Page 265 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

ADDIE

I fall asleep to the memory of their voices ordering me around. Theo's slow smile when he took my panties. Shane’s hooded, enigmatic gaze. I fall asleep fantasizing about taking their cocks in my mouth, my hands tied behind my back, and I sleep well. Really well. Unexpectedly, shockingly well.

Even better, I wake up energized, itching to write.

Praise the Lord and pass the laptop; this hasn’t happened in months.

Years. I don’t question this unanticipated, deeply welcome gift.

I immediately make myself a pillowed nest on the bed, mute the notifications on my phone, order room service for breakfast, and lose myself to the story.

I write for hours. A lot of it is garbage.

I am incredibly rusty. The words certainly don't flow out of me with ease. It feels like I’m pushing a rock uphill in the snow.

Writing a novel isn't like riding a bike; it doesn't just come back. All I have to guide me through the thicket of self-doubt is the knowledge that I’ve done it before. But as the day goes on, it gets better. It’s not all bad; there’s good stuff mixed in with the crap.

I finally emerge from my frenzy when the muscles in my neck scream in pain, and I can no longer ignore them.

I glance at the time and blink in confusion because it’s five-thirty in the evening.

Oh wow. I ate a flaky croissant for breakfast, and I haven’t eaten since. No wonder my stomach is grumbling.

Tacos. I want them. I need them. I’ve earned them.

There’s a great little place, Taco Gus, that’s a thirty-minute drive away.

Elliot and I would stop there on the way to the club.

That thought would normally send a spike of grief through me, but today, I’m buoyed by a sense of accomplishment.

Not even my nerves about tonight can bring me down.

Wait. Tonight. Shane and Theo will be here in an hour and a half, damn it. We’re having dinner in my room. Which means more room service from a menu that does not have tacos on it.

Have I said I really want tacos? The al pastor at Taco Gus is amazing .

I think about the slices of marinated pork, the pickled onions, the pineapple jalapeno salsa, and my stomach growls louder.

And now I have to give up my meal of choice because of my dinner plans? Dinner plans I didn’t want to make?

Ugh.

Hang on. We exchanged phone numbers last night. I should handle this like an adult. I pick up my phone and text Theo. I haven’t eaten all day, and I have a taco craving. Can we change things up?

He calls me back right away. “You haven’t eaten all day?” he asks. “You must be starving. You want to move dinner up?”

Theo has a deep, warm voice. The British accent is catnip, of course, but it’s more than that. On the phone, Theo sounds steady and kind and concerned. A blanket. A cocoon?—

No. Oh, no, no, no. No more cocoons for Addie. That shit is in the past.

“It won’t kill me to miss a meal,” I say. “But yes. There’s a taco place I like?—”

“An actual restaurant?” His tone turns teasing. “How exciting.”

I realize I’m smiling and force a frown on my face. “Don’t get carried away. It’s a hole in the wall.”

“When do you want to leave?”

Theo and Shane wore bespoke suits last night.

I thought they would stick out like sore thumbs in a place like Taco Gus, but to my surprise, they fit right in.

It helps that they’re dressed much more casually today.

Theo is wearing a cream cable-knit sweater and faded jeans.

He looks like Chris Evans in Knives Out .

Shane doesn’t seem to feel the cold. The long sleeves of his navy-blue T-shirt are pushed up to the elbows. He studies the laminated menu for a minute and then sets it down. “What’s good here?”

“I usually get the al pastor. That’s marinated pork. If you eat beef, the carne asada is amazing. They have a rotating vegetarian special, and every time I’ve gotten it, it’s been delicious.”

Shane looks amused by my enthusiasm. “Got it,” he says. “Everything is good.”

We decide what we want and head to the counter to order.

I haven’t been here in years, but nothing’s changed.

The walls are turquoise blue, and a Mexican flag is pinned to the wall behind the counter.

A giant painting of Frida Kahlo dominates the dining space, her expression serious.

I’ve always imagined that she’s frowning disapprovingly at my food choices.

Across from Frida, there’s a small advent calendar, which brings back childhood memories.

I haven’t seen one in forever, but I used to love them as a kid.

Taco Gus is run by a husband-and-wife team. Liliana is nowhere to be seen, but Hugo recognizes me and smiles widely. “Addie,” he booms, and then his smile fades. “I’m so sorry about Elliot.”

“Thank you, Hugo.” Liliana and Hugo had sent flowers when Elliot died. They didn’t have to—Elliot and I ate here a lot, but we were by no means their most loyal customers. It was so kind of them. “I’ve missed your tacos.”

“You’ll have the usual? Al pastor?”

I haven’t been here for years, and he remembers my order. “Yes, please.”

Theo orders the al pastor too. Shane orders a plate of the carne asada and also two zucchini tacos. “I’m hungry,” he says in explanation. “And everything smells delicious.”

Everything is delicious. I practically inhale my first two tacos, too hungry to eat in a ladylike manner. “Why did you forget to eat?” Theo asks.

“I was writing,” I admit. “It's not like me to miss a meal. But I've been blocked forever, and I didn't want to stop in case the magic went away.”

“Why haven't you been able to write?”

He's interested, genuinely interested in what I'm going to say. He’s not asking to be polite; he's read my book. Yesterday, he quoted from it. He's sincere, and in the face of that, I rethink the non-answer I was going to give him.

“I'm not good at compartmentalizing.”

An expression of surprise flashes over his face for an instant. “What do you mean?”

“Some authors can write in times of turmoil, but that's not me. I can only write when everything in my life is going well.” And now it feels like I've revealed too much.

“What's with the advent calendar?” Shane asks, spooning some salsa verde into his zucchini taco. “You keep staring at it.”

I hadn't realized I was that obvious. “My mom used to buy them for me when I was a kid. It was the best thing ever. I have an unrepentant sweet tooth.” I glance at him. “Are they a thing in Ireland? Did you have them as a kid?”

His face shutters. “Yes, we have them in Ireland.”

Note to self: Shane doesn’t talk about his childhood. Theo asks a question before the silence can become awkward. “Why tacos?”

“Because they’re delicious, of course.” I reach for the salsa roja at the same time he does, and our fingers touch.

A spark of electricity winds through me, and my insides clench.

I’ve done really well at pushing tonight’s scene to the back of my mind, but the contact brings it back to the front.

Tonight—in less than two hours—I will do sexual things with Shane and Theo.

Both of them. I’m not sure exactly what the session will hold.

They may or may not fuck me. They may make me come, or they may bring me to the edge, over and over, and refuse to give me permission to orgasm.

With their fingers. With their mouths. With their cocks.

I swallow back the arousal flooding my mouth.

Theo gives me a crooked half-smile. “Of course.”

“When I first moved to New York, my apartment was above a taqueria. It was a one-bedroom apartment. Three of us lived there. Sarita, Tasha, and me. We used curtains to partition the space.” The memory warms me like a hug.

“I worked two jobs, and I was barely scraping by. Sarita was a grad student, and Tasha waitressed and worked on Broadway. I think the woman running the taqueria, Cecelia, felt sorry for the three of us. She gave us a lot of free food.”

“It was gyros for me,” Shane volunteers unexpectedly. “That was my late-night food of choice. Cheap and delicious.”

“I prefer a good curry myself.” Shane quirks an eyebrow, and Theo looks defensive. “What? It’s not all Michelin-starred restaurants.”

Shane laughs. “I know, mate. I’m just taking the piss.”

We talk about street food after that, and the conversation moves to travel. I confess I’ve never been to Ireland. Shane won’t talk about his childhood, but he clearly loves his country. He spends the next several minutes telling me how beautiful the Irish countryside is, his face lit with passion.

Theo baits Shane by telling him that London is vastly superior to Dublin.

Shane leaps to his city’s defense. I watch, amused by the interplay between the two men, and suddenly, it hits me.

I’m having fun. It’s nice to be around people again.

I look around at the families packing Taco Gus, their conversations loud and animated, and their faces illuminated by the Christmas lights Hugo has strung from the ceiling.

My penthouse is beautiful, but it’s an ice fortress.

And humans are like plants—we need light and warmth to thrive.

If it wasn’t for Theo insisting we eat dinner together, I wouldn’t have done this. Yes, I wanted tacos, but I would have gotten my al pastor to go. I would have scurried back to Xavier’s castle and eaten in my hotel room. I would have continued to shut myself off from the world.

When we’re done, I insist on paying for my meal. I’m expecting a protest, and I get one from Theo. But Shane nods. “I get it,” he says. “Boundaries.” He pulls a couple of twenties from his wallet and sets them on the table.

“Oh,” Theo says, the smile fading from his eyes. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. This isn’t a date.”

Exactly. My relationship with Theo and Shane is about one thing only, and that’s sex. Three sessions of it, to be precise. I’m relieved they understand.

But some of the warmth leeches out of the room. I tell myself it’s because someone opened the front door and let in a draft of cold air. That’s it. No other reason. No other reason at all.