Page 29 of All That Glitters

Before I can take my next breath, his fingers are inside me—and they stay there as Toot carries me upstairs and into the bedroom, where they both proceed to make me forget all about Midas for the next couple of hours.

I close the front door behind me as quietly as I can, not wanting to wake either man now that they’re both asleep. I make my way back up the hill toward the saloon, rubbing my arms to chase away the chill in the air. The sky’s starting to get light, which isn’t surprising given the sex marathon I just survived. Both men put me through my paces, leaving me feeling deliciously sore. Any guilt or shame I felt had disappeared within the first hour of being with them. They were easy to be with, and Toot––of course––made me laugh, even at the worst possible moments, like choking on his brother’s dick.

I chuckle and cross my arms, the cold making my skin break out in goosebumps. It’s quiet. Most people with an ounce of sense are still in bed, which is why I don’t think twice about walking through the saloon to get up to my room. If I had known who was inside, I would’ve taken the back entrance.

At first, I don’t see him, as I make my way through the bar. It isn’t until I hear someone clear their throat that I jump and spin around to see Midas sitting in the back of the room with his feet kicked up on a chair.

“Jesus, Midas, you scared the shit out of me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, staring at me, making me feel uneasy.

“Anyway, I’m gonna head on up to bed. Night.”

I turn and take two steps before he speaks.

“Come here, Legs.”

I freeze. There’s something in his voice that makes my hackles rise. I’m not sure if it’s the fight-or-flight response kicking in—because it’s been permanently disabled after taking years of damage—but something in his tone has me on edge. I slowly turn back, ready to say no, when he leans forward, his eyes locking on mine.

“Legs,” he warns, like he can read my mind. Taking a deep breath, I blow a loose strand of hair from my face and walk toward him, my stomach knotting.

By the time I’m standing in front of him, I’m a nervous wreck. He gets to his feet and looks me up and down, but I don’t move, feeling like prey caught in a trap.

When his fingertips glide down my arm, I swallow but stay still. Right now, the only difference between me and a mannequin is the rapid rise and fall of my chest. He circles me slowly, dragging those fingers along with him, trailing them across my shoulder blades and around to my collarbone. He pauses at the hollow of my throat before dipping his head and breathing me in.

“I can smell them on you,” he snarls.

I fist my hands, unsure what the hell I’m supposed to do. Should I stay and brave it out, or run up to my room and lock the door behind me?

Up until now, I’d never been worried he’d hurt me, but then I’d never seen this level of anger in him before, either. It’s not the screaming-in-your-face kind of anger, but the scary kind. The quiet, unpredictable kind that simmers just beneath the surface, ready to explode at any moment. And right now, I feel like I’m about to be consumed by it.

“You’re scaring me,” I whisper, wondering why there’s nobody else fucking here when I need them. I’ve never known a clubhouse to be empty, no matter what the hour. Someone’s always up, drinking, fucking, or fighting.

He tilts his head like I said something interesting, but he doesn’t reassure me. Instead, his fingers glide up to my jaw, cupping it for a moment as he stares at my mouth, then he wraps his hand around my throat, pinning me in place.

“Did they kiss you?”

I blink, tears pricking the back of my eyes. He hasn’t kissed me since that day he offered me the job at Au. Oh, his lips have been on every inch of my body, but they haven’t touched mine since he decided to keep his distance from me.

I don’t answer him, which I suppose is answer enough.

“Tell me, Legs. Did they make you feel good?”

I whimper as I close my eyes, feeling his body press closer. His lips brush my earlobe before he bites down and tugs it between his teeth, then let’s go.

“Did they make you as wet as I do?”

“Midas,” I plead, knowing this line of questioning won’t get us anywhere.

“Did they make you come? Did you see the same fucking stars you see when I make you scream my name?”

A tear slips down my cheek, and he licks it away before he presses his forehead to my temple. His body’s so tense that it’s practically vibrating. One wrong move, and everything could blow up between us.

Letting go of my throat, he moves his hands to the front of my shorts and rips them open.

He spins me around and bends me over the closest table, yanking my shorts down my legs. When he realizes I’m not wearing panties, he growls. Then his hand is on my back, holding me down—not that I’m putting up a fight.

I’m starting to wonder if this thing between us will always be toxic. If we’ll keep taking pieces out of each other and poisoning what’s left behind until nothing good can grow with anyone else.