Taking Turns (Turning #1)(46)

I force a smile. And then I lie. “Sorry about that. The Club was so busy today I just couldn’t get away.”

“I understand. I always get lonely on my days off work. And now that Matisse will be on display until March, well, I have four full days off a week. I feel lucky that you guys came along. My whole week is planned, it seems.”

“You like that?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “I like it.”

I give her a real smile for that answer. And as we take the elevator down to the second floor, I start to think that maybe… just maybe, Smith is right.

Maybe this one will pull me back into the life?

When we get off the elevator Smith is in his usual chair, so I place Chella’s hand on my arm, hand her coat off to a server to check downstairs with mine, and lead her up the short flight of stairs and towards to the table overlooking the Black Room and the lobby.

Smith and Quin both stand up as we approach, and then Smith backs out and waves his hand at the chair to his left.

I shoot Quin a look but he’s too busy kissing Chella on the lips. They linger for a moment, and then he backs off, leaving Chella embarrassed as she looks at me.

“It’s OK,” I say, motioning for her to take a seat next to Smith. He boxes her in with that seat because it’s next to the railing that gives her a view down into the Black Room. Quin takes the seat across from Chella and I take the seat across from Smith.

“Nice dress,” Smith says, looking at me instead of my date. “Full length. Smart.”

“What?” Chella asks.

“Bric always tries to stop Smith’s wandering hands.” Quin chuckles. “The dress is Bric’s way of keeping Smith’s fingers dry while we dine.”

Chella laughs.

I don’t. “Do we want to eat first? Or talk first?”

“Let’s talk,” Smith says.

“OK,” Chella agrees. “I’m dying to know what this is all about.”

“This is about the rules, love,” Smith says. “Bric’s rule and the final rule.”

Chella bites her lip as she looks at me in anticipation.

“My rule,” I say, “is…” God. I hate being Number Three. “I can’t have sex with you unless Smith is watching.”

Chella’s smile drops. Like immediately. And I get more satisfaction out of her disappointment than anything I can recall in recent memory. “What?”

And then Smith makes his move, long dress be damned. His hand is in her lap. Rubbing her thigh, fingers pressing down between her legs. She’s looking down at it like it’s a spider, or a bug, or a mouse. Something disgusting. “What are you doing? I thought your rule was no touching me?”

“And that’s the final rule we need to discuss, Chella,” Smith says. His smile’s as dirty as his mind. Filled with filthy f*cking and hot sweaty bodies all twisted together in one bed. Arms and legs tangled together. Our hands all over her body as we fill up her *, and her ass, and her mouth all at the same time. “When the four of us are all together, we have no rules.”





Chapter Sixteen - Chella




I am quiet for so long Quin reaches across the table and takes my hand. But Smith’s fingers are trying to stimulate me under the table. He doesn’t care about the fabric of my dress holding him back from what he wants. He simply lifts it up—yards of expensive fabric pool into my lap as he finds what he’s looking for.

My * is wet and in this moment, I hate myself. I hate that everything they are offering me is something I want.

“Chella,” Quin says, squeezing my hand.

But Smith has found what he’s looking for and I have to draw in a deep, deep breath so I don’t close my eyes and moan.

I concentrate on Bric instead. He gives me a weak smile. “Are you OK?” he asks.

I push Smith’s hand away, expecting a fight, but he retreats and pulls my dress back down again.

“What do you think?” Quin asks. “Do you want to walk out?”

“You can,” Bric says.

“You won’t,” Smith adds.

I look down at the place setting in front of me. The china is classic white with a black stripe around the edge. The white linen napkin is folded like an envelope, just like the last time when Smith brought me here with Matisse. As a test, he said. But this time there’s writing underneath the envelope flap. Right on the napkin in bold black marker are the words, Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.

I look at Smith, still lifting the cloth flap.

“Don’t give me that look of doubt, Chella,” Smith says. He claims the message in his response.

I was wrong the other night when I thought Taking Turns was a lifestyle. I was one hundred percent wrong. Because this is nothing but a game of one-upmanship between these three men using me as a pawn on the chess board.

Which of them can get the upper hand? Which rule will be their downfall? And which rule will make them winners?

“For f*ck’s sake, Chella,” Quin blurts. “Say something.”

I clear my throat and when I speak, my voice is small and weak. “You’re playing with me. Like a toy.”

“Like a toy,” Smith repeats. “Yes. You’re our toy.”