Authors: Lexxie Couper
“Or two,” Damon went on, his stare locked hard on Will’s
face. “She’s going to tell us to fuck off.”
The sledgehammer slammed into Will’s gut again. Damn Damon
and his keen insight into the human mind. Made for a bloody brilliant arson
investigator, a great boss; made for a bloody annoying best mate.
The man studying him hadn’t started out his best friend but
somewhere over the last eight years of working together, that’s exactly what
he’d become. Which meant Damon knew just about everything going on in Will’s
life, and was
involved
in just about everything going on in his life as
well. Sometimes Will had to wonder if that was a good thing. He bit back a
curse. “And how did you arrive at those options, boss?”
Damon gave him a wry grin. “’Cause I thought the same
fucking things the second I read Phoebe’s name on the report.”
The confession jerked a humored snort from Will. “So much
for being the detached wankers Phoebe accused us of being the day she left.”
Damon laughed. “No, she accused
you
of being a
detached wanker. She called
me
a flippant, indifferent arsehole.”
Will scrubbed at his face with his hands. “She’s not going
to be happy to see us, is she?”
Damon laughed again. “After the way we behaved? Not at all.”
“So what do we do?”
Damon flashed him a broad grin. “Hope to fucking God we can
change her mind.”
“Tricky.”
“You better believe it.”
“She told us what we did together was never going to happen
again.”
“True.”
“That after the pair of us blew it off as a simple
been-there-done-that fuck-fest instead of acknowledging what it
really
was, the pair of us could kiss her arse goodbye.”
“You’re right.”
“Plan?”
Damon laughed a third time, the sound far more deprecating
than any Will had heard from his friend before. “Be our charming, lovable
selves?”
Will rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s going to work.”
“It worked the last time.”
“Until she accused us of being indifferent arseholes and
detached wankers the night before she moved to a whole other town.”
Taking my heart with her.
A heavy pressure squeezed Will’s chest at the thought.
That’s exactly what had happened. None of them—neither he, nor Damon nor
Phoebe—had anticipated a night out for drinks to celebrate Phoebe’s new,
dedicated studio in Morpeth would turn into a weekend in bed together. But it
had. Three years of knowing each other, of relaxed flirting, friendly banter
and good-humored mocking over other boyfriends or girlfriends had unexpectedly
and surprisingly led them to a situation so unbe-fucking-lievable, the shock
had sent them all for a spin.
A bloody big spin. Because Will
knew
after two
mind-blowing days and two equally mind-blowing nights of watching his mate fuck
Phoebe, of fucking her while his mate watched, of all three of them fucking
each other at the same time, that two days and two nights wasn’t enough. He’d
had no idea what Phoebe expected after the weekend ended, but he knew what
he
wanted—more. And he knew Damon wanted more as well. Not just sex, but…more.
It had scared the shit out of Will, big time. The knowledge
that he was prepared to commit to a relationship society deemed unacceptable
with his two best friends left him reeling. And even though Damon hadn’t
admitted it at first, it had scared the shit out of him as well. So they’d
acted like it was nothing, like it was just a bonk to say
adios
. By the
time he’d seen the truth in Phoebe’s eyes, the proof that she wanted more than
just a goodbye fuck, that her silence was wounded embarrassment, it was too
late. They’d brushed off something incredible and swept Phoebe’s heart away
with it. Dickheads.
“We were chicken-shit cowards the last time.”
For a second time, Damon’s unexpected confession made Will
snort. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“So this time, we’re not. We don’t pretend otherwise. We
don’t pretend the whole thing is just a same-old, same-old.”
“And how are we going to do that? Considering she doesn’t
want jack-shit to do with us?”
Damon flashed a grin—the same grin Will had seen him use
more than once when on the scent of an arson, the grin that said
I have you
in my sights, buddy, and you are going down.
“We hit her with both barrels
and let her know without doubt what we want…
“Her. Forever.”
Chapter Two
Phoebe heard the solid thud of a car door slamming outside
her gutted studio, a second before she heard another one. Her heart, obviously
into the whole “slamming” notion, decided to join in and slam into her throat.
She let out a ragged, strangled breath, every nerve-ending
in her body thrumming with charged tension. They were here. Shit, they were
here.
She jolted to her feet, dragging her fingers through her
hair.
And then plonked down onto the charred work stool again,
gnawing on her thumbnail. She had no idea how to proceed with the next…the
next…. Hell, how long were they going to be here? How long did it take to
decide whether a fire was an act of arson? An hour? A day?
A day.
Jesus, how would she survive a day in Damon
and Will’s collective presence?
The pit of her belly fluttered, or was it the junction of
her thighs? She couldn’t tell. She was so freaking flustered she didn’t know
what part of her body was reacting to the men’s arrival.
Yes, you do, Pheebs. You’re just trying to pretend you don’t.
You’re turned-on. Already. Just the
thought
of being in the same room as
Will and Damon, of seeing their towering, hard bodies, of hearing their deep
voices, smelling their subtle aftershaves, is making your sex throb and pulse
like a—
She ground her teeth. Damn it. She wasn’t turned-on. Nothing
was throbbing and pulsing, thank you very much. She wasn’t that stupid. Yes,
they’d all shared something she couldn’t hope to describe, but as it had turned
out, she was the only one who’d been emotionally
moved
by it. Getting
excited about Damon and Will turning up at her door now was just plain idiocy.
She wouldn’t have it.
Rising to her feet again, Phoebe ran her hands over her
clothes—her favorite pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt depicting Leonardo Da
Vinci’s face covered by the slimy facehugger from the film
Alien
. She
wasn’t going to let the two arson investigators know how unsettled she was.
They would see the woman they first met all those years ago at a Newcastle
school carnival, where she’d been demonstrating glassblowing techniques and
they were answering questions on home fire safety and letting little kids sound
the fire engine’s siren. A woman in control of herself, relaxed, a touch
left-of-center and far too busy being a successful artist to waste time being
distracted by two gorgeous, sexy-arsed—
Someone knocked on her studio’s blackened, buckled door.
Her mouth went dry. “Oh boy.”
She stared at the door. Took a deep breath—and coughed it
out again as the acrid taste of burnt word, metal and plastic poured down her
throat, past her slamming heart and into her lungs.
Tears leaked from her eyes and she sucked in another
breath—and coughed more.
Oh lovely, now they’re going to think I was crying.
Brilliant. Bloody brill—
The knock came again, louder this time. Like a fist pounding
the smoke-painted door. “Phoebe?” a deep voice called from the other side.
Damon. “Phoebe, are you okay?”
She spluttered out a “yes”. It sounded like a hiccupping cat
meowing.
Oh, freaking great.
She stumbled forward a step, trying
not to tumble over the black corpses of what only yesterday were her favorite
work chair and drafting board. Tears leaked from her squinted eyes.
“Phoebe?” A different voice this time. Will’s. Deep and loud
and worried. “What’s going on?”
“C-c-coming!” she choked. She sounded like a
strangled
cat this time.
She took another step and kicked a pile of damp, gray mush
she guessed had once been her polishing rags. “Shit!”
Of course,
that
word left her constricting, burning
throat quite clearly, didn’t it?
“What the fuck is going on in there?” Damon shouted,
followed by another fist-pound on the door. She glanced at it through stinging,
tear-blurred eyes, wondering how it was withstanding such a beating. She
remembered all too well the massive strength in Damon’s arms. And Will’s as
well. The heavy door rattled in its frame, buckled to the point she’d barely
been able to lock it.
Damn, why had she come through the back door? If she’d
already muscled open the front door, none of this would be—
“Open the fucking door, Pheebs.”
“Coming!” she snapped. Just as she slammed her shin (
Jesus,
is slamming the action de jour or what?
) into what was probably her tool
chest, pre-fire. “Damn it!” she yelped, struggling to stop her fall forward
even as smoke-tainted air rushed back down her throat.
And she burst out coughing again, wheezing, gasping coughs
that covered her cheeks in tears.
Oh this is just freaking awesome.
“Fuck this.” Will’s growl barely reached her ears through
the door and over her hitching coughing fit. What
did
reach her ears,
however, was the loud bang as her door slammed open (
great, more slamming
),
revealing Damon Hunt and William Bradley in a shower of splintered wood.
They both stood gaping at her for a split second, both tall,
both dominating the doorway, both too damn sexy for words…
And then she was coughing again, stumbling backward, her
pulse thumping at the force of just how goddamn perfect they were, how much
she’d missed them.
They were beside her before she knew it, two sets of warm,
strong hands curling around her arms and pressing to her back. “How long have
you been sitting here breathing this shit, Masters?” Damon demanded.
“Way to go with the gentle approach, Stretch,” Will snarled.
She coughed again, eyes squeezed shut. She wasn’t ready to
open them. Jesus, her heart was still competing with all the other slamming of
the day—this time doing its best to slam its way out of her chest. Damon Hunt
and Will Bradley were touching her. Again.
She was a goner.
“Hey, if the woman’s been sitting here all morning waiting
for us to show up, she’s got a lungful of smoke and charcoal dust and
carcinogenic shit,” Damon pointed out. “She should know better.”
“I—” she began, trying to straighten.
“Cool it, Damon,” Will growled. “You’re scaring the artist.”
His hand smoothed up Phoebe’s back to rest beneath the heavy mass of hair at
her nape. She should have tied it up in a ponytail; both men loved her hair
down and free. What had she been thinking, leaving it out?
“I’m not—”
“Scaring the artist? This is the same woman who took on that
Hells Angel in the pub only a year ago, remember? I don’t think—”
“Can I—”
“
And
she’s been living in Morpeth,” Damon raged. “Who
knows how soft and arty-fartsy she’s got since—”
“Arty-fartsy?” Phoebe yanked herself free of their hold,
stomping back a few steps to glare at them both, hot anger replacing the
confused terror in her chest. “Who the hell do you think you’re calling…”
She faded off, unable to miss their wide grins. Their wide,
cheeky, oh-god-how-she’d-missed-them grins. They’d been baiting her.
“Good to see village life hasn’t softened you up, Masters,”
Damon said with a smirk, the sinful curl of his lips making Phoebe’s pussy
constrict.
“Still, it looks like you’ve forgotten how to breathe
properly,” Will noted, his milk-chocolate-brown eyes seeming to glint with
mirth. “I’d say too much fresh air getting into your lungs, but then, you’re
standing amongst a charcoal pit, so that can’t be it.”
Both went silent, waiting for her to say something.
She couldn’t think of a word. Not one.
How ‘bout, “kiss me, now”?
“Hello Damon, William.” She nodded at them, keeping her
voice as calm and formal as she could. Not easy, given that her pussy was
tingling from all the vivid memories her brain was feeding her body about the
two men before her. Damn brain. What the hell did it know?
Damon cocked a straight, dark eyebrow at her, crossing his
sublimely muscled arms over a chest she knew for a fact was equally as sublime.
“Hello, Phoebe,” he mocked, his voice just as calm and formal as hers.
Beside him, Will rolled his eyes. “Pheebs.” He gave her a
steady look and she had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself from
stepping toward him. Toward them both. They’d made themselves pretty clear six
months ago. She wasn’t going to be foolish enough to let them play with her
heartstrings again.
They could play with your body, though? Surely just one
more time? Or twice? Three times? For old times’ sake? Maybe four—
Damon cast a slow inspection around her studio before
turning his gaze back on her. “So, someone been playing with matches, I see?
Tsk tsk, didn’t you know little girls who play with fire get burned?”
“Bloody hell, Damon.” William rolled his eyes again,
stepping away from Damon with a shake of his head. “Do you think you could be
any more lame?”
Damon laughed. “Probably. If I tried hard enough.”
Phoebe stood frozen, watching them both. Goddamn it, she’d
thought she’d braced herself for this, for their unique brand of disarming
charm and humor. But no, it seemed she’d been a complete failure. Listening to
them bounce insults off each other was the closest thing to foreplay she could
think of without involving any physical activity. It had always been this
way—they goofed around, she laughed at their sarcastic wit and when they parted,
she’d go back to her home with a stupid grin on her face and gooey warmth in
her soul.