Three is a War by Pam Godwin

Author:Pam Godwin [Godwin, Pam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

As the last of the groceries are put away, Trace gets a call and strolls toward the rear of the house, arguing with whomever is on the other line about regulations on new gaming machines. With the phone at his ear, he steps outside, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Cole.

“How was fishing this morning?” I dig around in the fridge, avoiding Cole’s eyes.

“Peaceful.”

I keep my back to him, as if the row of fruit-flavored yogurt requires my attention when all I’m really thinking about is Trace’s growled-out promise in the car.

If he showed restraint in the Walmart bathroom… Sweet lord. My skin tingles with his possessive marks, from the imprint of his teeth on my neck to his come rubbed into my back. He took me thoroughly and aggressively, and we didn’t even have sex. The memory alone makes my muscles clench low in my body. I ache to put my mouth on him, to hold the weight of his cock—”

“How far did he go?” Cole glares at me from his perch on the stool at the kitchen island.

“Excuse me?” My neck goes stiff, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth.

“I won’t repeat myself.” His hands rest on the counter, cupped around a beer bottle.

There’s no tension in his posture or expression, but something dark and restless churns in his brown eyes.

I close the fridge and stand on the opposite side of the island, facing him with lead in my stomach. The urge to glance at Trace’s silhouette beyond the windows claws at me, but I keep my gaze on Cole. “What are you talking about?”

He jerks forward, his eyes thrashing. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“How far did Trace go?” My hackles rise defensively. “Are we talking in terms of first base, second base…? Maybe we should put on pajamas and braid each other’s hair while I tell you all about it.”

“Do not fuck with me!” he roars, crashing a fist onto the counter. “Understood?”

“Do not yell at me,” I say in a low harsh voice and lift my chin. “Am I under-fucking-stood?”

He flattens his mouth in a line, staring at me blankly. Then he blinks, and a surprised sound heaves past his lips, an almost laugh thick with frustration.

Outside, Trace moves in my periphery. I meet his icy eyes through the windowed door. He’s still on the phone, his mouth moving rapidly as he reaches for the door handle. I give him a sharp shake of my head, and he lowers his arm.

“You got your backbone back, baby.” Cole rubs his hand over his face and drops his elbows on the counter, smirking to himself. “It’s hot as fuck when you stand up to me.”

The tightness in my neck loosens. If Cole were a dance, he’d be the Tango. It’s moody, volatile, and thrums with passion. It gets angry, goes ballistic, and the choreography makes a dramatic display of feelings, severe expressions, and snapping arm gestures. Then it reconciles, composes itself, and dims the lights.

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