Both Tucker and Ransom break into chuckles, and for some reason I can’t comprehend, I join them. It’s ridiculous—I’m smoking weed with a potential client, asking him if he had a threesome with a bandmate? This is so not me. But fuck it, why can’t it be?
Tucker passes me the joint and I take a long hit. It’s almost dead and Ransom gestures for me to go ahead and finish it.
“Have I had threesomes? Yes,” Ransom muses, hands folded behind his head as he reclines in his seat. “Have I had threesomes with Cash? Yes. Was that girl involved? No.”
My steel-gray eyes grow in size. “So you had a threesome? With Cash?” God, that sounds . . . hot. Cash is commercially beautiful with his longish, sandy blond hair and perfectly proportioned features. But Ransom . . . he’s dangerously good-looking. The type of beauty that you know means trouble. The two of them together? Holy Hot Rock Gods, Batman.
My face flames and I look down at my champagne flute, suddenly bashful at my own thoughts. I feel warm fingers slide down my cheek and I look up to find Tucker wearing a sluggish smile.
“That excites you, doesn’t it?” he asks quietly, his speech falling into that Louisiana accent that I love so much. It comes out whenever he’s tired or drunk, and in this case, high. I’ve always told him he was my very own Harry Connick Jr. The wavy, russet hair and blue topaz eyes, the full lips and sexy, southern drawl—everything about him screams ruggedly refined sensuality. And the way he’s looking at me right now—like he wants to take me right here on this couch, no matter who’s watching—I can’t really say that I would hinder him from doing whatever the hell he wanted.
Eyes low and hooded, Tuck leans over to gently kiss my bare shoulder. The soft brush of his lips feels like silk on my already tingling skin, and I suck in a breath. Face red with both embarrassment and desire, I glance up to find Ransom staring at us intently. Not disgusted or even amused. He’s . . . enthralled.
“Threesomes,” he replies, accentuating the s. “Don’t tell me you’re a prude, Heidi. Because whoever I work with needs to be able to keep up with any and all aspects of my life.”
I answer with a shake of my head. How the hell did we get on this subject? Weren’t we just talking about . . . oh, shit. What were we talking about?
“I’m not a prude. But . . . how would something like that work?” I ask, too intrigued to stop now. “With you and Cash? Do you two . . . ?”
“Do we fuck?” Ransom tacks on when I’m too ashamed to finish my thought. “No. The girl gets fucked, but we don’t touch each other. It’s not like that. Sometimes we take turns while the other watches. Sometimes we’re both inside her . . . at the same time.”
Mouth beyond dry, I reach for my champagne, which thankfully, Tucker has refilled. It’s gone in less than three gulps.
Ransom’s gaze sweeps to Tucker, then back to me. “Does this subject make you . . . uncomfortable?” He grins crookedly like he already knows the answer.
I glance up at my husband, who I half expect to be wearing an expression of shock and repulsion. But he seems . . . fine. More than fine. If I didn’t know any better, he looks flushed with craving. And what he’s craving can’t be found in the wet bar.
“No,” I answer, turning my attention back to Ransom. “I’m not uncomfortable. Not at all.”
Over a few more beers, champagne, and another joint, we talk about the most random shit ever. I laugh when Ransom reveals some pretty bizarre stalker occurrences, involving his missing, worn underwear and shaved pubic hair. Tucker chuckles through a story about his days playing college football before he blew out his knee and I have to admit, the groupies were almost just as bold. I like this side of Tucker. Being open and honest and carefree, without worrying about what’s appropriate or professional. And he and Ransom seem to really get along, despite being totally different in every way, shape, and form. Sitting next to them is like being caught in freeze-frame between night and day. But oddly, I don’t prefer one over the other. It just seems natural to want them both.
“Wait. Does that even count?” I ask, after Ransom shares the story of how he lost his virginity.
“If it gets hard and can slide into pussy, it counts,” he replies smugly.
“But you were twelve! You were a baby! How is that even possible?”
He shrugs before taking a swig of his beer. “It happens. A lot more than you think, actually.”
“But she was sixteen! She knew better,” I scoff.
Ransom shrugs. “What can I say? I’ve always been drawn to older ladies.”
His statement sets my skin aflame and I look away, trying to hide my ridiculous grin. When I feel more in control of my erratic hormones, I look back only to find that he’s still staring at me. His intensity makes me feel . . . uneasy. Like he knows exactly what I’m feeling. Like he can tell that every word he speaks sends shockwaves between my thighs.
“How about you, Tuck?” Ransom says, releasing me from his hold. “Spill it.”
Tucker leans back into the couch, gathering me into his arms and taking me with him. I kick off my heels and curl up at his side, tucking my bare feet under me. Feeling the full effects of alcohol mixed with pot, I let my eyes close and just enjoy the high.
“Can’t say I’ve ever done the older woman thing,” he replies before kissing the top of my head. “But blondes . . . I’ve always had a thing for blondes.”
“Yeah . . . me too.”
My eyes pop open and dart over to Ransom, who is wearing that same cocky grin. Did he just say . . . ?
“They’ve always been my weakness,” he continues.
I self-consciously touch my own white-blonde hair and smile. He’s gotta be fucking with me. Maybe he gets a rise out of knowing he’s completely unattainable to very married women like me. But then again, those groupies in the other suite—the ones that were damn near giving him a hand job and licking the sweat from his brow in public—were all various shades of bottled sunlight.
“What? No young girls with big boobs and perky, little asses?” I jibe. “Old blonde chicks do it for you?”
But even with me chuckling at my own lame, self-deprecating joke, Ransom looks at me with genuine seriousness, as if he’s completely sober.
“No. Girls don’t do it for me. But real women do. Women like you.”
The emphasis on the last word has me nearly shaking like a leaf. Not because I’m nervous that he’s admitted to being attracted to me, but because I feel Tucker stiffen beside me. I risk a peek at him and find him looking down at me, an unnamed expression on his face. It’s not anger or agitation. It’s . . . No. It couldn’t be.
“Funny you should say that,” my husband says, his eyes on me, but his words for Ransom. “Apparently, you do it for her too.”
Face on fire, I turn to interject, only to be stunned by Ransom’s brilliant smile. “Oh, is that right?”
“No . . . no, it’s not like that. I, um, I,” I stammer. Dammit. For someone who’s been known to castrate people with just her words, I find myself completely incoherent, which only makes Ransom smile wider.
“So you’re not attracted to me?”
“I didn’t say that,” I manage to spit out.
“Then you are? Which one is it?”
Tucker chuckles softly beside me, just as amused by my fumbling. “You’re on her list,” he reveals slyly. I sit up straight, eyes wide, and smack him playfully across the chest. He feigns injury, but I know he hardly felt it. His college football career and highly paid trainer have kept Tuck’s body impressively hard and toned. If it weren’t for the tiny bit of gray around his temples, he could easily pass for twenty-nine.