Her Two Billionaires (Her Billionaires #3)

But just then, Mike's turn came, his eyes unfocused, face tight with concentration, arms bulging as he thrust up, up, into her, making her tighten and realize she had another wave in her to catch. Cool air hit her ass as Dylan pulled away.

“Come here,” she said, panting.

“I'm here,” he murmured, moving next to Mike and Laura, licking a trail up her ribs, the sensation so luscious as he took one ripe nipple. Sliding her hands over Mike's shoulders, she stretched into the sucking, her hips taking in his thick rod, the simultaneous attention so erotic she felt the new orgasm snap.

She clamped on Mike's cock at that exact moment, milking him as he thrust up and shouted, “More!” He thrust, then halted, repeating the action, until with one final sigh he finished, leaning back against the couch, eyes closed, chest heaving with exertion.

Laura's orgasm sprang to life as if she hadn't just exploded mere minutes ago, the intensity taking her breath away. Dylan nuzzled her ear from behind and kneaded her breasts, murmuring,“Let it all out.”

He didn't need to say it.

She became someone else – no, she became her, the self-confident woman she remembered and the sexy beast she knew was within. From her core, her entire body clenched and heaved, a plane of orgasm shooting through her. Dylan's fingers and hands drained every drop from her until she slumped forward, Mike's hands caressing her back, the tenderness a comfort she didn't need but welcomed anyhow.

For now, tenderness wasn't a surprise; it was a right. Her eyes raked over Dylan's glistening body as he walked to the bed, stretching on the sheets, arms over his head, muscles taut and strong. He shot Mike a conspirator's look and the two started laughing.

A cold flush took over her body. Oh, my God. This was all some sort of game? Were they really tormenting her? Was she the fat girl again, the butt of some awful joke? Had they recorded this, a cruel joke to show on YouTube in a few days, making her a social media pariah? All her self-confidence, all her sensuality drained out of her and she buried her face in her hands, hot tears filling the back of her throat.

“Oh, no! Laura, we weren't laughing at you!” Mike picked up on her distress first, rushing to cradle her. How did he know what she was thinking? It was uncanny, but words escaped her again, the pain of what she thought they were doing so great that even if they weren't, its echo remained.

Dylan's hot hands caressed the back of her neck. “We, uh, well.” Dylan hesitated, then blurted out, “we kinda planned all this.”

“Yeah, I know. When's the YouPorn video going up?” she asked, now just pissed but also hoping Mike's arms weren't part of the joke, that his soothing was real.

“What? No, no. We planned it because we wanted a threesome with you. We were together, watching for someone like you to appear on that dating site for a long time.” Dylan's voice seemed so earnest. Here she was, naked and covered in their juices, Dylan and Mike and their luxurious flesh before her, and all she could do was cry.

“Someone like me?” Hope bloomed. Maybe she had been right all along. The two men exchanged a glance and Mike spoke first.

“Just like you. Blonde. Perky. Funny as hell. Centered. And with a smoking bod. We're tired of women who aren't real, and who don't have the ability to see beyond convention, outside of judgment, and to just follow their hearts.”

“So you decided to put me to some sort of test and see if I'd rise to the occasion?” Laura searched frantically for her clothes, her vulnerability like a giant shark bite where her heart should be. Exposed, she felt shame pour out of her like an open vein right here, right now, because how could she go from the exhilaration and attachment of what the three of them had created just moments ago to this all-consuming pit of despair?

Four eyes watched her, countless pounds of muscle twitching and trembling as she spoke, both men gawking at her like she held their balls in a pair of pliers. Why were they doing this? The mixed signals stymied her. A sick joke? A bet? Some kind of weird competition that ended in threesomes?

Those same comfortable, flowing clothes that she had loved wearing here tonight when all she had expected was a date with Mike were the bane of her existence as she struggled to throw them on as fast as possible, her foot getting caught in the yards of ample fabric. “God damn it!” she shrieked, nearly falling over.

“Laura.” Mike climbed out of bed, his naked form stretched out in front of her, her face inches from his crotch as she bent over to untangle herself. Under any other circumstance she would have welcomed the view, but right now his golden flesh just prolonged her agony.

Kneeling with more grace than she could ever possess in three lifetimes, he grasped her foot tenderly, peeling the stretchy cotton cloth off the toes where it had twisted. Her leg free, she could pull her skirt around her waist and shove her arms through her t-shirt, then fling her oversized jacket over it, all with Mike staring balefully up from the ground. Those giant blue eyes communicated so many emotions Laura just couldn't receive right now.

Run.

Run away. They're making fun of you, Laura. The voice sounded like Josie's. Like her mother's. Like every person who had pretended to like her but had just been playing a joke on the fat girl.

Joke was over. She heard Dylan call out her name as she slammed the front door and marched through the dark to her car, the tears spilling over her lashes before she'd made it down the porch steps. She reached into a non-existent pocket for her keys. Keys. Thank God she'd driven here in her own car and could leave, but she couldn't get out of here if she didn't have keys.

Damn! Her purse. It was back in the –

Creak. The front door opened and Mike's long, taut arm came through it, her purse dangling from the end, the porch light making the entire production seem like some rejected scene from one of the later Friday the 13th movies. Horror was apt; it's what she felt right now. Gently, the arm knelt down, resting the purse on the welcome mat. Without a word, he withdrew his limb and the door creaked shut, the glow on her purse like a spotlight of failure.

Was that some sort of message? Don't bother coming back in? Like a pilot light pluming as it is first lit, Laura felt a fireball of rage explode in her. She wanted to ram the front door and –

No. The fury snuffed out fast, leaving a deadly calm inside. Mike did that because it was Mike's way – quiet, silent. Deliberate. He knew she wanted to leave and he helped. No judgments, no words, no complications.

What she needed most right now, as she sneaked up the steps and snatched her purse strap, was no complications. No thoughts, no feelings, no regrets, no nothing.

Laura stormed back to her car, yanked the door open, piled in and cranked the engine. To her relief, it started fine and off she went, the aroma of sex and Dylan and Mike perfuming the air. Their hands were still imprinted on her, the ache of them inside her stretching and throbbing inside, as if she hadn't quite readjusted to the lack of their stroking, their kisses, their –

Don't think about it. After her first threesome, she was touched out. The next thing to touch her lips better be named chocolate. Or coffee. Or Xanax.

Hot tears, though, beat them all to it.

“Her purse? Of all the gestures you could have made, Mike, the one you picked was to put her purse out on the porch for her?” Although he'd stayed in bed while poor Laura had wrapped herself into a knot rushing to put on her clothes, now Dylan leaped out, pacing like a caged animal. His nude form was less appealing than it normally would be as Mike struggled to make sense of the last hour.

“She needed to be able to leave in peace.”

“She's going to think that was some sort of big old 'fuck you,' Mike! Like we were telling her to get out.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Dylan replied savagely. He grabbed his boxer briefs and dragged them on. Mike heard the popping of stitches and bit back a smirk as Dylan untangled himself from having put both legs in the same hole. As Dylan figured it all out Mike calmly put his own underwear and pants on, desperate to go for a long trail run. Where the hell was his shirt?

“Where are you going?” Dylan shouted as Mike wandered out of the room in search of his shirt.

“For a run.” Where was it? He and Laura had been by the bed, and her fingertips had – Oh. Yeah. Turning around, he walked back in to find Dylan shoving his shoes on, glaring at Mike like he'd just ripped his puppy's head off and eaten it.

“At midnight? Smelling like – uh, us? Are you trying to be bear bait?”

Behind the door he found his shirt in a wrinkled heap. His biceps ached as he stretched his arms and slid them into the sleeves. Sore already? He snorted.

“You think something is funny? At a time like this? Man, you're cold.” Dylan bounded to his feet, fists curled, itching for a fight. Mike knew he wasn't mad at him; Dylan was frustrated and hurt, and this was what he did.

He got mad.

Mike, on the other hand, got out. Out on the road, the trail, the running paths – wherever his feet took him. Coming right up to him like a peacock ready to strut, Dylan got in Mike's face, his bare chest brushing against Mike's tight-weave cotton.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” he hissed, arm pointing toward the front door. “She's gone. Your little plan failed.”

“We don't know that. Quit saying 'my plan.' My plan didn't involve a threesome on the spot.” A deep itch, an urge like a tic, swelled up in him from bones to outer skin; the need to flee. To run. To race.

To get the hell out of there.

His throat started to hurt and Dylan looked like a gremlin, yapping about Laura and how it was all destroyed now and who was crazy enough to run in the woods alone in the dark and why hadn't he been there more for Dylan after Jill and then his words went into slow motion, like molasses pouring from his gaping maw, until Mike had to look away. Acid trips were less surreal than this.

“Laura thought we were mindfucking her, Mike,” Dylan growled. “That we were laughing at her, like we planned some sort of joke and she was the punch line.” He ripped his hands through his hair and made a keening noise not unlike one he had made when the doctor had come to them after Jill had coded. “And who can blame her? I pop up like I'm stopping by for tea and cookies and BAM! Her first threesome.” Dylan collapsed on the bed, shaking his head and groaning, hands clamped on his temples.

“It would be a bit jarring.” Shit, Dylan was right. He couldn't run now. What next? His muscles kept tightening, spasming without conscious effort. The urge to move was too great. This was not going to end well.

Dylan sat up and shot Mike a withering look of incredulity. “Jarring? Who are you – the queen's PR person? Keep calm and carry on is one thing. Keep calm and act like a robot just makes you look like an ass, Mike.”

Blink. Mike didn't know what to say. Had nothing to say. He needed to run. Lungs felt like they were collapsing in, his spine curling forward, his knees itching and nerves burning.

Run.

“And then there's the whole billionaire thing!” Maniacal laughter poured out of Dylan's mouth. Now he was just plain old scaring Mike. So much for that run. He plopped down next to Dylan on the bed and just watched him.

A grotesquely loud gurgle vibrated from Dylan's gut. “Sorry,” he muttered.