I’ve got Tristian Mercer eating out of the palm of my hand.
Literally.
He opens his mouth, teeth taking the meatball when I hold it to his lips. He gives it a few experimental chews, eyes wary. That’s how I know I’ve got him. I doubt Tristian blindly accepts food from just anyone.
“They’re vegan and gluten-free,” I assure him. “I used almond meal as the binder, and nutritional yeast as a passable substitute for parmesan.”
It’s a load of crap, really. Nothing about these could be called meatballs. Ms. Crane was puttering around the kitchen while I was cooking them, and she kept cackling at the ingredients and care I put into them.
“That’s a good little fucktoy,” she’d say, giving me a wink. I suspect she knows exactly what’s going down here, but there’s something kindred between the two of us. She’ll let me play my games.
He hums, eyes growing wide. “They’re good.”
One could easily be insulted by the shocked tone of his voice. But I’m not. They’re not actually that great, and my cooking skills are only a couple notches above Ms. Crane. It’s just that Tristian doesn’t eat good food very often. The bar here is so low, it’s embedded into the floor.
He’d told me about it last night, while we were in his bed. True to his word, he didn’t try to push anything. He just talked. Temple propped on a fist, gazing at me as his fingers skated down my chest, he told me about how difficult it is to get good food.
“That’s why,” he’d said, eyes dark as they traced the neckline of my tank top, “When I find real food—quality food—I make sure to stock up. So you can have some, too.” In his own twisted way, that’s probably a significant declaration. It’d be really sweet, actually.
Except my tits are black and blue, and I can still hear his voice in my ear, commanding me.
Tristian talked for almost two hours last night as we lay in the soft light of his bedside lamp, and the topic was always the same, but weirdly shallow. For a man who loves talking about himself, he really divulged nothing I didn’t already know, except for the fact he snores, and much like Rath, he is a cuddler. Unlike Rath, he doesn’t mind admitting it, folding me possessively against his chest before finally nodding off.
I also learned that he wakes up at five every morning to work out.
Loudly.
Shrugging, I say. “It’s all about the seasonings.”
“You really made these for me?” He looks at the tray of meatballs. It’d be funny if this game of mine weren’t so serious. I can practically see the cartoon hearts in his eyes. “No one’s ever made me food before. I mean, no one who wasn’t getting paid to do it.” He eats another meatball, bristling when Rath shoves in beside him, snatching one from the plate.
“Fuck off,” Tristian says, eyes narrowing as Rath shoves it in his mouth. “These are for me.”
Primly, I tell Rath, “They’re vegan and gluten-free.”
He freezes, catching the meatball into a palm when he spits it out. “Gross.” When he sees me crack a smile, he throws the meatball away and snakes his arms around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. “There’s so much better stuff you can make. Brownies. Pot roast. Pies. Fried chicken. Cookies.”
Tristian rolls his eyes. “You have the palate of a toddler. Aren’t you supposed to be getting the surround sound up and working?”
With the weekend comes a slight reprieve. Well, from Killian, at least. His football game is three states away, sending him and the team packing until tomorrow night. I know it’s not much—next Saturday is the homecoming game and I’ll be expected to be acutely involved. But for now, all I have to do is dress in orange and purple and help set up for the watch-party.
Hence, the meatballs.
I feel Rath’s shrug against my back. “Already done.”
He’s been working on it all morning, holed up in the entertainment room, which I’ve only recently realized existed. It’s equipped with stadium-style seating and a massive, wall-sized screen. It’s not big enough for the whole frat, so it seems like the guys have issued an exclusive list of invites. I’m grateful it’s not a full-out party, and I hope that if I keep the guys plied with food and drinks, I can sneak up to my room early and get a little homework done. I’d be lying if I said my education came first right now. I’m at Forsyth for protection first and foremost, but if I want to stay, I’m going to have to at least pass my classes.
Ms. Crane left all the snacks and drinks in the kitchen, so I spend the next hour setting up the rec room as my Lords greet their guests. Once the game starts, I pull out my rusty waitressing skills, making sure everyone is happy and fed, especially Rath and Tristian. They’re sitting in leather lounge chairs with the best view on the highest riser. From the sound of the game, Killian is playing well, living up to his ‘Killer’ nickname, slaughtering the other team with pass after pass that I find myself tempted to watch. He’s cruel and selfish, but it’s interesting to watch the way he moves.
“Are you ready for another beer?” I ask Tristian. It’s finally the fourth quarter and, thank god, the end is in sight.
He looks up at the tray of drinks and scowls. “Although I appreciate the service, why are you schlepping all this up back and forth? We have a fucking housekeeper, Cherry.”
“It’s fine. I offered to help.” I shrug, even though my feet really are getting a little sore. I can’t imagine poor Ms. Crane having to do it. “Serving you guys is part of my job, isn’t it?”
“No,” he argues, giving me a look. “Your job is to do what we want you to do, and being a glorified waitress isn’t anywhere on the list. Your job on game day is to look pretty, sit on my lap, and make all the other suckers here jealous.”
He winds his arm around my waist and pulls me into his lap. He’s been needy ever since I saw him outside my class yesterday. Tristian is the most level-headed of the Lords. He’s less prone to rage or tantrums. Even when he’s abusive or controlling, he does it with sugary words and a pretty smile. He can be kind, in his own ass-backward way. Doting and attentive, so saccharine that it aches. Rath might be a deft hand at manipulating me into caring about him, but Tristian is an expert at manipulating me into thinking he cares. He doesn’t—not in any real way. But I knew I was playing with fire by bringing Genevieve into this.
In some ways, Genevieve is the reason I’m here.
Yesterday, when he pushed me against that door in the study room, I saw something dark and familiar flicker behind his eyes. A small crack in his otherwise flawless façade. I’d know it anywhere, because it still haunts my dreams sometimes; those cold blue eyes, so empty yet so full of malice. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it. All this time living with him, being doted on by him, seeing his sharp grins and feeling his want for me, has made me forget that side of Tristian Mercer is always just below the surface.
That’s why I chose to suck him off. Part of me wishes I could go back to that night and do it just like that. Spiteful and calculated. But mostly, whatever happened with Genevieve makes him mean, and if history says anything, he takes it out on me. It was easier to nip that before it started. I need him content and happy—at least with me. For now. Until I can get my revenge.
“Tristian,” I cry, holding onto the tray. “You’re going to make me spill everything!”
He takes it from me and places it on the floor. I feel the hard press of his cock against my backside and the soft brush of his lips on my neck. Rath looks over and raises an eyebrow.
“You’ve been walking back and forth in this short little skirt all day, Sweet Cherry.” His breath is hot. “It’s diving me fucking insane.”
I sink into the feel of him, shaking off the insecurity of PDA. At least half the guys in this room were here when Killian forced me to give him a blow job, but Tristian wouldn’t make me do that. Whereas Killian gets off on dominance, Tristian thrives on public displays of his affection—exhibitionism. His hand runs up and down my thigh, inching it under the hem of my skirt. I shudder an exhale and the telltale dampness builds between my legs.
He runs his nose along the shell of my ear. “Still sore?”
Releasing a slow breath, I shake my head. I can’t pretend forever. Plus, Rath wiggled his way inside my head, and I’m still struggling to push him out. But Tristian? When it comes to our game, he’s on the back foot. I have the power here, whether he knows it or not.
It’d be good with Tristian.
Hot, practical, and safe.
I feel him go still at my answer, the cock beneath my ass giving a strained twitch. “Do you trust me?” he asks, voice rushed.
“Yes.” It’s both the truth and a lie. Tristian wouldn’t knowingly harm me—that, I know. But his definition of harm is a lot narrower than my own.
He turns to Rath, pointing to the chair beside him. “Hand me that.”
Rath gives him a look, plucking a Forsyth blanket from the vacant seat and handing it over. “Go easy,” he whispers, eyes dark.
“Always,” Tristian replies, draping the blanket over my lap. His hands disappear beneath it, ducking under my skirt, and when he hooks his thumbs into my panties, tugging them down, I panic.
“What—”
“Shh,” he says, sliding the panties down my thighs. “Trust me, sweetheart.”
I gulp so loud that my gaze zings around the room, wondering if any of the guys can tell that Tristian is undressing me, bending us both so he can pluck my panties from my feet beneath the blanket.
Rath knows. I can tell by the way he’s sprawled, teeth raking over his lip as he watches our laps with a dark expression. “Here,” he tells Tristian, holding out a hand.
I watch, stunned as Tristian covertly passes Rath my damp panties. Between one blink and the next, Rath has slid them into his pocket, eyes returning to the screen.
Tristian’s voice is a rough whisper in my ear. “Lift up, just a little—that’s my girl.”
I comply automatically, too full of panic and alarm to do anything but move with the current. It isn’t until I feel a hot flash on my backside that I realize he’s pushed his pants down. “Wait,” I hiss, flinching forward.
But Tristian just drags me back, whispering, “Relax. No one is going to know, and even if they did, they wouldn’t look.” The sweet, soothing tone of his voice is belied by the words he speaks next. “They wouldn’t fucking dare.”
On the TV, Forsyth scores another goal, resulting in loud whoops and high-fives.
“Tristian…” I think I’d be angry if I had room for anything but fear inside my chest. So fucking stupid, thinking I could tell him I was ready for sex when we’re in a room full of his lessors.
He squeezes my hips, easing me back into his lap. “I’m not Killer,” he says into my ear, and for a moment, I wonder what Killian has to do with anything. But then I realize what he’s saying. This isn’t a punishment. He doesn’t want to humiliate me. “I swear to you, no one will realize a thing.”
My eyes flick to the screen, a last-ditch effort emerging in a strangled voice. “Shouldn’t we be watching the game?”
“Fuck this game. Killer has them up by twenty-eight points.” His hand disappears between us, brushing my ass as he takes himself in hand. “But we’re still going to watch. Don’t worry.”
I feel the head of his cock nudging my entrance, sliding through my wetness, a low, barely audible rumble coming from his chest.
Closing my eyes, I sink down.
I try so hard to keep my face neutral as I take Tristian inside me, my fingers digging into the arm of the chair. I can feel the stretch, but it doesn’t hurt like it had those first two times with Killian. Tristian’s hands guide me by my hips, making me take him slow and easy. The whole time, I’m looking around the room at the backs of everyone’s heads, knowing someone could turn at any moment and lock eyes with me as I’m doing this.
By the time I finally settle into his lap, the fine tremors in my thighs have more to do with the feeling of fullness than the anxiety of being caught like this.
I suck in a shallow, desperate breath, knowing that my eyes must be wide and glazed. But Tristian just pulls his arms from the blanket and winds them around my waist in a loose, casual embrace.
“Did you ever go to Killer’s games in high school?” he asks, as if his cock isn’t currently buried inside me.
My mouth opens and closes on an aborted reply. It takes a long, tense moment before I can answer. “Once.” It was early in my mom and Daniel’s marriage, back before Killian grew hostile and mean. I went to cheer him on, even though I barely knew him. “He didn’t like me being there,” I add, breath hitching when Tristian reaches for his beer, hips flexing up into mine with the shift.
I watch from my periphery as he tips the beer back, taking a long pull. “Yeah, he doesn’t like us being there, either. I think if he wins, he worries he’ll get superstitious about it, and then he has to count on us to be at every game. Killian doesn’t like to count on people. Socks, sure. Pregame fucks, absolutely. But people?” He shakes his head. “I love that asshole like a brother, but he’s kind of a lunatic.”
It’s surreal. He’s inside me, and he’s talking about Killian’s athletic neurosis like it’s any other day—nothing special happening.
And then Killian scores.
The entire room erupts, everyone jumping from their seats, fists in the air.
Tristian doesn’t move an inch. “That’s right, just settle back,” he whispers, tipping the bottle to his mouth again. “No one cares what you’re doing.”
I realize then he was trying to get me into character. Talking about Killian, the game, it’s all just a show. He wants me to know how well he can fake it—that he won’t draw attention to this.
Exhaling, I do as he asks, melting back into his broad chest. The motion makes him sink in just a little deeper, and then I feel it inside me. His dick jumps with a strong twitch that I’m all too familiar with now. I’ve felt it in my hand—in my mouth—enough times that I can vividly imagine the sticky pre-cum dribbling from the tip.
For a moment, I’m so overcome with the urge to lift and fall that it’s like a physical ache to stay still.
I turn away from Tristian to fight it, cheek rolling on his shoulder.
Rath is staring back at me.
He has his temple propped on a fist, his legs spread lazily in the seat. His eyes are dark and hooded as he watches, and it only takes one glance at his lap to realize the hand buried inside his pocket is playing with those panties.
Or maybe even with himself.
“You good?” he asks, his pocket shifting.
Nodding, I answer, “Yes,” even though my fingers are twisting in the blanket.
Tristian hums, pressing a kiss into my neck. “Pay attention to the game, sweetheart. Maybe we’ll score.” He punctuates this with a buck of his hips.
I clamp down hard onto the arms of the chair, biting back a whimper. It’s a low-burning torture, forced to sit still as Tristian pretends nothing is happening. Liam, an LDZ member who’s sitting in front of us, turns to ask Rath, “These your speakers?” and I clench up at the sudden attention.
Tristian’s grunt is nothing but air against my ear. It still makes my heart beat wildly, eyes flying back and forth between Rath and Liam as they discuss the surround sound. We’re not watching a movie here. The lights aren’t dim.
By the time Liam turns back to the game, my fingernails have pressed divots into the leather.
Tristian’s voice is barely a whisper. “Feels so good when you clench up like that.”
On the screen, the camera is zeroed in on Killian at the forty-yard line, with only seconds left to go. I know it’s just the circumstance, the mindless lust throbbing in every cell of my body, but looking at my stepbrother on the screen, all I can think is that he’s fucked me.
Those strong thighs, powerful arms, capable hands, and broad shoulders…
All of them have been used to push Killian inside of me—a lot like Tristian is now. If my brain weren’t so fogged with sex-need-wet-hard, I might think to feel a little aggrieved.
These three have completely ruined me.
The least I can do is ruin them back.
With a deep breath, I give my hips a small, tight writhe.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “What are you thinking about that’s got you so gushing wet all of a sudden, hm?” His arm tightens around my middle, as if he’s trying to still me. Nevertheless, I can feel him twitching inside of me, his stilted breath, the way his thighs tense beneath mine. I give him another wiggle. “Cherry,” he chides, the word full of warning. He delivers his next words into my ear, quiet and rough and only meant for me. “I will nail you right here in front of everyone. Flip you over, bend you in half, and drill that pussy like I’m looking for oil. Is that what you want?”
Slowly, I shake my head. “No, sir.”
His arm flexes around me, and I know his eyes are flashing with that same spark of satisfaction as they had yesterday when I called him ‘sir’. “Only a few minutes left to go,” he breathes.
They drag on and on, and it feels like the longer it goes, the more electrified every inch of my skin becomes. The blanket is hot—Tristian’s skin is hot—and I can feel the sweat beading on the small of my back. My face must be glowing red by now. It’s almost as bad as that night Rath teased me until I called him Dimitri, and in some ways even worse. All I want to do is squirm and buck and feel him moving inside me. I know I’ll be embarrassed about it later, but right now it’s all I can think about. Distantly, I wonder why I should even care if he fucks me right here, in front of everyone.
I bear down, clenching around him.
He pulls in a sharp breath, cursing a low, “Fuck me,” and I hear more than see his head fall back against the recliner. “Rath? The second this game is over, I’m going to need you to clear this room out.”
I don’t turn to look at him, but I can hear Rath shifting, sitting forward. “Sure,” he says, rising to his feet, and on the screen, Killian is running down the field. The guys in the room are all on the edge of their seats, wondering if he can get them another TD before the clock runs out. Rath goes to pass us but stops.
He looks down at Tristian, jerking his chin. “Hey, let me see.”
Tristian doesn’t ask. Later, I’ll have to remind myself there wasn’t any time to talk me into it. Everyone else is so absorbed in the game, the energy in the room reaching a crescendo, that he only has time to gather the blanket in two fists and yank it up, sliding my skirt with it.
For a few heart-stopping moments, my pussy is exposed to the entire room.
Thankfully, Killian chooses that moment to score, effectively capturing everyone’s attention.
Rath crouches down to get the tray I’d left on the floor.
Or so it might seem.
In reality, he’s getting a nice, long look at Tristian’s dick buried inside me. His eyes go heavy and sharp as they zero in on it, a hand coming up to touch my thigh. My pulse is like a freight train in my ear as I watch him slide his hand up, pressing a thumb right into the center of my aching clit.
I slam my jaw closed on a cry.
He’s smirking as he retreats, lifting the tray. “Alright fuckers, game’s over!”
Tristian has the blanket back over my lap before I can even think to panic, distracting me with a kiss as, one by one, the frat boys file out, looking happy and drunk and ready to cause trouble somewhere else. Rath stands by the door and gives them all blank nods as they leave, his gaze occasionally drifting to us.
When the room is empty, save the three of us, Tristian tells Rath, “Not this time.”
It isn’t until Rath flips him the bird and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him, that I realize he wanted to watch. The idea makes my stomach twist even more anxiously. What are these guys doing to me?
The second the door clicks shut, Tristian throws the blanket off, bucking into me. I gasp, overwhelmed by the sudden flurry of movement. He lifts me from his lap, and I make a baleful sound at the loss of his cock, sliding out of me. In a whirl of motion, he’s got me dumped into the recliner, standing over me with his cock hanging out.
He wrenches my shirt over my head before shucking his own off, tossing it aside. My skirt comes next, yanked over my hips with a sturdy tug that makes the seam strain. His blue eyes take me in as I do the same. Tristian stands before me like the statue of a god, his cock hard and erect, looking down at me greedily. There’s no hatred in his eyes—not like with Killian. Tristian wants me, and I need him to think I want him.
I don’t even have to fake it.
Tristian Mercer is breathtakingly sexy, cut from marble, leaner and sharper than Killian. A body honed from compulsive self-care and the early morning exercises that woke me up before dawn. His abs are flat, laddered, a sharp V tapering down like an arrow to the strong jut of his flushed cock.
He looks neither surprised nor alarmed at the bruises on my breasts.
“You don’t care that I’ve been with Killian?” I ask, swallowing at the dark look in his eyes. Obviously, it’s not a secret, but with the points, the games, the competitiveness…I don’t know how this works. “I don’t want to get punished for doing something wrong.”
He bends to lick under my ear. “Now that your cherry has been popped, you belong to all of us. We don’t covet. We’re family. Killian had every right to take you that night, and I have every right to take you now.”
He demonstrates this by spreading me open for him. His jaw goes tight at the sight, his other hand grabbing the base of his cock, and then he braces himself over me. It’s just like he promised before—bending me in half, hooking my legs over his arms. He has spread me wide, and I feel the tip of his cock at my entrance. I’m not a virgin anymore and after the nights with Killian…I know I shouldn’t be afraid. At least Tristian has the guts to face me. But this is all new to me. He must sense this because he touches my cheek and says, “Don’t worry, Sweet Cherry, don’t I always take care of you?”
He pushes inside, filling me with the length of his cock. He’s not timid, but he’s also not rough. His eyes dart from my eyes to my pussy as he pulls in and out, my body—and tits—lurching with every thrust. The position is strange at first, awkward and too exposed, but the way his body brushes against my clit…
Jesus, it feels good.
“You like that don’t you,” he says, grinning down at me. I nod, and his eyebrow arches. “You want me to fuck you harder?”
Again, I nod.
“I want to hear it, Cherry, I want to hear you.”
“Harder,” I say, my voice soft.
He slows his pace, which takes the friction away. “What was that?”
“Harder.” This time I’m a little louder, but he stills completely. “Tristian, please.”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me,” I demand, pushing up on my elbows. “Fuck. Me.” It comes out in a growl.
He grins and plunges into me, slow and restrained. “Like that?”
“Harder.”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Jesus Christ. Harder!”
He reacts like a demon possessed, expression turning grave as he slams into me. I yelp and cling to him, calves pressing into his biceps. He’s got me pinned to the plush leather, cock thrusting into me, mouth crushed against mine. Over and over again he punches into me, withdrawing before going in deeper than before.
I already know this can’t last much longer, both of us too worked up from before, already on the edge of falling. But I can feel him holding on, the knot in the back of his jaw sharp and defined as he fucks me. Tension builds in my lower belly, the force and speed and sheer intensity, creating a desire I didn’t know existed.
“You’re mine,” he mutters against my lips. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I choke out, the words lost as he punches the air out of me.
“Don’t fuck with me, Story. Say it. Mean it.” We’re nose to nose. Something dark and fearful is in his eyes. “You’re mine.”
I wrap my hands around his neck and tug at his hair. “I’m yours,” I say with ferocity. “I’m your Lady and you’re my Lords. I belong to you; body, mind, and soul.”
He kisses me, hard and bruising, and the ball of want explodes between my legs, coming out in a deep, shuddering cry. He slams his hips into me twice more, followed by a harsh groan. I can feel him filling me, his cock surging deep inside, but even hotter than that is the look on his face.
Total rapture. Total rapture.
“Goodnight, Sweet Story,” Tristian says, kissing me one last time. We’re outside my room and my back is pressed against the wall. My bones feel weak from being so thoroughly fucked. To be honest, I didn’t know it could be like this. So different with each Lord, so satisfying, especially when it’s obvious how much they want—no, need—me.
“Say it. Mean it.”
I’d said what Tristian wanted. But did I mean it? It’s hard to know when my limbs feel like Jell-O and I’m blissed the fuck out.
“You sure you don’t want to sleep in my room?” he asks, fingers grazing my neck.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I tell him, “but I really could use the sleep and I have a feeling that if I’m in your bed, there’s not going to be a lot of sleeping going on.”
“Fair enough.” He grins and brushes his lips over my neck. “Sleep tight.”
I step into my room, kicking off my heels and shimmying out of my skirt. A yawn catches up to me and I let it take over. Juggling three complicated men is exhausting. I wasn’t lying about the sleep. With Killian out of town and Tristian satiated, I may actually get a full night’s rest for the first time in weeks.
Climbing onto the mattress, I plug my phone into the charger and see that I have a message.
From Ted.
My heart stutters and I freeze, adrenaline sweeping through my veins. I swipe the screen and a video pops up. I already know it’s something I don’t want to see. It’s something that’ll keep me awake tonight, staring at my ceiling and flinching at every minor creak. It’s probably horrific and grisly, full of things I’ll regret laying eyes on.
But I press play anyway.
The footage is in black and white, and the quality isn’t great because it’s a video recording of a video recording—someone using their phone to capture the image of the computer screen actually playing the video. The video itself is security caliber. Wherever the camera was mounted, it was higher than eye level. It takes me a second, mostly because I’m too full of panic to focus on any one thing, but eventually I recognize the room. It’s the entertainment room downstairs.
In it, two bodies are frantically writhing on one of the chairs.
Tristian’s fair hair glints from the overhead lighting, and my face—well, it’s not hard to recognize yourself, even in the middle of something like this.
Jesus Christ.
I watch the two of us fuck in the TV room, wild and with utter, graceless abandon. It just happened less than an hour ago, and I still feel the weight and impact of Tristian pounding inside me. Feeling nauseous, I turn off the video and throw the phone on the bed.
A moment later it buzzes with a new message.
You think I’m not watching?
Waiting?
Keeping an eye on you?
I’ve done it for years, and I’m not stopping now just because the parameters have changed. Before, I thought you were a whore. Now I know you are.
Tell me, Sweet Cherry, do you feel anything at all for them? You must not, if you insist on provoking me like this, but nothing about your romp with Mr. Mercer seemed under duress. If anything, you looked just like I expected. One more whore spreading her legs. I guess he did deserve it after buying you that car. He must seem like quite the score to you.
I’ll remember that when I kill him.
I stare at the phone for a long moment, wondering if he’s watching me right now. Has he really seen everything that goes on in this house? What Killian does to me in his room at night? The private times Rath and I share? Does he know my plans?
And when I knock on Tristian’s door five minutes later, nervous and dressed in the least provocative pajamas I own, am I seeking refuge beside him because I’m scared for myself?
Or because I’m scared for him?
