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To my surprise, Mickey lets out a husky laugh. “That’s fair.”
“Nothing about this is fair,” I hiss. “You’re not fair. You’re not even nice. But none of that matters compared to what I’ve just realized.”
“Which is?” Soren asks.
“I’m not the only one who needs to earn something,” I say, doing my best to stare them down. Which is pretty much impossible since they’re well over six feet and I’m only five-foot-six without my heels. And even with the stilettos, I’m nowhere near their six-foot-four frames.
“I don’t need to fucking earn anything,” Mickey growls.
I smile slyly. “You do,” I say. “You need to earn my forgiveness and your way into my good graces if you ever want to touch me again.”
Soren takes a step closer. “We know you want us,” he growls.
Shrugging, I say, “I never said I didn’t. But just because my body’s hormonal and in a constant stage of wanting release doesn’t mean you don’t have to earn the right. At Cupid’s Court all you had to do was pay me, so I continued our little tradition. But we’re beyond that now. So if you want to touch me, earn it.”
Now that I’ve finished my speech, I spin on my heels and walk away from them. I only manage three steps before I’m hauled back against a wall of muscles. “Where do you think you’re going?” Mickey rasps. “I told you I needed to thank you.”
“Mickey,” I gasp, wobbling on my heels.
Soren’s hands steady me as he sandwiches me between him and his friend. “Stick around,” he quips, and the three of us fall into a dance that’s less about steps and more about the primal give-and-take of movement. It’s a grinding rhythm, bodies pressed close enough to share secrets with every twist and turn.
The scent of their cologne fills my senses, intoxicating me further than any drink could. Soren’s hand slides up my side, a whisper of touch over the exposed skin, while Mickey mirrors the motion on my other side. They are bookends of desire, framing me in a narrative I can’t help but fall into.
“Damn, Gail, you’re something else,” Soren murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
Mickey leans in from the other side, his breath hot on my neck. “Yes,” he confirms in a husky tone. “Definitely something else.”
I tilt my head back, caught between them, a willing captive to this dance that simmers with each of our movements. The world narrows down to the space we occupy; everything else is just shadows at the edge of this vivid, pulsing reality.
“Well,” I say, swallowing down my nerves. “Rumor has it hockey players have a lot of energy after a win.”
“That’s true,” Soren chuckles. “Too much, really.”
“Makes us able to go all night,” Mickey adds, like I didn’t already know that.
I barely recognize my own voice as I rasp, “Show me.”
The bass thumps against the walls, a throbbing heartbeat in sync with my own. Soren’s hand clasps mine, his grip sure and confident. Mickey’s fingers entwine with my other hand, and together, they guide me away from the pulsating dance floor. The crowd parts like a sea of shadows, all eyes on us, or maybe just feeling like it.
“Somewhere more private,” Soren murmurs. There’s a sinful undertone to the words, making my core clench in anticipation.
“Where we won’t be interrupted,” Mickey adds, his voice a wicked promise that curls around me like smoke.
We slip into a dark corner of the club, hidden from prying eyes by a velvet curtain that sways slightly with the air stirred up by the moving bodies. There’s a charged silence here, punctuated only by muffled sounds of music and distant laughter.
I’m once again sandwiched between them, their bodies like iron rods heated by the furnace of the night. Soren’s hands travel up, boldly cupping my breasts. “No bra,” he growls as his thumbs tease my nipples until I can’t help but moan.
Behind me, Mickey mirrors the movement, grabbing my ass and squeezing until I whimper. “God, you’re so fucking hot,” Mickey rasps, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “You have no idea the things I want to do to you.” His words paint vivid images that flash in my mind’s eye—sweaty, tangled limbs and whispered dirty promises.
“I have some idea,” I quip.
“Bet you love this, don’t you?” Soren’s tone is both taunt and caress, and when I grind back against him, seeking friction, he chuckles, low and wicked. “Yeah, you do.”
Heat pools low in my belly as their hard lengths press against me, a double-edged reminder of what I’ve asked for. I’m caught up in the moment, the scent of their cologne mixing with the musky smell of desire that clings to us all.
“Let us make you feel good, Gail. You won’t regret it,” Soren whispers enticingly, his mouth trailing down my throat, nipping lightly at the skin there.
The sound of someone laughing nearby pulls me out of the trance I’ve been under. I still want them, but not here. “Take me home,” I demand, my voice still thick with want, which is good as it doesn’t betray the fact that this is the last time I’ll go there with them.
