly, still awed by the miracle of life. There’s a baby in there, our little boy, yet to be named. Grace has been talking to him and listening for answers, but so far he’s been quiet.

  She places her small hand over mine and presses slightly, holding my fingers against her abdomen. “It’s early,” she says. “I might not hear his name until he anchors in. Even then, I might not know until he comes. Babies can be like that.”

  Her babies, maybe. Anyone else just picks a name and they’re done.

  I kiss her hair and drop my head to nuzzle her neck. “Mmm,” I rumble, nibbling, knowing better than to disagree.

  She shudders slightly, and I see her fair skin erupt with pinpoints of arousal. She’s so responsive, so passionate, so fucking perfect.

  Grace sighs and nestles back against my chest, content to be in the circle of my arms. I massage her neck, shoulders, biceps, feel her loosening up, relaxing even more. She’s so quiet for so long, I start to wonder if she’s here. I’ve seen her zone when she “channels” or when she gets in an “altered state.” She routinely goes “out of body” when she does hot water meditation, but I’m pretty good at keeping her attention when we bathe together.

  “I’m here,” she murmurs, bending her head to kiss the hand I’m holding over her heart. “Just thinking about stuff, ya know?”

  Stuff. With Grace, that could be anything from a new flatbread recipe to what crystals to use for an easier labor.

  “No,” she says softly. “Life reviews and movie moments.”

  Rather than tell her about my near death experience, I decide to keep quiet and listen to what she wants to share. “Movie moments?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Like Mr. Miyagi clapping his hands and healing Daniel’s leg in Karate Kid. Rachel taking off her prayer cap in Witness. Claire grabbing Lyle Swann’s medallion in Timerider. Moments that matter. When I do my life review, this bath will be one of mine.”

  She’s got my undivided attention now. Swear to God, she’s got a full body smile going on. Fuck if I know why, but I can damn well feel it.

  She leans forward just enough to slip her hand between us and wrap her fingers around my dick. “Two reasons,” she says sweetly, pressing against the base of my lengthening cock. “First, you’re going to tell me what you and Nico have planned for our honeymoon.”

  “I am?” Of course I am. That’s what I intended from the beginning, give her something to take her mind off tonight’s hockey train wreck. Now that she admits she’s picked up on my plans, I can’t help fucking with her just a bit. “You psychic or something?”

  “Please,” she begs prettily. “Tell me. I want to hear it from you.”

  “Okay.” Dropping the washcloth, I pull her wayward hand from my groin and haul her snug against me, my right arm banding her chest, my right hand holding her left breast. I slide my left hand from her hip to her fertile belly and splay my fingers over her baby bump. “There’s this East Coast BDSM resort called Replay. Cameron Colson knows Piers St. Leger, the owner and Master Dom. They did some work together, filming a documentary on the lifestyle. Anyway, Sir Piers is British,
but he built here in the States because he found property that suited his needs. His dream was to offer a very specialized type of role play, doing BDSM scenes set in the past, with Viking raiders, Chicago gangsters, Roman orgies, that kind of thing.”

  I can tell from the catch in her breath, she already knows where this is headed.

  “Replay sits in the middle of about 5,000 acres, eight square miles – large enough to expand, with rolling terrain that lets them build sets that are close, yet still hidden from each other. Nico says that when you two first moved in together, you eye fucked him to no end when he wouldn’t let you in his pants. Summer time, shirt off, sweat beading that smooth red chest of his – don’t tell me that all that copper skin didn’t inspire capture fantasies, mmm?”

  “Fuck,” she moans, arching her back slightly and pushing her breast deeper into my cupped hand.

  Squeezing her tit and sliding my other fingers south, I pinch her nipple at the same time I lay claim to her pussy.

  “So you fantasized about being taken by Indians?” I ask her. “Just Nico, or more than one?”

  “More,” she admits, whimpering, trembling with need. She’s desperate to move but holds still, waiting for the words.

  I let my breath out slowly, releasing the anxiety I’ve had over that question. What we’re planning involves more than us, and I need to make sure Grace is okay with everything.

  “I trust you,” she says, placing her hands over mine, connecting us above and below. “Whatever you guys plan, I know it’ll be good.”

  “It’ll be something special,” I assure her. Hopefully fucking epic. As Dominant, I’ll be sending a list of soft and hard limits for the three of us, but I’m leaving a lot of the details up to Sir Piers. That way, we’ll all have an element of surprise. “I’ve told Sir Piers that your safety comes first. Nothing to hurt you or the baby. Nothing that puts anyone else at risk. Nico and I are the only ones who get to touch your pussy or your ass, but allowing the others to touch you above the waist, through your clothing, will make it seem more real, chica.”

  Grace shudders in my arms. “Too much?” I ask. Christ, she was a virgin when we met. Now I’m asking her to let strange men put their hands on her body while I watch.

  “No,” she breathes. “I don’t think so. If I can tap in, I’ll know that whoever’s holding me is a player. It’s just…I don’t know if it’s going to dredge up any past life memories.”

  Not long ago, I’d have cluelessly dismissed that statement out of hand. Now that I fucking know better, I have to consider that something else might surface besides my PTSD. Grace told me about my past life as a Jaguar Priest, when I killed her, and the last time we were together, when I raped Nico, who had incarnated as a Cherokee woman that time around. Grace was the white man who found her and gave her a merciful death, but I’ve been living with the consequences, coming back without them, trying to make myself worthy once more.

  I wonder what the hell Replay’s psychiatrist would have to say about that. I’ve talked to Sir Josef as part of the resort’s admissions process. All three of us must be vetted, approved physically and mentally, in order to participate. We’re all clean. All healthy. Grace and Nico are as sane as a telepathic psychic medium and an American Indian shaman come, but me? I’m broken. Missing pieces. I have triggers and issues. I can’t predict how seeing Grace taken will affect me. Even knowing it’s a capture fantasy, if the adrenaline kicks in, Nico will have to hold me back, talk me down, if he fucking can. I’ve got four inches of height, muscle mass, and a shitload of experience on him. I did cage fighting before I went in the Navy. Trained more as a SEAL and still teach mixed martial arts. A man would have to be living pretty fucking dangerously to touch our woman without permission.

  “Damn straight,” Grace murmurs, patting the hands sworn to protect her.

  I grin when I hear Nico’s catchphrase spill from her lips. “Ah, chica.”

  “J.T.,” she sighs, rubbing the top of her head under my beard-shadowed chin.

  I keep just enough growth to drive her wild when I eat her pussy. Suddenly, this bath can’t end quick enough for me.

  The thought is barely formed when Grace presses her thighs together, squeezing my fingers like a vise. She does more yoga than Irish step dancing these days, but those legs are still in killer shape. I can’t tell if she’s teasing me, trying to get me to haul her out of here and into bed, or bent on keeping me here for however much longer she needs.

  “We need,” she says, her voice soft and firm and sexy as fuck. “You tell them, no guns. Bows and arrows and edged weapons only. Knives, tomahawks, spears.” She pauses and tilts her head, like she’s hearing or seeing something, which she probably is. “War clubs?”

  “If it’s stone, or bone, mounted on a handle.” Primitive technology but damned effective – and silent. No noise that would trigger a flashback or adrenaline rush.

  “Theoretically, I’m okay with being touched above the waist, through my clothes. I’ll be so layered up, I probably won’t feel much of anything except how wet I’ll be for you and Nico. It’s a shame you have to be on opposite sides. He takes me away from you. You get me back. I mean, where’s the fun for you if I get twice the action while you sit on the sideline?”

  I press against her clit, hard enough to make her pant. “They offered to have someone wear a little camera so I can watch,” I tell her. “And you know how I like watching the two of you together.” My cock seconds the notion. Grace is only five feet two, with a lithe body and a dancer’s grace. Nico is six feet tall with a runner’s build, lean muscles clad in copper. “I love the way his long black hair hangs down, tangling with your ginger, his red skin clashing with your white. I love to see you pinned beneath his weight, your pale thighs spread wide open, framing Nico while he takes you.”

  Not like a savage, though. That’s me. I’m the one who likes it rough. When it’s too much for Grace to handle, Nico’s more than happy to take one for the team, thank fuck.

  “Anything else, Grace?” I ask, eager to be with both my lovers. “We don’t want Nico to get lonely.”

  She goes still for a moment. “Shit,” she says, cocking her ear like she’s listening to her spirit guides. “There’s something. Should be something.”

  I think back, following the thread of our conversation. “You said there were two reasons this bath was special. The honeymoon and what else, chica? What’s the second thing?”

  Grace nods, glad that I remember and thus spare her from fretting for hours, or until she remembers – and I know how sketchy her short term recall can be. It’s like she lives in two dimensions at times, like physically she’s here but her mental body’s out to lunch, back in ten.

  “Oh, it’s the baby,” she tells me.

  “His name is Trace.”

  Chapter Five

  March twenty-first comes so freaking fast. Once plans start being made, everything falls into place like divination cards in Grace’s favorite Tree of Life spread.

  Anna James is due in today. She’s been on tour with Jackson and Jacob. Now that it’s a done deal, they’re bringing her back for the wedding so she can be Grace’s “maid of dubious honor.”

  Nico calls Anna “little sister.” I know she’s a pierced, potty-mouthed, porn-watching little shit and thank fuck for it.

  I trust that the Thomason twins are treating her right. Grace wasn’t exactly keen on them in the beginning, but she’s not picking up anything these days on her etheric radar but well-fucked happy vibes, which should continue, given the surprise that the guys have arranged. Someone’s going to find some new equipment in her old bedroom – most notably the St. Andrew’s cross and racks of toys for impact play that take up an entire fucking wall.

  Anna’s clueless, of course. She’s not a psychic like our Grace, though she’s intuitive as fuck. That’s what lets her write such great songs with Nico, feeling the music like she does. You can surprise Anna, but it’s nearly impossible to spring anything on Grace.
That said, Nico and I are doing our best to make our wedding and honeymoon beyond what most people dare to dream.

  It’s odd how the honeymoon idea came about. It was just a remark I made to Grace, about a particular knot I planned to try out on her in our next play session, that Cameron Colson happened to overhear. We were in THE Bookstore where Grace works. I’d brought her lunch, and Cam was buying a children’s picture book about a brave little pony.

  Anyway, Cam recognized the name of the knot and started talking about this rope master he knows. Piers St. Leger. He teaches kinbaku – traditional Japanese rope bondage – at a BDSM resort that he owns. I asked Cam if he wanted to go for coffee and we headed to Winks, where we snagged a booth in the back, far away from other ears. It wasn’t Rachel’s table, but she warned off April and waited on us herself, made sure we were taken care of, keeping our cups full with a smile that was 90% for her lover.

  I like Cam. Can’t say I like that Grace knows exactly what he can do with that monster dick of his, but her porn stash predates me. Another thing I can thank Anna James for. It sure as fuck helped Grace get ready for taking on two men when the time came.

  Cam works behind the camera now. He was – and still is – researching material for an independent project, and he talked about the filming he did at Replay for a full length documentary on BDSM that Piers is still piecing together. Right now, they have segments of kink, fetishes, and scenes, with and without added voiceovers from the participants. Anyway, when Cam heard that I was learning shibari, he offered to show me some of Sir Piers’s sessions.

  Fucker was better than good. The man’s a goddamn genius with rope, and he’s a genuinely nice guy, just like Cam said. Once Cam hooked us up, Sir Piers listened to what Nico and I wanted for Grace, made some suggestions, and promised us an experience we’ll never forget.

  To keep Grace from knowing every damn thing, we’ve left some details to Sir Piers and his staff. None of us will know exactly what’s going down until it happens.