“Mira?” I sit up straighter, and some of my hot chocolate almost sloshes over the rim.
He chuckles. “Yes. Mira. She all but stripped us both naked and dragged us into her bedroom. And when I saw him there, when I saw him touch her…” He pauses, looks at me. “There was just this moment of possessiveness. Like he was touching someone of mine. It was like I was suddenly in high school again, with my hormones raging and my need—like a ravenous need to compete, to win.” He runs a hand slowly up my jeans, to my knee, and then back down again. “The guy didn’t understand. He didn’t get it. But Mira did. I remember her smiling at me as I fucked her. As he sat there with his dick in his hand. And at the end, she told me that she and I were going to have so much fun.”
A piece of the puzzle fits together. “Wait. That night, in Vegas…”
“I met her and Edward,” he confirmed.
“So Edward knew? She wasn’t cheating on him?”
He nods, and I try to picture dignified Edward in a threesome with Mira and Trey. I shake my head. “You’re full of shit.”
His hand stills along the top of my wool socks. “Excuse me?”
“There’s no way Edward would do anything like that.”
His eyes darken. “Because it’s disgusting.”
Yeah. Disgusting is a great word for it. But probably not the best time to say that. “It’s not disgusting,” I hedge. “It’s just … kinky. And Edward wasn’t like that.” He wasn’t. He was refined, and polite, and certainly wouldn’t have had Trey fuck his wife, much less join in on it.
“I assure you, Edward is very much like that.”
“But doesn’t he get jealous?”
“He’s a realist. He can’t fuck Mira and go down on her at the same time. And he can’t create the energy of two people, the attention of two people at once. With both of us, she has four hands, two mouths, two cocks.” He slides his hands down, under my socks, and pulls them off. “I’m not an emotional player in their life. I come in, we have fun, and I leave. It’s not messy. I get to please a woman, I release some sexual tension, and then I go back to life.”
He runs pressure along the bottom of my soles, and I almost close my eyes from the feeling. “I don’t understand.” He sighs, and I look toward him. “I’m serious. Are you doing this for the testosterone-fueled rush or for no-strings sex? Because you know you can hire a woman for that, right?”
“Paying a woman to have sex with me doesn’t turn me on in any way. And I don’t know exactly why I did it. All I know is that the idea of it, the buildup, the unknown of a new woman, the forbidden-ness … it all turned me on. The secondary piece to it is that I love to please women. And this lifestyle allowed me to do it without requiring me to have a relationship of my own.”
He’s talking in past tense, and I register that, yet still forge on. “Except for Chelsea.” God, I still dislike that woman. Even now, I can barely say her name without snarling.
“Ahh … Chelsea.” He frowns. “Chelsea was an experiment of sorts.”
“In monogamy?” So glad to know he failed that one.
“Actually, the opposite.” He doesn’t look at me, focusing on my feet, the gentle work of the muscles. God, if the lingerie business goes to shit, he could earn a million with just his hands. “I first met Chelsea in a threesome. I didn’t see her again until her interview. Things didn’t seem to have worked out with her last boyfriend. I thought that I would try the lifestyle from the other end. As a host, instead of a guest.”
“And?”
He pulls a blanket over my feet and tucks in the fabric underneath them. “I didn’t like it.” He looks at me. “And it made me realize how I’d feel if it was someone I really cared about.”
He’s not talking about me. I know he’s not talking about me but still, somewhere inside, a warm little flame lights. “Meaning what?” I say, in the most casual way a woman can ask a question.
He wraps his hands around my feet and brings them close to his chest, almost in the way that you would covet a tiny baby. “Meaning, if you and I ever date, I won’t want to do anything like that with you.”
Everything sort of stops. The crackle of the fire, the tightening of his hands, the movement of breath in my lungs.
“Ever?” I ask.
“Ever,” he confirms.
“But wouldn’t you miss it?”
“I can’t watch you walk into a room without getting hard. I wouldn’t need anything else.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Honestly, if I had any additional stimulation, it’d probably be an embarrassingly short experience.”
“That’s a common problem, you know. That men have with me.” I lift my mug to cover my smile. “It happens all the time.”
He scowls. “Put down that mug.”
“What?”
“Put it down.”