The Playboy's Ménage (The Billionaire Bachelors Series) Read online

  Henry wasn’t able to leave it at that, though his tone was partially teasing, allowing her to laugh off his suggestion. “You’ve got a problem? Professor Henry has the solution. Allow me to educate you on what my book from psych class calls polyamory. Informally it’s known as a threesome, but in France?” He offered up his abysmal attempt at an accent. “They call it ménage a trios. Problem solved.”

  Holly bit her lip. “I was trying to be serious, Henry.”

  “So am I,” he insisted, his attention entirely on her. “I’m always trying. It makes perfect sense, and I think Peter would agree it’s the only logical thing to do. We both want you and you want the both of us. Think about it, Holly. Two willing men focused on pleasing you. Two mouths kissing. Two pairs of hands. Two men giving you exactly what you want without making you choose between them. Best of all, you’ll be naked. Sounds like a Christmas miracle to me.” He paused, looking between them. “Or we could skip it and play Scrabble.”

  Peter had a difficult time reconciling his instant arousal at Henry’s suggestion with his worry that she would say yes. He shared everything with his best friend, but could he share Holly when he wanted her for himself?

  All his concern disappeared when he saw the spark of excitement and longing in her warm brown eyes. She wanted to say yes, wanted to give herself to them. And Peter wanted to be the one to give Holly whatever she desired. In that instant he’d taken the decision out of their hands.

  Every moment that followed was burned into his memory. Peter took charge, needing to control every aspect of their lovemaking. Henry, for once, seemed more than content to follow his lead, particularly when he saw how perfectly Holly responded.

  She was as real in her passion as she was in every other aspect of her life. There was no playing coy or hesitating when she undressed in front of the fire. No timidity in the way she reacted to the sight of their bare skin. Her sensual curiosity and desire to explore their bodies tested Peter’s control, but he managed to hold back long enough to watch her face as they made her come that first time.

  Everything about her was a revelation. Her full breasts in his mouth and narrow waist in his hands. The paradise between her thighs and the sounds of her moans echoing in every room of the house. When Peter couldn’t wait any longer, he lowered her onto Henry and took her from behind. She didn’t hesitate then either. She was so vocal with her surprise and approval, it was a struggle not to come the instant he felt her tight muscles around him.

  He and Henry had come to a silent understanding, working together as if they always had, both knowing instinctively that this wasn’t a competition. It was Holly. She was all that mattered. Her satisfaction. Her pleasure.

  They indulged in those pleasures until none of them had the energy to move. And each time they woke up, it started all over again. Peter remembered wondering if he would ever get enough.

  He wished that pleasure was his only memory. That she hadn’t tried to sneak out of their bed without saying goodbye a few days later. That he hadn’t been awake to try and stop her and said the things he’d said. Most of all he wished he hadn’t promised to leave her alone. To let her walk away while there were good memories to hold onto, before time and reality destroyed what they’d found together. Her words.

  Henry hadn’t made that promise, Peter realized. He’d agreed to stop mentioning her name, but that was all. And now…what exactly was he on his way to find? Would they reminisce about old times and laugh at how dramatic first love could be and how insane it all seemed now? Would she look at him without interest, telling him over drinks about the man in her life who’d made her realize what love was all about? Would he find out Holly had finally made her choice, and it wasn’t him?

  Either way his friend was destined for a black eye or something equally painful for springing this reunion on him without talking to him first. Just to fulfill a fantasy, just because of that damn gossip column…or was something else involved?

  With Henry, there was always something else.

  Holly. Jesus. Something switched on inside him as he turned the corner onto her street, knowing this time he wouldn’t be leaving without hearing her voice. Seeing her. Sharing her again, if that was indeed Henry’s plan.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this.

  Liar.

  Seventeen years, five months and fifteen days, give or take a few hours.

  Too damn long.

  Chapter Two

  “Should I be offended? I have this hazy memory of you being relaxed when you saw me again. What did Peter do to deserve all this pacing?”

  Holly stopped long enough to stick out her tongue at the musician on her couch. “He didn’t wear me down with emails. You’d been writing to me for months and I was, I believe, drunk off my ass, thanks to your drummer’s girlfriend. This is different and you know it.”

  Henry was stroking his beard—a sexy addition she was still getting used to—and watching her with sparkling brown eyes. “She was under strict instructions not to let you get away until our set was over. But you hid your tipsy well. If I’d known you were drunk I might have taken advantage while I had the chance instead of pretending to be a gentleman.”

  “Romantic.”

  “I have my moments.”

  Holly studied him as if seeing him again for the first time. He was more muscular now, and his forearms were sleeved with tattoos she wouldn’t mind studying up close. His black T-shirt and jeans looked comfortable and lived in and his black boots were scuffed by life, not design. She shouldn’t be surprised. He’d never given off the rich boy vibe and nothing about him hinted at his mother’s aristocratic lineage. Henry Vincent was his father’s son. A rock and roll legacy from a loving family, he always knew who he was and where he belonged. It was a self-confidence Holly had found irresistible in college, and it was still difficult to ignore.

  None of the things that drew her to him had changed. He still moved like a lazy lion that hadn’t decided whether to cuddle or pounce. Still wore an expression of sensual mischief mixed with tenderness when he looked at her. Still had a voice with that hint of gravel that made her shiver and tempted her with an ease that shouldn’t be possible after all this time.

  Henry was—in a word—sex. Great sex. The kind that took hours and tangled sheets and made you laugh at the shameless, satisfying joy of it all. Everything about him, from his scent to his smile, reminded Holly of that word. No wonder his fans went crazy every time he got on stage.

  He was also determined, something she never would have used to describe him until recently.

  When he sent her that first email a year ago, she hadn’t been sure what to expect. She’d read it more than once, memorizing each line but forcing herself not to respond. She’d wondered why he’d decided to become her pen pal after all these years, and it had given her weeks of tension headaches, anxiety and more sexual frustration than the situation warranted. Was it because of one of her work projects? Had he found out she was the ghostwriter for the model who’d written an autobiography with an entire chapter dedicated to her “disappointing fling” with his friend Dean Warren? Or was it not related to her work? Maybe he was going through a mid-life crisis and revisiting his youthful sexual encounters.

  That was a reason she might have been able to get behind.

  It wasn’t until the third letter came, filled not with accusations or come-ons but humor and poetry and everything Henry, that she’d realized his emails were exactly what they appeared to be. An open door. And they weren’t going to stop until she hit reply.

  They still hadn’t. Once a month without fail she would get another entry in what he laughingly called The Holly Report. He would tell her about the cities he was in, or the video game his lead singer was addicted to. He shared some of his erotic poetry, describing his more debauched experiences with other women in a way that stole her breath. He wrote about his family and sent her pictures of his oldest brother’s children. He talked about his friend
s Dean and Tracy, and his worry that they were both too wrapped up in the responsibilities that came with their names to enjoy life. And once in a while, so sparingly it was almost like a tease, he would talk about Peter. Most of the time it had to do with a prank he was thinking of playing or what country Peter was currently causing trouble in. Sometimes it was more.

  She’d become so used to hearing about them that she was still in an understandable amount of shock when she found out yesterday that Peter didn’t know about any of it. The emails. The occasional phone calls. Their get-together at one of the smaller venues where Shattered Pieces got its start. Nothing.

  Henry, apparently, hadn’t said a word about her to his best friend.

  “I’m still not sure why you didn’t tell him,” she muttered, starting to pace again. “It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong, or even anything close to the kind of wrong you two are capable of, according to the gossips.”

  Henry sent her a speaking look. “You know better than to believe everything you read, Holly. The truth is infinitely more complex and thankfully a bit more X-rated. And I already told you why yesterday. I made him a promise years ago, and for the most part I kept it. Until last week. His reaction told me all I needed to know—namely, that until he sees proof, he rarely takes me seriously, and that it’s doubtful I’ll get away with my sin of omission without some physical pain and a shitload of payback.”

  She tried to laugh. “You two and your paybacks. But I doubt he’ll care enough to be that upset. He hasn’t seen me since college.”

  “If you were that naïve you wouldn’t be pacing.” He tilted his head, his dark, mussed hair brushing against his shoulders. “Your reaction is telling as well, but far more promising. I knew it would be, which is why I’ll promise to try not to be offended that you’re so comfortable around me. Now sit down and have a drink. We don’t want you nervous when he gets here, which should be any minute.”

  Holly bit her tongue before she admitted how not comfortable she was around him. How hard it was to remember that too much time had passed for it to be acceptable to climb into his lap and nibble on his neck. “I’m not nervous, I’m wisely cautious and not looking forward to feeling awkward when the happy reunion you’re expecting doesn’t happen. Anyway I’m sure he’ll call first. You didn’t even tell him where you were. That picture of my ankle could have been taken in Morocco for all he knows.”

  Henry held up his phone. “He knows. Have you forgotten how smart our Mr. Faraday is? He hasn’t. Peter could take over the world if he wanted to, probably via cell phone while playing Sudoku and single-handedly solving the problem of global warming. How he didn’t find you first is a mystery to me. But then, so many things are. Not this, though. I’m right about this. I think.”

  “Comforting.” And she hadn’t forgotten how smart Peter was. How could she? She’d been in awe of him in college when she found out he was more than he seemed. More than filthy rich and handsome and too charming to hate. Peter was a genuine genius. Her favorite professor called him a polymath. He had an eidetic memory, could rebuild an engine, paint and play piano like a savant, take eight finals in one day and still have the time and brain power to stay up all night talking to her about the stars, about history and art and life, without making her feel like an idiot.

  The way he used to touch her… The man excelled at everything.

  But what had he done with all those skills? She walked over to the couch, sat down and accepted the drink from Henry. Everyone with a television or an Internet connection knew how the globetrotting Peter Faraday spent his time. The man with degrees in chemistry, physics, art history and computer science was his own after-hours cable show, entertaining the masses with his special brand of kinky experimentation.

  “He doesn’t want to take over the world.” She stared into the glass morosely, watching the ice cubes he’d added clink against each other and crack. “Neither do you. You want to shock it and strip it and make it do wicked things it will most likely regret in the morning.”

  The Peter from her memories was romantic. Sexy and capable of erotic feats that—combined with Henry’s skills—were unrivaled, yes, but she didn’t remember him being such a…

  Playboy? Casanova? Man-whore?

  Henry’s laugh was loud and uninhibited. “We’re men, babe. Spoiled men, as you were always so fond of pointing out. You don’t point a hungry, spoiled man in the direction of a buffet if you don’t want him to sample everything.”

  She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. “I appreciate your honesty, if not your sexist food analogy. Anyway, it kind of goes with the territory for you, doesn’t it? Women tear off their tops and throw themselves at you in every city in the world for the chance to touch some of that creativity.”

  Henry chuckled again. “I’m almost positive it’s not my creativity they want to touch. At least, that isn’t the first thing they reach for. But sure, I’ll use the musician defense. Poor Peter doesn’t get the same easy out, I’m guessing. If only he’d gone into underwear modeling or porn instead of living off his savvy investments and family fortunes, then you’d be able to understand his appetite. Too bad for him, huh?”

  Holly frowned at him when her cheeks heated. “I didn’t mean it like that. Not really. I suppose I wasn’t expecting him to turn an extracurricular activity into a lifetime occupation, but who am I to judge? You know I haven’t exactly done what was expected either.”

  Henry’s smile widened and he licked his lips. “I only know enough to whet my appetite. All those jobs, all that research just to be a professional ghostwriter. I have to admit your life sounds more exciting than mine. I keep playing the same old songs, but you sing a new tune every few months.”

  She nodded, taking another sip of courage as she glanced at the door. “I do. And it is exciting for the most part, though not all of my research is that interesting, and it’s rarely as glamorous as your career. Rodeo clown for example? Not my finest hour. And my roller derby debut was over before it started. I still can’t believe I fell and broke my arm before completing my first lap. When I have time I’ll try out again. I hate leaving a project unfinished.”

  “Roller derby? You’re killing me, babe, I hope you know that. And I thought it would be hard to top dominatrix trainee and stripper on my erotic list of Holly’s hobbies.” He was enjoying this conversation a bit too much.

  “Burlesque performer, Henry. Not stripper. Big difference.”

  He nodded. “You have no idea how long I’ll kick myself for never getting to see you perform. With that Betty Page hair and those Betty Grable legs? I bet you were a hit. And now I’m going to start calling you Betty. Please tell me Betty Boom-Boom will be your next roller derby name so I can die a happy man.”

  She laughed, shaking her head as he tapped her glass with his. “What about the other? Did you enjoy bossing the weaker sex around for a change? Were all the power-suited men falling to their knees and begging you to crack your whip?”

  “It was great therapy,” she admitted with a shrug. “But it’s not something I’d seek out for personal enjoyment. I was simply slipping into someone else’s stilettos for a story.”

  Her personal cravings were something entirely different, in large part because of her experiences with Henry and Peter. She didn’t want to be the one in control, not when it came to sex. She wanted to be overwhelmed and swept away. To be taken and ravished, which made her sound more like a romance heroine with a bodice in need of ripping and less like an independent woman, but there it was.

  She’d checked off a few things on her sexual wish list over the years, though she’d never had any desire to be with two men at the same time again. That fantasy had very specific casting.

  Since Henry and Peter, there’d been three or four steady boyfriends she genuinely cared about, despite the fact that the relationships had only lasted until they proposed or things got serious enough that she thought they might. It wasn’t a character trait she was proud of.
To avoid the guilt, she’d started confining her relationships to friends with benefits and short-term affairs.

  In between those, she’d participated in a night of role-play with a married couple from one of her jobs when they were looking to spice up their relationship, and taken kinky photographs of her neighbors and closest friends—Bill and Chaz—that had turned into a voyeuristic night to remember. One of those pictures now hung over their bed, even though the image clearly revealed her reflection in the mirror zooming in on their intimate embrace.

  She supposed she could give the Billionaire Bachelors a run for their money in the sexual experimentation department. Or at least make a decent showing. Luckily, no one was interested in recounting her exploits or exploring her fear of commitment for posterity. Unluckily, those exploits had a short shelf life in the satisfaction department. Soon enough, as regular as clockwork, she wound herself up thinking about Peter again. About Henry.

  For years she’d tried to analyze it away and move beyond what had happened between them. She knew she’d romanticized it, put it on a pedestal in her memory. She knew that nothing was ever as good as it had seemed to be when you were looking back. A Christmas ménage with two men she thought she was in love with might sound perfect now, but she also had a vague recollection of being heartbroken and terrified of making the wrong decision in the harsh light of day. Of being as fickle as her mother.

  So she’d made the choice not to make a choice, and that had its own set of consequences. The worst being that she knew exactly what it could be like. Should be like. Nothing else had ever come close, and nothing less was ever enough.

  The knock at the door made her jump to her feet, adrenaline shaking her hand so hard her drink splashed onto her fingers. “Shit.”

  “Relax.” Henry stood up with her, taking the glass away and distracting her by gripping her wrist and sucking her wet fingers into his mouth. Oh God. He watched her shiver as he let her go. “You should get that. We both know who it is, and that knock sounds serious.”