Three to Come

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Three to Come

  Copyright ã 2006 Annice Dare

  ISBN: 1-55410-730-X

  Cover art by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

  www.Extasybooks.com

  Chapter One

  "You’ll be going to Portland next Monday.”

  I nodded, having expected it. The project was heating up. My task was to do the advance work, to make sure that everything was set up for the public meeting, and that all the media releases were sent to the right places. This was an important project—a high rise apartment building with an assisted living section and some independent living apartments. It was unusual because there were also units for low-income single parents and people with disabilities. A ‘gestalt community’, our planning staff called it. Something for everyone—except the run-of-the-mill, healthy, heterosexual, married adult.

  “I’ll need Larry Wilkerson and Pete Ivanov,” I told Frank. “Pete can interface with the planning commission and Larry will make sure the media are all brought up to speed.”

  As I named the two men, I wondered again if I wanted to spend a week out of town with them. Had I been imagining the chemistry between us?

  Of course I had. How on earth could two young, handsome, single men want me? A forty-something mother of three, twenty pounds overweight and contentedly married.

  Still...

  I don’t know when I’d started sensing... something. Late last summer, I think, when we were doing the initial proposal for the Gestalt Living Project. Larry had been coming down the hall from the men’s room as I’d been going toward the women’s room. We dodged each other, each stepping the same way, as people often do. After a couple of missteps, we both stopped and stood still, just a few feet apart.

  “I wish you weren’t married.” Larry said, after a short, tense silence.

  I looked into his dark blue eyes, a good foot above mine. Stared at his wide shoulders, his shock of straight, black hair. And all of a sudden I could feel the pressure of his mouth on mine. On my mouth, then moving down my throat and nibbling its way between my breasts and across my belly.

  My God! What was happening? I blinked, took a deep breath. And for one single instant I wished I wasn’t married, too. Just for that brief instant, I wanted to be free. To explore what his eyes promised, to let the pheromones we were both emitting lead me to the inevitable conclusion.

  The next instant we both smiled somewhat sheepishly at each other and passed, I to the can, him back to his desk.

  Morris, Simpson, Mather occupies three floors in the Goddard, Olympia’s elegant, eighteen-nineties landmark. Unfortunately they’re not one atop the other, but on the third, ninth and thirteenth floors. My office is on the thirteenth; the secretarial pool is clear down on three. I spend a lot of time in the elevator or on the stairs, depending on how harried I am and how much I need the exercise.

  About a week after the encounter with Larry, I took a report down to be typed. Ordinarily I’d have emailed it, but I wanted to talk to Edie, to show her exactly how I wanted it laid out. The report was due the next day, and so far it looked like it had been put together by a nine-year-old-disorganized and with irregular pagination. I’d been so tied up on three other projects that I’d let Tim Cornwell, the newest planner on staff, shepherd it through production. His inexperience showed.

  That morning I’d come in early and worked steadily until just before noon to get it reorganized and proofed. At five of twelve, I was heading toward the stairs when the elevator opened. Pete Ivanov looked up from the papers in his hand, saw me, and stepped back, holding the door open. I dashed inside. But instead of getting out, he let the door whisper closed.

  “I thought you’d ridden up,” I said.

  “I did,” he replied. His wide mouth, the sexiest I’d ever seen, twisted slightly, as if he was laughing at himself. “Then I saw you.”

  “Oh, yeah, right, and you couldn’t resist a quick assignation in the elevator.” I laughed. “Really Pete, can’t you think of a better line than that?”

  “I wish I could,” he said. “Cilla, I—” The door swished open at nine and two of the draftsmen got in. They both nodded at us and resumed their conversation. Pete and I looked at the walls the rest of the way down to three—opposite walls.

  But when I got off, I could feel the pressure of his gaze on my spine.

  Hot and avid. Hungry.

  Yes, and you’re on the edge of menopause, I told myself. Prone to hallucinations.

  But what hallucinations they were. I could feel his hands on me. Kneading my breasts until my nipples ached, stroking my thighs until I quivered with desire. His fingers, plucking at my nipples, smoothing the skin of my belly, delving into the hair at my delta.

  Oh, God! What was I thinking?

  * * * *

  That was the beginning of the best—and worst—period of my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about Larry and Pete. All through the fall and early winter, when we were crazy with more work than we’d ever had, the three of us were on different projects. That was good, in a way. If I’d been working with either of them every day, I’d have probably gone off my rocker.

  As it was, every meeting with either man ruined me for the rest of the day. A good thing Larry was in San Francisco a lot and Pete was shuttling back and forth between Olympia and Washington, DC, finishing up a project he’d worked on before coming to MSM.

  Now it was late winter. They were both back in the office and assigned to the Gestalt Living Project. And I was Project Manager.

  I wasn’t sure I’d survive. Or that my marriage would.

  Bill, my husband of twenty-six years, works nights. He’s a staff radiologist at Angels of Mercy Hospital, having given up his practice after having a triple bypass a year ago. He gave up sex then too, and didn’t seem to miss it. Nor would he talk about it. So far I hadn’t pressured him.

  I did miss sex, almost as much as I missed the physical closeness we used to have. Bill had never been overly demonstrative, but any more he seemed reluctant to hug me, or even touch me any more than was necessary.

  I slept alone five nights a week, in a king-size bed far too big and empty. No matter how I barricaded myself with pillows, I hungered for the warmth of another body in the bed with me. A male body, hard and hot.

  Before his heart disease made itself apparent, Bill had been a good bed partner and a sweet, gentle lover. Sex for us was good, if routine. Not a lot of excitement. Not a lot of passion. Then he’d decided he was getting too old for innovation, too tired for adventure. The last time I’d suggested whipped cream and chocolate syrup. He’d groaned. That was five years ago.

  I like whipped cream and chocolate, even when it isn’t decorating a man’s cock. But when it was—well, there just wasn’t any better way to get two of the basic food groups—fat and chocolate.

  * * * *

  “Cilla, take off your shirt.” I looked up at the man standing
in the door of my office, my mouth gaping. “Huh?”

  Larry Wilkerson grinned, a shit-eating grin if I ever saw one. “Take off your shirt. I want to see what color bra you’re wearing today.”

  “And I want to see the look on your face when I slap you with a charge of sexual harassment,” I told him.

  “You won’t.” He swaggered across the room and around the end of my desk. Before I could react, his hands were on the tie of my wrap-around silk blouse. “If I pull this, will it come undone?” He tugged.

  The silk ties slithered apart and the blouse fell open. Paralyzed, I could only sit motionless, while his fingers barely touched me. They traced along the top of my bra—raspberry lace and satin—and deftly unsnapped the front closure. His forefingers slowly parted it. As the slick fabric slid across my already turgid nipples, I wanted to scream. To howl. To grab him and rip off his loose linen trousers and grab his cock in both my hands. To lick the droplet off the dark red tip, to squeeze and rub until he was on the edge of coming. And then I’d take him in...

  “Cilla! Are you all right?”

  I moaned in frustration. To be interrupt— “Who? Bill? Oh, no! What time is it?” My husband was bending over the bed, wearing a concerned expression.

  “Quarter to eight. What’d you do, hit the snooze button?”

  Rolling over, I looked at the clock. “Must have. God! I am so tired. Like I didn’t sleep all night.” With an effort I crawled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, shedding my nightgown on the way.

  “You were sure going at it when I came in. For a moment there, I was worried.”

  “I’m fine.”

  As I showered, every droplet of water was a ghostly finger touching my sensitized skin. The loofah was calloused palms sliding along my thighs. I cupped my breasts, thumbed the nipples, and wondered if Larry really was a breast man. I knew Pete was. He couldn’t seem to keep his gaze above my shoulders any time we were in the same room.

  Stop this. You’re already late for work. I soaped the washcloth, passed it between my thighs. The heat started at my toes, swept like a tsunami up my legs and radiated from my belly, heat so intense, so engulfing that I cried out with the force of it. I collapsed against the wall of the shower, barely able to stay upright.

  “Are you all right in there?”

  “Fine,” I gasped. “I...ah...I dropped the washcloth and when I bent over I hit my head.” Pretty weak, but the best I could do. I rubbed my crown, hoping he wouldn’t insist on checking for a bump. The downside of being married to a doctor.

  He must not have been too concerned, because by the time I’d finished the exquisite torture of spreading lotion all over my body—imagining Larry’s long fingers exploring every inch of me—Bill was snoring in bed.

  I paused beside the bed once I was fully clothed. This was the man I’d married at nineteen, the father of my children, the one I’d promised to cleave to until death did us part. The love I still felt for him was still there, but its fire was cool and calm, with little of desire left in it. A memory of something wonderful, delicious, satisfying.

  We were good friends now, but lovers no more. Good friends with memories of shared intimacy and with a comfortable, steady, enduring love that would carry us through the rest of our lives together.

  I wouldn’t trade you for either one of them, I told him silently. But I’d sure like both of them in addition to you.

  There! I’d given life to my fantasy by speaking it in my mind. I wanted them. Both Larry and Pete.

  The gleaming red digits of Bill’s bedside clock caught my eye and all thought of men and hot, steamy sex fled my mind. I had a meeting with a client at nine-thirty.

  * * * *

  Pete and I took the train to Portland the following Monday. I really hate driving I-5, so whenever possible, I don’t. Larry had insisted on driving his Mercedes down, so it was just the two of us on the train. I’d be spending most of my time in the architects’ offices, Pete would be at the county courthouse, and Larry would be liaising between the architects and the medical advisory people. One car among the three of us was plenty.

  Somehow the logistics didn’t concern me as much as they ordinarily would have. All I could think of was that we were going to be together in Portland for five days.

  And four nights.

  Chapter Two

  Once we’d established that we loved train travel, hated to drive I-5, and were far better off where someone else was responsible for steering, serving coffee, and remembering where we were going, Pete and I each opened our laptops.

  He typed for a few minutes, while I read through the draft of an interim report on a storm water management project in Puyallup. After a while his rapid typing slowed. A minute or two later, he lowered the screen. “This isn’t working,” he said. “I can’t think with you next to me.”

  “Neither can I. These numbers are making no sense at all.” I looked out the window, seeing the woods along the Nisqually River. The alders were starting to show hints of the red catkins that would be the first sign of coming spring. Green and gray lichens clung to branches and gave them a furry look. The rain that had fallen the night before had wet the leaves that lay thickly on the ground and they shone like highly polished wood in the watery sunlight.

  “So, are we going to talk about it?”

  Pretending the scenery had my total attention, I hunched a shoulder and turned even more toward the window.

  “Cilla, pretending you don’t hear me isn’t going to make it go away.”

  His voice was low, husky, and sent delicious shivers all the way to my toes. I leaned my forehead against the cold window. It didn’t cool me a bit. Behind me, I heard him close his laptop and set it on the tray-table.

  “Do you know what I’d like to do right now?” he said, his words spoken right in my ear. His breath was warm and moist in my ear. Then his tongue was hot and wet on the lobe.

  “Oh, look, there’s a deer!”

  “That’s a cow.” Again he lowered his voice, until it was barely a sound. “I’d like to slide my hand under that ugly jacket and pull your silky shirt loose. I’d let my fingers explore you until they found your tits, all bound and confined, and I’d set them free. Loose and soft, so I could cup them in my palms. I’ve always wondered. Are your nipples pink? Or dark, like coffee with lots of good, rich cream? Do they taste—”

  “Stop it!” I turned sharply and almost bumped noses with him. “Stop it,” I said again, this time not quite so loud. “Please, Pete. Don’t go there. It’s too...” I faltered, not sure what it was, just that it was too much of whatever.

  “It would be good, Cilla. I promise you. We’d be good together.” But he withdrew, and returned to his laptop.

  If I hadn’t seen the hard knot at the corner of his jaw, I’d have thought he was completely unaffected. Too bad the tray-table hid his crotch. I’d have bet he had a woody that wouldn’t quit.

  We kept to our tasks the rest of the journey, both of us tense and jumpy. If our elbows bumped, we both shrank back, as if burned. After a few minutes he got up to go to the rest room. He looked less stressed when he came back. Had he jacked off?

  That thought made me wonder what he looked like under those loose-fitting, casual clothes he always wore. Today’s were camel flannel slacks—pleated, as all his pants were—a coffee-toned crew-neck sweater that looked like cashmere, and a navy blazer with carved wooden buttons. Somehow he always looked better dressed than most of the men in the office in their suits and ties.

  He was fit, I knew. I’d seen him without a jacket often enough to be fully aware of the hard muscle of his chest and shoulders. His butt was one of the best in the office. All of us women agreed that he could have modeled for a buns calendar. But I was interested in more intimate aspects. Bill was, I’d learned from listening to other women, about average. Six inches, enough to fill me nicely, but not so big to make me feel stretched.

  I’d always wanted to feel stretched.

  Stop it!
I forced my attention back to the storm water report, which might as well have been written in Chinese, for all the sense it made to me.

  * * * *

  Pete took off when the meeting broke up that afternoon. He had a cousin in a suburb of Portland, so he was getting family obligations out of the way. These week-long trips were wearing. By Thursday night, we’d all be ready to hit the sack by nine o’clock.

  Larry and I decided to have dinner together, then go to our rooms to organize tomorrow’s work. We found a little Chinese restaurant, not much more than a hole in the wall, on the edge of Portland’s Chinatown. I ordered General Tsao’s Chicken, as always. Bill tells me I have no imagination about food, because I always order the same things in ethnic restaurants. My opinion is that once you find something you really like, why experiment. You might be disappointed.

  “This is delicious,” I told him after the first few bites. “How’s yours?”

  Larry set down his wine glass and leaned back. “Mine is ready for you,” he said, with a wicked grin. “When are you going to admit that you’re curious?”

  I swallowed without thinking. And choked. After Larry had finished beating me on the back and I’d consumed half a glass of water, I managed to say, “I meant dinner.” It came put a hoarse whisper. My throat was raw. Choking on anything made with chili peppers is dangerous.

  “I’m sorry Cilla. I should have waited until your mouth was empty.” He looked properly contrite, but the hungry gleam was still in his eye.

  “‘S’all right,” I gasped, before I took another big drink of water. A couple of deep breaths, and I felt like I was going to survive. “Larry, why are you doing this to me? Is it a joke?”

  The sudden change of expression would have answered my question, even if he hadn’t said, “A joke? God! I wish it were.” He shoved his plate aside and leaned forward, resting both arms on the table. “Do you think my wanting you until I can’t sleep for it is a joke?”