They watch me steadily, their expressions giving nothing away.
“Bree’s having turkey dinner at her house.” I release the pole and hug my waist. “Would it be weird if I invited you both?”
“I’d love to go.” Cole, impulsive as always, offers me an eager smile. Then he pushes off the wall and disappears beyond the doorway of the spare bedroom.
I share a look with Trace, taking in the sculpted lines of his face.
He rolls his lips, reading my eyes, and nods. “I’ll be there for dinner.”
“Thank you.” I smile. “Our first Thanksgiving together.”
A second later, Cole returns with my seven-inch platform stilettos dangling from a finger by the ankle straps.
Oh shit. He wasn’t joking about wanting me to dance for him.
I shoot another look at Trace. “I don’t think this is a good—”
“I’m not asking.” Cole squats at my feet and holds out his palm, waiting.
Trace rests his fingers in his pockets and holds up the wall with his back. He would never complain about me dancing. Hell, he put me on a stage in his casino in a glowing beam of light.
I blow out a breath, ruffling the hair away from my face. Then I give in and place a foot in Cole’s hand.
He slides on the stiletto, buckling the strap around my ankle. As he moves to the other foot, his fingers trail softly up the back of my calf.
An exquisite shiver races up my leg, and my eyes flutter closed. He does it again, and I have to gulp down a moan. I can’t let him do this. Not with Trace watching.
“That’s enough.” Trace’s voice cuts through the air, cold and sharp.
I wobble in the heels, and my hand flies to Cole’s head for balance. His hair slips through my fingers, soft and silky. I linger there for a heartbeat before forcing myself to pull back.
“I’ll finish this one.” I crouch beside him and buckle the second shoe.
He leaves me to it and prowls toward the stereo. I rise to my full height, seven-awesome-inches taller, just as Physical by Nine Inch Nails starts playing.
It’s the song Cole chose the first time I pole danced for him over five years ago. Unbidden, memories of that night heat my face and shorten my breaths. He fucked me half-way through that dance, right up against the pole. Then he spanked me for making him so horny and fucked me again.
The speakers crackle with the staticky screech of a guitar, pulling me back to the present.
“Dance, Danni.” Cole grabs a folding chair and flips it around to straddle the seat with his arms resting on the back.
Trace doesn’t move from his stance across the room. Tall, dark, and arrogant, he watches. And he waits.
I begin the pole walk, crossing one stiletto before the other and pushing out my hip. When the grungy vocals kick in, I swing my hair and climb the pole.
My dance outfit is exactly that. A two-piece ensemble designed to not interfere with my movements. But as I writhe before them in the beaded bra and panties, I feel like I’m wearing lingerie. I might as well not be wearing anything at all.
They’re so attuned to my movements, they seem to have forgotten each other. I try to keep it sexy and alluring without being a tease, exaggerating hip circles and leg kicks sparingly, like an exclamation point.
I slowly, sensually, slide to the floor, let my head and hair fall back, and close my eyes. This is what defines me. The emotion in movement. The anatomy of art and music. I might be performing for them, but I dance like I’m alone. This is my space, my outlet, my meditation. My time to think.
And I have a decision to make.
I need to dig deeper, beneath the footwork and the melody, and really figure out who I am and where I want to go.
Maybe then I’ll know who I’m meant to be with.
Inviting two men to a family dinner might’ve been my worst idea ever.
On the surface, the atmosphere in my sister’s dining room is cozy and warm. We’ve eaten our fill of Thanksgiving turkey and settled into easy conversation around the table. Bree sits on one side with her husband, David, and my four-year-old niece, Angel. I’m across from her, hemmed in by Cole and Trace.
She and David fill Cole in on everything he missed over the years—their lives pretty much revolve around soccer—while Trace engages in a silent, oddly sweet stare-down with Angel.
Beneath all the smiles and content expressions, however, simmers a sense of discomfort. Bree chitchats and laughs as she talks with Cole, but her eyes keep flitting to me, then to the men on either side of me, and back again.
Yeah, it’s awkward. I’m here with two dates who haven’t said a word to each other since we arrived. Every adult in the room feels the tension lurking underneath the conversations yet no one’s willing to give it a voice.
Not even me.
I spent the last six nights hopping between beds. My time with Trace is filled with cuddling, kissing, stroking embraces without sex. Then I go home and let Cole ravage and plunder every hole in my body.
And Trace doesn’t know.
Because I’m a cowardly dickhead with a backbone made of jelly and shame.
I’m sick with guilt over it, and this godawful feeling isn’t going away until I tell him.
I rode here on the back of Cole’s bike, but I intend to leave with Trace. I’m going to confess everything tonight, and I’m scared shitless.
I broke my no-sex rule with one of them, but not with the other. That’s what scares me the most, because it feels like I made a choice without consciously doing so, and the choice doesn’t sit well with me. Not that I think Cole isn’t the one. It’s just… It’d been years since we had sex, and dammit, he seduced me. That’s not a reason to choose him over Trace.
It’s just Cole’s mode of operation. He charms and tempts, ensnares and claims, and I’ll never get enough of it. If Trace pushed half as hard as Cole does, I’d cave with him, too.
Christ, I’m so fucking weak I annoy myself. The worst part is I’m not the one who will pay the price. When I tell Trace, it’s going to hurt him terribly.
Dread coils in my stomach, and I wrap my arms around myself.
Bree breaks away from the conversation with Cole and David and sets her perceptive gray eyes on me.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” She sips her wine, regarding me. “I would’ve come over to take care of you, but you seemed to be in good hands.”
One of those hands touches my knee under the table. I glance at the man attached to it, but Trace keeps his gaze trained on Bree.
“They’re lucky they didn’t come down with the flu.” My breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the skirt of my dress. “They fed and cleaned up after me better than Mom would’ve done.”
Bree laughs. “Mom isn’t very good at the nurturing stuff.”
I love my mother, but I’m not close to her. She’s reserved and introverted, and since she and Dad moved to Florida eight years ago, the distance hasn’t helped. A deeper relationship with my parents would require me to reach out to them more, which I don’t do, because I have Bree.