Page 57 of Play Dirty

Lies.

“I understand,” she says, holding my gaze for a solid five count before shifting her eyes to Alexander and repeating her decision with more conviction. “I understand.”

Lies.

They hurt me. So bad. Because… because I did love her. I wanted her so much. She was my future, not his. She was the love of my life, not his. She was supposed to be with me, not him.

So the lies hurt.

“What should we do now?” she asks. And then, because it has always been her—she has always been the glue that held everything together—she moves between us. One hand flat against my bare chest. The other flat against Alexander’s bare chest. And she hums out, “Hmmmm?” Like it’s a question. “What should we do now? Should I take off the rest of your clothes?”

She doesn’t wait for us. Just turns to her husband and bends down. Her hand finds his cock, an automatic gesture that kills me, for some reason. And then she’s slipping his shoes off. Dragging his pants and briefs all the way down his legs until he quietly and obediently steps out of them.

I think I hold my breath the entire time. And when she turns to me I release it in a long, controlled exhale that I try to keep silent.

But she doesn’t need to hear the trepidation inside me.

She can see it. She can feel it. She knows me, has known me all this time.

I close my eyes as she grabs my cock now. Slips my shoes off. Drags my pants and briefs down my legs. Then presses her hand flat against the muscle of my thigh, and says, “Step out, Jordan.”

Which I do.

And then we—her men—are naked.

And she is not.

Because that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it?

She has always been the master of us.

Her hand has mine, and when I open my eyes, I see that she has his hand too. She brings them both to her mouth, kisses us at the same time, and then says, “Undress me.”

Alexander moves first. Reaching behind her to unzip her dress. Because of course he knows that there’s a zipper. He’s probably the one who zipped her up earlier this evening. He’s probably the one who picked it out of her closet. He’s probably the one who bought it for her. Maybe it was a gift? Or something she’s been looking at through the glass of a window for months, giving him hints that she’d like it to be hers.

I die. I get lost in their history in that one simple motion of unzipping her dress.

I’m going to lose, I realize.

Lucinda was wrong. I’m not the game master.

Augustine is. Has always been. And always will be the one person who brings me to my knees just like I made Alexander fall to his.

“Jordan,” she says, snapping me back to the moment we’re sharing. “Undress me.”

I pull the dress down, Alexander helping. And it falls to her hips and stays there. She is wearing a black strapless bra that pushes her tits high up on her chest.

“Here,” she says, taking our hands and placing them on the bunched-up fabric around her waist. “Pull it down for me, please.”

Alexander and I tug—just enough to get it over the curve of her hips—and her dress falls to the floor and forms a silky puddle of red at her feet.

Like blood, I think. The blood we will draw as we attack each other and—

“Touch me,” she urges now.

We do. My hand going between her legs, Alexander’s up to her breasts. He kisses her while I watch. Unable to think about how he’s still claiming her as his while I watch and submit to it.

I look away. Look down at her legs. At my hand. My fingers already pushing inside her. She’s not wearing underwear but she is wearing garters and stockings. Black silk stockings. I rub my other hand up and down her leg, feeling the curve of her thigh, the dip behind her knee, the muscles of her calf.